Monday, March 31, 2014

March 30, 2014 We Write Poems/Wordle #12


We Wordle #12
I read over the words
I don’t see my name
I remember the feelings
Of being ‘left out’
Children’s games
Game of life
Run away into the woods
Follow rabbit
Down the rabbit hole
Into the sky
Knead the bread
Listen to mockingbird
The wind blows cold
In morning
I smile
Tease myself
Not ‘left out’

Just 'overlooked'






Note:  Interesting to me, that I felt old feelings of being 'left out', but told myself, yes, you did write something, but maybe you were just 'overlooked.'  Which is worse, left out or overlooked?  Perhaps they feel the same.  (The image taken from the internet.) 

Saturday, March 29, 2014

March 30, 2014 The Sunday Whirl/Running From Snakes

root, plan, pack, heaven, growl, heal, 
burst, rows, shivering, mending, why, time

Running From Snakes
It is time
Make a plan
Pack a bag
I return to
The place I began
My roots
Shivering
Mending
Growling
Never heaven
The place I grew up
The coastal tidelands
Of Texas

When I was a little girl
Maybe three or four
I remember the rows
Of my Aunt Maggie’s garden
One day I lifted a bean leaf
Coiled beneath was a snake
He so surprised me
I burst from the garden
Into the arms of my Aunt
Why I remember many times
Running away from snakes





Thursday, March 27, 2014

March 27, 2014 We Write Poems #206/ My Childhood

My Childhood
In memory it seems
Such a pleasant summer day
A path without much danger
The church we attended
Seemed so normal
There are some events which
Lie on top of my pile of memories

One time at the school
Probably not the first 
Probably not the last
The school put on
A ‘blackface’ performance
I remember the students singing
“Mammy” made famous by Al Jolson
Who preformed on television in ‘blackface’
Steven Foster’s “The Swanny River”
Children singing about the old folks at home
The doors of the school auditorium
Open to the hot summer night
The sounds of the songs floated out
To join the stars that sparkled
Down on our little town

Only recently I noticed the ‘blackface’
Our schools were segregated then
It seemed perfectly normal that
The black children had to get up early
Before the sun came up
To be were bused to the next town
The black children couldn’t drink from the
Public fountains
Couldn’t sit at the counter at the drugstore
Didn't attend our church
I wonder did the adults think of this
Or were they mostly as innocent at the children…
Or as guilty
What did the black citizens of our town think
I didn't know any black people
Didn't see them, they lived on the otherside of town
A mystery unexplained
I don't think I really thought about it until the '60s

During that performance a man snuck behind the curtain
On the stage and exposed himself to a little girl
Suzy who went to my church
The whole town was up in arms
All the men ran out into the night looking for him
(I imagine a scene from 'Frankenstine' the villagers
Running into the night with torches
And pitchforks)
It was said, he was a man passing through
Our town….

It always seemed a strange happening to me
I imagined the man driving through our town
Saw the lights and heard the music
And just stopped at the school performance
To go behind the curtain to expose himself
To an little girl…
Then ran away to jump in his car and speed away
Who was that man
Where did he come from
What would make him want to do such a thing
There were probably a lot of things I didn't understand








Monday, March 24, 2014

March 24, 2014 We Write Poems #11/That Spring



That Spring
That spring in your
Garage apartment
My house had sold
I was alone
Adrift

The frogs were leaping
In the little pond in
The back yard
Or during the day
Cuddled under the shade
We would sunbath
Lying on the wicker
You asked if
I minded if you
Didn’t wear a suit

We were alive
Midlife
Southern bells ringing
The air was thick
And hot and it wasn’t
Even summer yet

I had pulled up
The old roots
Left my old life
Behind...
Soon I would be
Headed West
You would soon leave
Our bones ached
To be on the move

The sprinklers kept
The yard wet
Tropical
The pond an oasis
For all the frogs
In Harris County
At night their loud calls
A cacophony of sound
Made sleep impossible
I shifted position
On the damp bed sheets

The sound of the 
Air conditioner's motor 
Combined with their calls
A noisy night in the
Neighborhood
The frogs never whispered
Only yelled at the top
Of their lungs
After all they
Had no cellphones
And they were calling
All possible mates
On the planet

The hot wind
Moved the banana leaves
A gentle rustle
In the night
On another night
At a local bar 
We ate crawfish
You loved them
Could eat more 
Than anyone

Time stood still
Another place
Another time
Little piece of
History
Buried in my memory
Gentle transition
Long hours stare into space
Wait for answers
Scribble notes to myself

Time has passed...20 years
I’m OK...hope you are too


Process notes:  I only stayed a few months.  After I left, I heard the woman left her husband, returned to Europe.  I haven’t heard about her in years, I hope she found what she was looking for.









Saturday, March 22, 2014

March 23, 2014 The Sunday Whirl/ A Mended Heart/ Poets United, Poetry Pantry #194/ The Tradition of the Painter

sting, grind, natural, addition, plenty, warning,
rival, course, quartet, broken, response, blunt





A Mended Heart
Hearts can be broken
Like a favorite teacup
Sometimes in response
To blunt trauma
No warning
It will take more than string
To hold it together
Maybe super-glue
Perhaps grind up the pieces
Mix with an adhesive
Cast another in a mold
As natural as the original

It can happen in an instant
But the sting felt a lifetime
A mended heart
Nice addition to any collection
No longer perfect
Like Rick Dillingham’s pottery
Broken
Mended
Put back together
It wears its' history
On the outside for all to see
Traces of the cracks visible
Each broken piece retrieved
Treasured
Some smooth
Some repainted
Often fired again
In it you can see
Greys of the morning
Greys of a feather
Greys of a tiny mouse


Note:  The Harwood Museum here in Taos has the most beautiful piece of Rick Dillinhgam's pottery, so interesting in its' reconstruction, one could look at it forever.  The piece of pottery shown is not the piece in the Harwood, but you can see his process. 


Rick Dillingham

Also Known as: James Richard Dillingham II
Born:
Lake Forest, Illinois 1952
Died:
Santa Fe, New Mexico 1994

Biography

Working in New Mexico, Rick Dillingham found a source of inspiration for his ceramics in the ancient Mimbres culture. Excavations of Mimbres sites in southern New Mexico have produced beautifully painted low-fired pottery punctured with holes; archaeologists believe these pieces were ritually "killed" in order to release the inherent life force that would otherwise have been trapped in the clay or decoration. In his mature work, Dillingham would break and reassemble his ceramic forms, creating objects with a patchwork appearance. Dillingham found beauty in the commonplace and the ugly, as we see in his appropriation of the form of a gas can for this piece [Gas Can, SAAM, 1991.19.3].
Kenneth Trapp The Renwick at Twenty-Five(Washington, D.C.: National Museum of American Art, 1997).http://americanart.si.edu/exhibitions/online/renwick25/index.html

___________________________
Poets United  Poetry Pantry #194



The Tradition of the Painter
I carry an idea as precious as
A monarch’s jewel   
Wrought by a member of the Guild                           
I wasn’t the first to find it                                              
Another carried it as long as she could
                             
I follow in the tradition of the painter
The first ones who painted
On walls of caves and canyons               
On skins                                           

I came to the Southwest
Right to the foot of Taos Mountain
Because of Georgia
Agnes
Doris
Lady Brett
And Mabel

I dreamed I would be embraced
Would find my home
The place where I could work
Where I belonged

I follow in their footsteps
I place my foot
Next to their trace
To measure my worth

Boldly
I hold up my
Shiny truth
For you to observe
With brush in hand
I sign my name

Note:  I included Mabel Dodge, though she wasn’t a painter, but she brought others. She wanted them to tell the story of New Mexico.  I also had in mind the tradition of  artists linking themselves with inspiring predecessors.