Far Away There In The Sunshine

Done.

It's good to set goals and actually achieve them -- Who knew! I admit I took the easy way out more than once. There was a lot over the course of the month that turned out to be just words for words' sake. This year I'm just proud I reached my goal. Next year my goal will be 30 poems I'm proud of.

Still, there are a few I'm looking forward to messing around with. So now the real work begins. Revision, revision, revision... 

But first poems 24-30

24.
His Mildred and Mine

We used to call it the Annual Mildred Summit
When we got the two of you together on Christmas
You were already in your 80's by then and
you talked about the past -- raising families
Your husbands -- one, long gone and one
recent enough that tears flowed
One tiny Mildred comforting another

You were always  cold, shivering in your cardigans,
the heat turned up past 80
exercising your right, as matrons, to complain, complain complain
I told you every Christmas,  it's always colder in my dining room
near the back door with the draft coming down the chimney,
but you seemed to like it there.
The table suited the occasion, I guess.
A summit being a somewhat formal affair.

And now one of you is gone, 6 years
You never saw my children, Grandmom
You loved babies. And your first great-grandtwins?
You'd have been "tickled"
Only my mother, your daughter knows this:
I missed you most the day Obama beat McCain.
My little old black lady. You deserved to see that.

And one of you, we've watched become more frail, more stooped
more resigned over time to the inevitable.
It's the resignation that hurts the most.
We don't mean to show pity, it's just, well
Remember yourself at 40. It's impossible to comprehend
what 94 years feels like. We say, may we all be so lucky
But we don't know what we're saying, do we

94 years. We should visit more
Life is long and it's slow but every so often it gains
momentum. Leaves you wondering were the last 10 years gone off to

And of course, there's that precipice around a turn, somewhere.
94 years from now
Everyone my children love today will be gone.
Unless they are lucky enough to still have each other

25.
Your morning faces
One sad, one always a little angry
I know what a burden sleep can be
It asks too much
And dredges up the detritus of all your tiny
Yesterdays.
And the secrets it forces you keep --
The disappointment
Do you dream of being forced from the playground too soon
Of Buzz Lightyear lost in the yard, his smile fading in the sun
Do you fight in your dreams over pink dinosaurs
Are we there in your dreams? Am I there
There are mornings when your resentment is palpable
And we’re a little rough with the hugs
eager to rub it away with the crust under your noses
And that’s the thing about dreams. We know what they can do
We keep saying, “We’re here, I’m here”
but you’ve made no accusations yet,  have you

26.
Did you see my face, the heartbreak
I cried with you, but it didn't help
We let you down
We're here, I'm here
Except, we weren't, were we
We let you down
Will you remember this
As I will

27.
Trenton
We share her, though we aren't happy about it
We respect her history more than we accept
her current state of affairs
No wonder she has attitude
No wonder she has a complex
We talk behind her back
She ain't what she was
We say it to her face
You can't live here, nobody lives here
But the woman in the next cubicle lives here
No wonder the city hates us

28.
this is exhausting
will I ever breathe again
F the new normal

29.
You'll have this to contemplate later
whether you've lived a good life
and true
It doesn't have to hurt. You may decide
You've earned the right to be proud
You'll be fooling yourself a little
But if you're lucky
You'll be too old to care.

30.
Thank God it's over!
Now I can do laundry, cook
But tonight - TV

Even Though You Know Living Is The Most Real, Most Beautiful Thing

I've already got an idea of which poems I want to work on when this experiment is over. Number 10, I will definitely revisit. Number  23? Not so much...

Keeping up has been harder than I thought. I keep waiting for inspiration, rather than just being true to the goal I set for myself, which was just write. I keep wanting everything to be good. This is the problem I’ve always had with finishing self-assigned writing projects. I don’t write unless I feel like I’m in some sort of zone. I shy away from trying to write through writer's block, because the crap that comes out is, you know, crap.

Of course, when you force yourself to write, you often end up with some salvageable bits. You also end up with a lot of stuff you’re embarrassed to have written, but the point is you have done something. I wrote every day when I was in my twenties. In my early 30’s everyday became every week, and as the decade went on, every month, a few times a year. The thing is, as with anything else you don’t practice, you get rusty. You forget. What I found was that when I didn’t write for 6 months at a time, when I did feel like writing, I couldn’t get the juices flowing. I’d end up revisiting old stuff over again and again (the perpetual revision I mention in an earlier post). I became a tinkerer, rather than a writer.

Taking part in the National Poetry Month Challenge has forced me to produce. It’s forced me to let go and just crank it out. Yes, I’ve had to fudge a few just for the sake of volume, but I’ve had moments of inspiration too.  I’m excited by the idea of spending time when the month is up revising a three or four of the thirty.

Of course, my fear is that I’ll spend the next year tinkering with this stuff, rather than writing new stuff. Sadly, I’ll probably spend equal time contemplating finishing the novel I started five years ago. But I’ll worry about all of that later. For now, I’m pleased with myself for sticking to my goal. 

Maybe this month will be the kick in the pants I needed. Or, maybe, like everything else, when it’s over it’ll just be whatever it was.

10.

Of Regret

“The purpose of poetry is to remind us how difficult it is to remain just one person, for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors, and invisible guests come in and out at will.” 

                                                                                                                                                                                    ― Czesław Miłosz

There used to be this girl

A hereditary sad-sap who cultivated a shaky optimism

And then mislaid it

All evidence pointing to sabotage, as she wasn’t at all careless

She was bright, but not remarkably so

She wasn’t at all wise

Anyway this girl, she built a house of bricks

And because she knew everything she built it

From the inside out

It was slipshod, but not for lack of concentration

A little lopsided

Too low to the ground, maybe

But just sturdy enough to endure

And because she knew her history it did not have a chimney

Or a door or windows or rather

 It had a door, but the door was just a colorful expression

And the hinges were anecdote

The knob was just the faintest semblance of a knob. A character sketch, is all

And the one window was Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, for just the right touch

Of the hackneyed

In the house, she stood in the middle of the only room

Shooting whimsy from her fingertips, or what passed for whimsy

She wasn’t really in the know -- watching it bounce from wall to ceiling and back

She took her meals in stride

Melting the implicit over course brown bread and the years, well

They were years, ascending – one, two, three…

She added portholes in year 7, I think,

Of permanent marker, black, to draw in the night

But in the end, the Van Gogh contrasted poorly

She told no one

There was no one to tell, the wolf being sealed out and all

She told no one that she had begun to wish she’d built the house of sand

So she could run it through a sieve every once in a while to check for treasure there

Especially after all that affectation shooting from her fingertips began to tire her

Anyway, in the absence of nothing lost, she sat.

But first she carved a chair

A little lopsided, too low to the ground maybe, but sturdy enough

11.

Walk Softly and Carry a Pint Sized Oncologist

Don’t say you beat her

You know that Cancer is a bitch 

You start talking trash and suddenly she’s rolling her eyes and wagging her head

And in your face, like “ I know you not talkin’ bout me”

And she’s kicking you’re ass. Again

And you know that bitch fights dirty – weave hair and earrings flying

Skin under press-on nails. I bet she bites

And that hope you wear like a talisman

Cancer doesn't believe in magic

You may be a survivor but you don't invite crazy to an ice cream social

You shut up about it

And you don’t play ball with a live grenade, either

You put it
the fuck
down

Add A Drop of Anxiety To Everything

12.

Conversation --

It’s exhausting

Never being able to say more than hello and goodbye

Without wondering if you said something wrong

Was that stupid

Am I boring

Did I go too far

Did I sound like an ass

Is that how that’s pronounced

I fret over the most mundane exchanges

Try to recall every word I said

Sure there’s something there

Something I can’t recollect, but

know -- It was all so terrible, wasn’t it

13.

Friendship

It’s like the bathroom mirror, isn’t it

I’m always shining it up, wiping away the water stains

and the toothpaste smudges and that persistent film that comes from

well, I don’t know where it comes from  – but it makes me look ashen

And fat.  And a little bit dumb.

And then when it’s really clean, I can see all the way down my throat

and into my chest and it’s not a good color for me. And my heart isn’t small and soft at all

It’s spiked and a little aggressive

And it's difficult to breathe, but I have to look, right

And sometimes I think I'm pretty, like

when one of the light bulbs is out

And sometimes in my glasses I look clever or wise

and I smile, but then I remember the missing tooth

And I notice how big my pores have become

And I have to look away

 before I find anything else amiss

14.

Love

When you were three days old I had a dream

It was not the kind of dream mothers tell fondly in later years

You died in my arms

The nurse, her voice so matter of fact, she said

"And now he’s safe." And I asked her what she meant

She said, "Your baby, he’s gone home. He’s dead”

And then I felt the weight --   this lifeless little body in my arms

And I woke

I have battled cancer. I have seen my own life slipping away and

That was nothing compared to that dream

I woke, but to an ache I felt for days when I looked at your tiny sleeping body 

and remembered what it was for you not to be there anymore

15.

Oyster Creek

What if the sky falls

The sky is not falling

The sky is not falling yet, but what if it falls

The sky will not fall, but if it falls we get them out

But what if we're at work and the kids are in the fallout zone

I'll get them out

But how? You can't get in  

You can't just slip into a fallout zone

We need to move

But what if the sky falls before we can move...

The God damn sky is not falling

The God damn sky is not falling yet 

16.

Therapy

I didn't walk out

But only because crying alone in one's car is pathetic

I won't be back 

Thank you for asking the hard questions, though

17.

39 years 

Waiting for life to happen

And then it happened

But this, this is no life

This is the thing that may kill you

You've met your future

It took…

Not everything. No

Just enough to rub

It happened, didn't it

And this

This is a life

Isn't it

18.

Best moments

You, back from Nepal

The movie hug at JFK

My mother knew at that moment we'd marry

We married

If the future had sent mail

Would we have read it?

19.

Tegan and Matthew’s Year

Christmas was not yesterday

Your birthday was almost a year ago.

Yes, I remember when we went to Storybook Land

Yes, I remember when you rode the train

You went to sleep last night, not last week

Well, you went to sleep last week, too

You go to sleep every night, but

Never mind

Yes, I see when your sleeping

Yes, Santa sees you when you’re sleeping

No he’s not coming tomorrow

No, you don't see me when you're sleeping

Yes, I remember Halloween

Yes, it’s good morning time

No, The easter bunny did not take our Christmas tree

No, there are no fireworks tomorrow

No, it’s not good morning time

Today is Wednesday

Yes, it’s dark in the sky

Yes, there are clouds in the sky

Yes, the sun is following you

This month is April

Christmas is in December

No, December is not tomorrow

20.

I feel bad for him for nanoseconds here and there, but then he’s offensive and I just want him to disappear (For Danielle)

You can tell when an overheard conversation is pretty much one-sided

When it isn’t a conversation at all, really.

Too many starts on one side.

The cadence is wrong.

It’s painful to hear. Even in someone you don’t give a fig about.

You want him to stop and sit down.

You wonder if he knows. If it hurts.

But then he says something heinous.

And you’re like,

Idiot

21.

I miss Tilley, but

glad he wasn’t here to see this

Rollercoasters can’t swim

But apparently Lucy can

22.

Do I miss you yet

If I have to be honest

Can I just go home

23.

Can’t wait until May

It’s all just gibberish now

Poetry Month sucks

*

 The Only Emperor Princess is the Emperor Princess of Pink Ice Cream

I'm cheating.

Keeping up is always harder than it should be.

But... poems 5, 6, 7, 8, 9...

Mother Guilt (Five for Tegan)

I

She picked red shoes. Cute.

But after an hour – pain.

First blister. A rite.

II

Is my tummy fat?

At three, where did she learn… Not…

Can she read my thoughts?

III

Ava said. Ava

Wore… Got. ..Did… Her hair’s straight. But

I’m prettier. Right?

IV

“Want to wear Snow White!

But pwincesses don’t wear pants!

I wook yike a boy!

I’m not a boy!

I’m a bootiful pwincess.

Would you yike pink cake?”

V

You need a handbag?

I’ll lend you the RALPH. It’s old.

No. I said the RALPH.

Not the Ralph Lauren

That’s vintage. Take the RALPH.

I said no! The RALPH.

I didn’t say it was old.

I said vintage. Yes, vintage!

Jesus! Are you three?

In a Minute There is Time For Decisions and Revisions Which a Minute Will Reverse

Oh God. What I hadn't considered…

More than an exercise in discipline, this is an exercise in letting go. To shove these out into the world before tinkering with them -- it's terrifying.

But only because we humans are so vain. We want to show the world the things we have perfected, leaving so much of who we really are in hidden under the bed, on the high shelves, in the back of the broom closet.

Here's the thing -- In life, as in poetry, we miss so many chances to open ourselves up and connect because we hide what is raw and real and most alive. We hide the essence. The most publishable poems, it's true, have been painstakingly revised, rubbed up to a bright and perfect polish. This isn't a bad thing at all -- this is art. But before art comes feeling (nevermind what Mr. Wilde had to say). And in life, as in poetry, sometimes we need to let the world in, let it spy on us just a little at our most vulnerable. When we do this we get out of our own way. And maybe, for a minute or two, stop tripping over our contrivances.   

Poems 2, 3, 4...

They Write Songs About Us So It Must Be True 

Of eyes? Why say blue?

That things should be so safe is not how souls are born

I say this with conviction

Having once turned a pair and lost them

There is no whimsy. They talk

Straight, look through

Or past the soul splayed on the table

Is it dying? They do not check for pulse

They let it go

This is not a declaration of war
an intimation of regret. 
They'll let it go, but why not talk about the map
The code only we can read. The ache.

It’s palpable

The moment brown eyed souls shift hosts

It leaves a mark where they break through

and from this 

the map. I have stolen souls

And misplaced myself

Confronted with eyes reminiscent of my own

Misplaced myself 

among found things, familiar

Let it go? 

But I have the map

And I know what it is to have stolen souls

It's worth the time in limbo

I Am Not So Many Things

Every one of the seeds is mildewed this spring when

Finally I've found the will to dig again in dirt.

I say will

As though this were a thing requiring fortitude

When really it is yearning, a weakness

And the seeds

from each of their several packets loosed

gone bloated, black and stinking. The packs

wet through are stained.

They are scattered on the cellar floor.

But when did this neglect creep in?

The windows sealed against the damp. Wet.

Fat and black. They stink

from the not proper putting up

of years before.

I don’t remember how the dirt once felt.

It was heavy.

And damp I think. The way

I want it to have been

Do I say this – that I

am not a nurturer of gardens anymore?

My hands clean and bored, plucking

At random annoyances. Things.

I am not so many things I was before

A girl digging in dirt and breathing in

Had I put up the seeds the way I should

Resolute as a woman putting up preserves,

Had I put up the seeds would there be

this mournful stink and me in the cellar

not remembering even to breathe out anymore

But I must still be so many things I was.

A woman, for instance, remembering the damp

of dirt. The heavy – and my hands not plucking

at random, random things.

Perhaps on the verge of remembering.

Her Personal Effects (for Asbury Park)

A seer’s dog

Somebody trying to die in peace

A moment washed

Black boys boxing waves

Sharp hearts

An ocean bowing to decay

3 Mexicans on a BMX

Tipped hips

Peddling off Diablo moon

Shoulders, faces, prospects

Brown

How many failed parades?

Dead rain

Patchwork hulks

embezzled

A long line of monkey kings

And yet

The Atlantic shimmies up

Caresses

the wonder of Asbury Park

Rust, shit, piss

She throws her best back at it.

                                 

If You Are A Dreamer Come In

In honor of National Poetry Month, I'm drafting 30 new poems in 30 days. I said drafting, OK. These are first drafts - straight from the head to the page. They are full of kinks. They are awkward. They are blemished.  They are mine. Some will probably be revisited later, some discarded in embarrassment, many simply forgotten.  But for now I'm setting them down here, 30 little stones left to warm in the sun. Starting with this one:

Kid Poem # 1 (For Bunsen)

When we walk the boardwalk

From the raised drawbridge

To the ice cream shop where dad

Always picks the wrong flavor

It’s evening, but not too late

And the sun, still summer high,

Burns my left shoulder

Mom fusses

Caking me with sunblock as we walk

I trip over uneven planks 

Pretend

My green watch is a compass

And we are lost

My sister kicks my heals

And laughs and laughs

But I don’t yell or whine or shove this time

I think about the sun on my left shoulder

And how it only lasts a little while

And I’ll miss it in the winter

But maybe there’ll be snow

And I think about the ice cream

Chocolate this time

Or something green

But this feeling

(I would draw smiley faces in the sky today

If the clouds would hold me)

It’s itchier and deeper than happy

But not as fast or bright or noisy

Mom says its contentment

A word I’ll add to my vocabulary journal

When I’m old enough to write this poem

Dad says it means satisfaction

But somehow it makes me think of love.

NOTICE: This Space Has Been Provided For Your Baggage Only

A month ago I googled my name (don’t pretend you've never done it). My name resulted in images and articles about a young lady who committed suicide in 2010, a young lady who was murdered in 1991, and a ballet dancer (who shared my first name only). The ballet dancer was beautiful. In her photo she looked so happy and full of energy, she was glowing. I clicked on her picture. It was attached to an article about her death. She died at 33, after a 6 year battle with breast cancer. When she went through treatment the first time it was stage 2, same as mine. She finished treatment, went back to dancing, back to life. Six years later it came back.

I cried. I did not weep – there was nothing pretty or sweet or subtle about it. It started with a movie moan, like when the main character finally finds her lover’s body amongst the hordes of dead soldiers on the battlefield. There was gulping, gasping. There was definitely snot. 

It didn’t help that I’d been having back and tummy pain that I’d convinced myself was cancer related. I couldn’t get the image of this beautiful, dead woman out of my head. Six years? But I want more. I want 20. Hell, I want 30. Her story became my story. The next day, I had my first panic attack in 10 years. I had another later that day and another the following day. To say I spiraled is so cliché, and yet, that's what happened. That’s exactly how it felt. I did the math. In six years the twins will be 9. Only nine. What if I don’t even get six years? Wait – I’ve already had a year. Five years. Shit.

Her story became my story.

I went to see my oncologist about the pain. He listened attentively to my description. Let me state that while I know he is no god, and that anyone can be wrong, I have confidence in this man’s knowledge and in his ability to perform his job. He did not feel that what I was describing was cause for concern. He said we’d follow up in a month. A week later, my primary care physician said it sounded a lot like ulcers. He began treatment. The problem hasn't gone away but it's gotten better.  I mean, physically, I feel  better.

Emotionally? As the issue has not been completely resolved, when I go back to see my oncologist, he will send me for imaging. Terrifying, because if there is something there than I am going to die. And not in the sense that we are all dying. What I mean is that I will have to face the reality that I have an illness that is actively killing me.

Right now, as far as I know I’m cancer free. There may be tumors everywhere – but as far as I know I am cancer free. Funny how the mind works. If the ballet dancer’s story is my story, than I’m already dead, and yet... I hold on to the knowledge that, at last check, there was no detectable cancer. How can I have it both ways?

Yesterday, I mentioned the back pain to a coworker. She looked horrified. She said rather than wait a month, I should go back and demand that my doctor image me now. She said that when her friend’s cancer returned it went to her back first. I already knew that breast cancer spreads to the bones. That back pain is often a first sign that it has invaded the spine. But hearing that?

Outwardly, I remained calm. I tried to convince her (myself) that I was OK. I stood there in the ladies room, emphatically explaining my situation, assuring her that my pain was different than her friend’s pain. But inside I panicked. Maybe she’s right? Our symptoms were very different, but...

The friend is dead.  And now her story is my story.

I did not want to hear her story. Or the ballet dancer’s story, for that matter. Not because I lack empathy. But because I claim these stories as my own and I do not want them. I claim these stories because I do not know my own. It’s a way of filling in the blanks.

I guess I'm short on resilience. A cancer diagnosis will do this to you, but in truth, I’ve always been more Eeyore than Donkey. Luckily, I have a therapist who is more coach than cheerleader. I like this about her. I need this. She has said upfront that if the cancer comes back we will handle that reality. She has assured me that while it won’t be easy or pretty, if that time comes, we will work through it. For now though, we are working on what is. We are working on the story I am actually living.  

That’s the story I need to claim. To own. Because whatever happens to me – those other women? Their stories are not, they are not mine.  The cancer may return. Or my experience with cancer may be over. Whatever happens, that will be my story. Others may feel pain upon hearing my story. They may derive inspiration from my story. But they should not make the mistake I have made. Other people’s stories are random signals, space junk, confetti. We shouldn’t claim them as our own.

I Say Ya Kill Your Heroes (Or Just Marry Them)

We are neither of us very practical.

I’m a dreamer.  I live in my head. It’s pleasant in there. Sometimes. Sometimes it’s awful – no different than anyone else’s head, I guess. At times I put more effort into making a life there than I do into fixing the one I’m really living. I've been this way as long as I can remember. There are things about ourselves we cannot change. This is something I cannot change. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

Few people are aware of my penchant for fantasy. Friends think I’m a rock. A force, is how one friend describes me. Strong, dependable, resourceful. Labels that stoke my pride. Labels that short change. They think I’m practical. In truth, I possess a need for control that mimics practicality, but is really only a distant relative. Yeah, I get things done.  I’m a machine. When I’m not paralyzed by indecision or stymied by my inability to recreate fantasy in the real world, I get it all done. What most people don’t know is that, too often, I get nothing done. I just stop. I literally stop working.

Most people would describe him as laid back. When I met him he wasn't interested in life as usual, he just wanted obscure knowledge and mystic experience. The practical matters of our daily existence were too mundane to touch him. Nothing seemed to touch him. It was infuriating. And it was beautiful, really.

I think at times that I steered him into an ordinary life. Not because that was what I wanted, but because I (we?) didn't know what else to do. Isn't this just how you grow up?

Whatever the reason, however we ended up here, he has adapted.  Whereas I – I wear reality’s accoutrements, but in my head there is so much resistance. Resistance interferes with everything. There is nothing noble about it.

We are neither of us very practical, but looking back over the 16 years of our relationship, I have to admit that he has been just as active as me in keeping it all together. Maybe more so. OK yes, more so. He doesn't calculate the bills, buy the groceries or pick anything up off the floor – but the truth is, while I have retreated further into daydream, he has become something of a Man of Action.

He is stronger than I am. So much stronger.  I don’t admit this easily.  Part of maintaining control over my world is believing I’m the strongest thing in it. I am not.

I remembered something recently. From the days when it was just the two of us and we had nothing. Nothing to claim, lose, protect or covet. We were so young. And I believed in him. I believed everything he said and in everything he did. I did not always believe in us. I did not believe in me. But when he told me it was OK – it was OK. 

Back then, I was plagued with stomach troubles and I’d get a tummy ache and he would practice Reiki on me. Looking back, I’m not even sure that he knew Reiki – but I always felt better. I thought he was magic. I really did think he was magic. When I was scared I asked him to clear the room. When I had a headache I asked him to place his hand on my head. He’d chant. I’d feel better. When I was feeling paranoid about my health I asked him to look at my aura. When I just didn’t know, I’d ask for a reading. When he said it was so, it was so.

I don’t know when all that stopped. I can tell you it wasn't because I stopped believing in him. As we got older, it just got harder to be that vulnerable. And now? How can I ask him if I’m going to be OK?  What if I’m not?

But I hold on to that magic, even if I don’t let him know. I guess I should let him know.  I have so much fear to work through. And I live in my head, remember – What if the cancer comes back? What if it’s already back? Blah, blah, blah… I throw it at him out of habit, sneak it into normal conversation. He’s my husband, of course he tries to comfort me. We've known each other a long, long time – I do not listen to him.

Love and habit are unkind, but every once in a while I do remember that he is magic.

The other day he assured me that we are going to grow old together. And because he is magic, for a brief, enchanted moment I believed that as fact.

Today I get to celebrate another birthday. I am 41. It is our 16^th Valentine’s Day together and our tenth wedding anniversary. If that isn't magic, I don’t know what is.