FRIDAY SCHOOL

John inspired this Friday's assignment with his poem HOUSEGUEST. I asked everyone to choose a family member and write a poem. Please feel free to submit at any time.


My mother
by Gabrielle

My mother is
the strongest one.
"Your grandfather
wanted a boy."
she told me.
So he made
her work like one.
She married young
to escape,
and then her husband died
at 27.
She married again
to give my brother and sister
a father,
and then her husband got MS
at 48.
For 26 years she has cared for him.
She bathes and lifts him
"Its a good thing I'm strong,"
she told me
and goes back to work
on heavy things.




**************


Uma
by Susan

I have never written a poem for my mother.

I have been cradled
in those strong arms
and bathed her lap in my tears
countless times.

I have carried my insecurities forth
in small whispers
holding them with tiny child fingers
wide eyed
and fearful.
I have held them out to her
like shattered bits
of a favorite toy
and watched her
mend them
into a workable revision
of themselves.

I have never written a poem for my mother.

I have laughed until breathless.

I have played through hours with her
while driving down highways
wearing masks to amuse strangers,
while driving down causeways
seeing pictures in clouds,
while driving down small avenues
passing Easter eggs
to unsuspecting Sunday faces.

I have ached in her presence
and her absence.
I have screamed to have her near me
and to make her leave.
I have rebelled against devotion
and withered with abandonment.

There are moments, days
when I hear her voice in mine.
There have been
and will be
factions of me breathing her breaths
fearing her fears
smiling her joy.

It seems so fragile, this.

I have never written a poem for my mother.

I am so afraid
to make a scrapbook
of our lives.

I am afraid to cheapen
what we have paid for dearly
with rage and blood and time.
I do not want
my stories to become old stories
to be told without emotion
on a porch
with lemonade.
I love the vivid, shocking contrast
of our feast and famine.

I am afraid to dull
what we have shined to brightness
with love and joy and time.
I do not want my memories
to be yellowed pages
clad with letters.
I do not want emotions
bottled up in words.
I do not want reduction
to a well-bound leather volume.

I am so afraid
to make a scrapbook
of our lives.



***************

THE V.F.W. HALL
by John



The men at the V.F.W. hall
stir the cabbage, sweat and season
the meat. With their stub cigars
dying under their noses and t-shirts
worn proudly with spaghetti sauce,
they joke-laugh-choke and spit into the sink.

The women at the V.F.W. hall
staple paper covers upon
soiled tables, smoke low-tars
and fold napkins into skirts.
They volunteer for a good cause
and the bartender tips them with a drink.

The child at the V.F.W. hall
stares into the jukebox song
numb to laughter and talk of wars
and wars and wars. Nothing hurts
which is not understood. A pause
between the circle of the sound in sync.


********************

WHEELS
by Andrea


I was four and wore your old outfit
carousel ponies up and down the top
"Soon you will be in Kindergarten
take the training wheels off"

You were seven and gave your old bike
Pedals worn going up and down the block
"Soon you will be flying on your own
but I have to let go first"

You forgot to show me how to stop


******************

UNCLE

by Monica

the
hours added up
over thirty-four years
equal one day we've spent
together. i know you
despite not knowing you
common heritage is both
treasure and curse
sheilded from your influence
but
one
can't
fight biology

***********************

My Brother

by Marianne

Courage of a Wounded Warrior,

Strength of a Knight In Battered Armor,

Wisdom of a Great and Gentle King,

Compassion of a Saint,

All these things I see in you,

Make me proud to call you,

My Brother, My Friend

Marianne Fuchs

July 17, 2006

Poems about Autism

Autism has been a huge part of my life for some time now, as my 18 year old son was diagnosed at 3. His Autism was fairly classic and fairly severe. He was obviously intelligent, but would only echo words said to him. It took years of specialists and therapies and fighting the powers that be, but I refused to believe that it could not be beaten. My son is better now, and hopefully will be able to go on and live a productive life on his own. Needless to say, however, it has changed me in profound and painful ways. There are no textbooks, no roadmaps. Even the "experts" don't understand why it happens or how to fix it. It was an uncertain future, one I felt I faced by myself. A lot of the poems I wrote after his diagnosis were outpourings of that anguish and fear - unbearable sorrow. Here are two.

People who have children with Autism

1998

People who have children with autism

will tell a stranger anything over the telephone.

They can recognise the pain and anguish

in another parent's voice

like a password to a secret club

nobody wants to belong to

that neediness is the key

that unlocks all the pretense and bullshit

of civilized conversation -

let's get down to business.

People who have children with autism

learn to live life in a fishbowl

and love it

to embrace embarrassing situations and laugh

because they reaffirm this is my life-

don't pinch me please, I know I'm awake.

People who have children with autism

don't have the luxury

of fooling themselves

they can swallow what's on their plates

and ask for more, beg for it.

They have no shame,

for shame wastes time.

Have earned the right

to call a situation bizarre.

People who have children with autism

can appreciate the beauty

of one unbroken ravioli,

perfect in its wholeness

can agonize over one block

that simply will not maintain its place in line

can understand how relaxing

sands feels as it falls through one's fingers.

People who have children with autism

understand that

the order of the universe

is exactly that.

And that it

is a very tall order to fill

for

people who have children with autism.

********

My son got Autism and all I got was this lousy poem

(2000)

Alone I sit.

Alone I stay.

I wage a battle

every day.

I fight alone.

Alone I cry.

And all alone

I say goodbye.

The life I lead

The love I choose.

Alone I conquer.

Alone I lose.

Alone I rise.

Alone I fall.

And all alone

I face the call.

I face the truth.

I face the pain.

But all alone

the prize I gain.

The beauty beaten, battered, blown

are all the person I now own.

No one else,

just me, alone.

( I know the second poem has a Dr. Seuss feel to it, but I can recall how absolutely devastated I felt when I wrote it. It was like, only simplistic language could convey such complex emotions. Does that make sense?)

High School Flashback

As I'm thinking about old friends today, I thought I'd post a few of my poems from high school. The first one I wrote for graduation, the second for a friend of mine, and the third was something I scrawled on a bag upon waking up New Year's Day 1986 with a wicked hangover.

Senior Year 1986

One more time

one last dance

one quick look

one less chance

one hot night

one pink dawn

one world beginning

one world gone

one brief touch

one short smile

one for forever

one for awhile

one sure hand

one strong heart

one together

one apart

one young face

one bitter tear

one last embrace

one final year

one more game

one good friend

one goodbye...

childhood' s end.

Sophia

(1986)

Fish net legs

hold the magic

to tempt the world.

Down

on your knees.

Crawl.

Stay.

I

have the power

to hold you

at my will

in my spell

under my thumb

with my eyes.

1st Poem of 1986

misty

wistful

alcoholic

dreams

of little demons

This just in....

An old friend of mine, Susan, has decided to join us, and shot me some older poetry of hers. Enjoy.


We Will Never Speak of Love
by Susan

When I am sixty – seventy - eight years old
I want still to be destroyed by your touch
and polished by your eyes
and your notes
as you play a violin badly
just to make me laugh,
stopping by a music shop,
my maestro.
And I will still dance in high heels through
October’s brown grasses,
flying a kite in circles
to remind you of the sky.
And you will beg me to speak, still,
of anything
so that you may wrap your dreams up
in a hobo pack
and sling them over your shoulder
as you float upon my voice.
We will never speak of love
like a Hallmark card or roses.
We will never speak of love at all.
And when our children ask me why,
I will bow my head in reverence
and tell them that all sentences have periods
and that you are not words
but breath and blood
and that my marrow fills your bones.

FRIDAY SCHOOL....

John submitted this wonderful poem:

House Guest

When they brought her home
from the hospital, it seemed
like a good idea
to keep her. Then she started
knocking things over, messing
herself and screaming
in the middle of the night
She looked at me
like I was the stranger


I told Mom it might be a good
idea to bring her back
She was too much
But Mom said
Grandma
would be staying

***********

That got me thinking about how strange and wonderful family can be. For Friday School, choose one family member. Again, feel free to use any length or style you want. Have a great weekend!

Impressions of FEAR....

I'm beginning to post the FEAR poems, and will continue to as more arrive. The format may be slightly different than how you submitted, as I am still learning the quirks of this thing. Marianne will have to turn in hers late, as she is currently in the hospital for surgery. Be safe, Marianne, my thoughts are with you.


***********
Heartbeat
by Mo-nee-ka

THUD

There it is again

THUD THUD

going faster now

THUD THUD

no other sound

THUD


***********

Video Clip of Innocence

For Matthew Shepard
by John Giza

PLAY:
Young boy braving a strong wind
against the open sky of the American
schoolyard. Fifth grade History class.
On his head a stovepipe hat,
black cape flapping, faux beard
The audio breaks, capturing the fragmented
line “…these dead cannot have died in vain.”
STOP.

He cannot be not Lincoln, but he is
Matthew.
Puberty and love gather on his horizon.
Today’s lesson is one of democracy.
To the West, someone is building a fence.



News Article:NEW YORK, Feb. 14, 2008 - Ten years after
Wyoming college student Matthew Shepard
was brutally murdered because of his sexual
orientation, a 15-year-old gay California
student is brain dead after a student allegedly
shot him because of his sexual orientation and
gender expression.

************
CONSUMING FEAR
by Gabrielle

my ravenous self consumes my fear.
spoon fed by my mother
force fed by the media
words and images and ideas
making me terrified
to leave my yard
speak to a stranger
stand near a microwave
use the internet
a never ending catalogue of
don'tcan'tshouldn'tmusn't.

Fear translates to dollars
for guns and locks and pharmaceuticals
and surgery and insurance-
a free commodity more lucrative than gold.
fear never loses its value,
never takes a dive,
its money in the bank.

They start on you when you're young
indoctrinating you into the culture of fear.
They train you to do the job well.
A superproducer
in a field of mass production
I feed my fear to calm it.
Reading, eating, worrying ,
mindlessly consuming
whatever it takes
to keep my fear from
consuming me.

*************
HE WAS A GREAT MAN
by Andrea


People wouldn’t sit until you did
You stated and they complied
Some called you callous, some called you worse
some demonstrated against you
I don’t know if you actually liked me
or just realized I was all you had left
You try to make me understand
It is somehow important that I do
I will never wield the power you had
I will never control vast fortunes or inspire such fear
I can only feel sorry that at the end
You had to pay a stranger to hold your hand.

*********************

My Private Battle (Cancer)
by Marianne

I fight a great and mighty dragon,
It lies deep within my chest.
Its scales they split and grow
And travel on a river,
That flows inside my breast.

My Knights they surround me,
And in place of sword and arrow
Defend with needle and scalpel,
Cutting through the quick,
Straight into my red blooded marrow.

No boiling oil or flaming sword,
Will penetrate this beast’s thick hide.
My Alchemists mix and stir and pray,
To find the poison that will cure me,
Or help me live awhile then die with pride.

I’ve cut its heart out but it springs anew,
Then it re-grows, it multiplies and divides,
It finds a place you’d last think to look,
And rebuilds its strength with frighten speed,
Using the fuel my own body foolishly provides.

Many battles I’ve fought and many I’ve won,
Oh the wounds I have suffered, many scars I won’t show,
A few fortresses still linger, another skirmish always near,
But the war is not over and I am nowhere near done,
I’ve still so much of love and life to know.

Marianne Fuchs
March 04, 2008

**************

by Susan

And So I Sang


Anyone who knows Alaska
and many ones who don’t
know
a moose.

A moose does not want to be your friend.

Taller than any man’s courage
a moose stands braver than a lion’s roar
and impervious to a trespasser’s will.

My friend
met
a moose.

The moose did not want to be her friend
nor
did not want not to be.

Standing with flared nostrils wider
than
her eyes
the moose stood still,
that great brown God,
as she stood
back to brambles.

Many months later
she told me of this moose
who did not want to be her friend
nor
did not want not to be.

“I was afraid,”
she said.
“ I did not know what to do.
I did not know what to do,
and so
I sang.”

She sang Amazing Grace
to the towering fury of breath and stamping hooves,
and the moose
stood,
not wanting to be her friend
and not wanting not to be,
and she sang

and the moose
turned away from the blueberry patch
and left.

Anyone who knows the ocean
and many ones who don’t
know
whales.

A whale does not want to be your friend.

You are another Jonah
another Gipetto
another Pinocchio

and the whale is older than your memory.

A whale does not want to be your friend
and does not want not to be
but blows and spouts
and rolls one side
to gaze up at your curiosity.

My friend met a whale
or, rather, many.

The whales did not want to be her friends
nor did not want not to be
but wanted only to surround her and gaze and look and roll one eye up
to see this air creature and her finless fins.

But surrounded by these underwater mountains
she was keenly aware
of the finality
of an underwater grave
and the smallness of the vessel
beneath her feet
and the whales
that did not want not to be her friends
and did not want not to be.

She told me some weeks later
“I was in awe.
I was afraid.
I did not know what to do
and so
I sang.”

And my friend and the not friend, not-not friend whales
Fed each other’s curiosities
And she sang
Until the whales submerged
and turned
and left.

Anyone who knows how to live
and many ones who don’t
know
loss.

I met a loss.
Or many.

My loss of you does not want to be my friend
nor does not want not to be –
but stands always nearby
deeper than my fears
and taller, too.

It does not want to be,
my friend,
as I stare at it wide-eyed and afraid,
nor does it want not to be.

My loss of you is impervious to my will
and has not been tamed by years
as it towers sometimes a grey black God
and reaches down to take my breath in its own
as I recall your face.

It does not want to be my friend
nor does want not to be,
this loss of you,
as I recall your eyes
and the way they were
the bluest blue
at that last moment
that I saw them.

I did not want to lose you

The loss of you does not want to be my friend
Nor does not want not to.

And I do not know what to do,
and I did not know what to do
and so,
I softly took your hand
and so I sang.








February 22, 2008 10:29 PM

The Poet as a Child...

A friend was kind enough to contribute this poem written by her son when he was six. I think that this is really wonderful. I began writing at around age 9, and was lucky to have people who fostered that. Please make an extra effort to encourage children and young people who show an interest in literature and poetry. You never know what you'll start....

Don't you know
Don't you see
the Magical World
of Bumblebees?
Wholesome Boy, age 6

Furiously working on FEAR...

Hope everyone is having success with their fear poems - ok, Monica, everyone except you! Mine is evolving....I have several different ideas I am attempting to cobble together into some form of cohesiveness. Its funny, sometimes it just flows out effortlessly and complete, other times its in a million little pieces, like a puzzle that can only fit together in one precise way....

YOUNG GIRLS

(2002)

Do young girls

feel the heat?

Or the cold?

They walk along,

seemingly impervious

to extremes -

of both want and weather.

Hair flippingly,

chatteringly alive,

their focus solely

on

one another.

They turn to speak,

to laugh together.

Their essence

shimmers

like the heat

from the sidewalk

blessed

by their feet.

Unconscious of the cars,

and the people,

and the clouds

that pass around them,

They exist

in this instant

only for themselves.

Unbroken,

unapologetic,

unaware

that in their moment

they are beautiful.

DEATH AND REBIRTH OF THE AMERICAN DREAM

(1990)

Busted light

with a broken cord

screen door slamming

on an empty yard.

Gravel flying down the drive

let's take the car and steal the night.

Forever starts here

if you'll only say.

For what we've bought now

we may never pay.

The radio's playing our favorite song

I'll leave right now

if you'll come along.

We can seize the moment

and forget the past.

The memories

from here on out

are the only ones that last.

Our lives are starting here, tonight.

This time we'll make

our choices right.

Forgive me for what

I'm bound to do

and I'll extend the same to you.

Extenuating circumstance,

the time is now,

Let's take our chance.

Marianne's Poem

Here's an offering from Marianne:

A Home is not Built upon the Ground,
It is built upon a Family.
The Strength of a Family
is not based upon Laws,
It is based upon Love.
The Power of Love does not come from Passion,
It comes from Commitment
.A Bond of Commitment is not formed from Obligation,
It is formed from Desire.
The Burn of Desire should not begin with the Flesh,
It should begin with the Mind.
A State of Mind should not be determined by a House,
It should grow within a Home.

Marianne Fuchs July 20, 2006

(Marianne, I apologize for the format change - still trying to navigate this thing!)

Revise, revise, revise...

Andrea asked a question about posting things in progress - please do! As I said, I am finding stuff from over the past 30 years, and I am discovering I like a lot of it, and a lot of it I am going to revise. Its only finished when I say so. Anyway, please feel free to lob some constructive criticism. I am posting some new ones of mine, and then posting one contribution later for discussion. If you all know any other poets out there, invite them over!

Untitled

(late 90's)

I live in a world

I could be sorry for,

but that is the last thing I say.

I incur a price

that some find extreme

but that is the one I won't pay.

I choose

my reality,

make my own dream.

I refuse

to succomb

to desire

it seems.

My life

is the bait

and my heart

is the trap.

And love

is the head

that I find in my lap.

Untitled

(late '80's)

I'm as subtle

as a belt

across your mouth.

Proceeding unstoppable,

smack between

your horrified eyes.

I burn like a film

jammed into a projector,

starting pinprick

and spreading wider

and wider until

the whole screen is white

and clean

from the good bright bulb

that hides inside.

I have the grace

of a falling tree

slamming into

the defenseless dirt,

leaving bruised

and hollow tracks

where I've dragged myself away.

Ripping the rope

of a church bell

with frenzied pulls,

I clang until

your eardrums ache

with slow, dull throbs

and I reverberate

for long minutes after.

Friday School

In light of these worrying times, I thought we should examine FEAR. Any form, meter, length you choose. Due next Friday. Stay safe, keep your head down, and run in a zig zag line if ever being shot at. My thoughts are with the students and their families.

Take a deep breath and let go...

So I trudged down to my basement (literally, and I guess figuratively as well) and started unpacking decades of writing. I am terrible about titling and dating my poems, so I will have to guestimate the time of most of my contributions. I have a tendency to write in a certain style for a while, which makes it easier to determine approximately when things were produced. I will continue to sift through boxes, and update as time allows. However, I am eager to read other's poetry, I believe it makes you a better, more well rounded poet. So, here goes nothing.

SUMMER CAMP

(late '80's)

Summer camp

Choking smoke from fires

that singed our legs

we proclaimed our love for Jesus and

captured the flag.

running till our lungs felt

as if they would burst before

we could deliver the prize to the Lord.

we were so crafty, so cunning and swift.

so sure of foot, darting and weaving and rolling

out of the grasp of our sworn enemies

for that afternoon.

We met in the messhall

eating mass produced food

and I don't remember what

but nobody liked it.

And after lunch we creeps

sprayed shaving cream on a popular girl

from above her as she showered.

And she didn't even know

until she went to rinse and

we ran away to the treehouse and laughed

guilty laughter at our decidedly

unchristian behaviour.

Later we apologised

at the prayer meeting

and it was a Big Deal.

She accepted it with a grace

that benefitted her position and

we were lone dogs again, curs

who needed saving and we wanted it.

to be in the moment

with all eyes upon us

and be lifted up on the prayers

of tens and hundreds in attendence.

bowing our heads dutifully, we were saved

and went off to square dance

in the rec hall.

i remember few black kids

and no hispanic or asian.

we were white middle upper class

and knew no other.

we made wallets and crosses for our parents

to carry, and tread water for 3 minutes

with a buddy who didn't want to be there

and told sacrilegious ghost stories

in the roach infested cabins

only miles from where Randy Rhodes

had just died that summer.

and a girl i knew from home,

but pretended not to know

so i would look cool,

got her hair caught in a curling iron

and i was caught in the lie

in order to help her.

and the little tiny girl

who practiced gymnastics

and could lay on her back

and do splits

with one leg across her chest

got the boy i liked.

and i got no boy,

no boy at all.

but i got a tshirt from leesburg, florida

and i got saved

and i got the flag

and i got the gratitude of a wet haired girl

all that summer

at summer camp.

WENDY

(late '80's)

I am not your Wendy

but some lost boy.

I cannot abide a ribbony existence

of worry and cautiousness.

I need a wooden sword

tight in my sweaty fist-

to feel the anticipation

of battles with Indians

whose clenched white teeth

glint off steel knives

as they creep into our wood.

I want to throw the plots and plans

down

and rush heedlessly to the sea

where foolish pirates

sail too close to shore.

To live by my cunning

and wake awed at each sunrise,

surprised to see the night fall.

To be headstrong and certain

in the strength of myself.

To never doubt.

To never question.

To never grow old.

UNTITLED

(80's-current. I like to write using one or two words to a line. That has just always appealed to me. This was just a little poem I jotted down after attending a party.)

Blue

green.

Smile

preen.

Pose

pretty.

Speak

witty.

Silly

willful

Dream

deep.

Wash off

your makeup

and

go to sleep.

Welome Poets! I have been writing poetry for about 30 years now. It has always been my passion, but we all know that poetry really is not in hot demand. However, I believe it is one of, if not THE, most important means of communication. From the ancient Greeks, to the rappers of today, the common man craves to hear the words that identify his condition, or clarify his dreams. Spoken word or pop music, the idea is the thing. And there are those who love to revel in the word - to wrestle and bend it, until it rings clear like a bell. The famous poets of today are an elite group, but I find their words no more moving than a refrain of a song, or the whisper of a friend. , or the back of a cereal box. There is poetry everywhere, and it should not be put on a pedestal. This is for the real poets, the everyman poets, and for the people that love to read poetry.
I am posting some of my own poetry, but am looking for some new, fresh voices to compliment this blog. In addition, once we are up and running, I would like to propose an assignment every week as a poetry excercise. Comments welcomed. We will figure out the submission process as we go along. For now, submit under comments. I look forward to hearing your words.