Monday, December 19, 2016

3 Poems, by Barbara Cartwright, Stacey Murphy, Rob Sullivan

These poems were written in the Thursday Morning Writing Circle on December 15, 2016. Inspiration came from snippets of poetry by Billy Collins, from his collection "The Rain in Portugal." The title of each poem here is a phrase by Mr. Collins.


"On the 17th Floor," by Barbara Cartwright



On the 17th floor of my life, three primroses bloom inside a hat I haven’t seen for years.

On the 17th floor of my heart, a piece breaks off but right away begins to grow right back again, without telling me.

On the 17th floor of a personal essay I am reading, the author makes a confession that causes me to toss his book into the fireplace to smoke out his words.

On the 17th floor of a blade of grass, a grasshopper is swaying back and forth, forth and back, waiting for peace on earth and other crap like that.

On the 17th floor of the sun outside my house, men in asbestos suits fire asteroids in a gigantic purple kiln and throw them over their shoulders and out the window when they’re ready and done.

On the 17th floor of the carpet in my living room is a little tiny sign that points with an arrow to the right to Flatterland.

On the 17th floor of a certain gateau de poire I am making lie nestled three gold orbs with magical powers.

On the 17th floor of a wish I once had sits an anxious fidgety genie waiting for three magic words…

   watching me make a complicated cake,

   hoping he’ll get the chance to go to Flatterland,

   wondering why the sun spews random bits of pottery all day long,

   laughing at the empty ideals of the grasshopper,

   agreeing that the author of the essay is an inflated ass,

   vowing to break off bigger and bigger pieces of my heart, and

   smug with the knowledge that with just one snap of his long and bony fingers he can will a primrose into flower, even in a hat.

===


"The Story Remains to be Told," by Stacey Murphy


If you go to the sea
Go in pieces.
Scatter your bits
Into the foam
Let them fall and roll away
As dawn breaks orange and quiet.

If you go to the sea
Go in trust.
Stand waist deep
Facing the shore
As the shifting sand buries your feet
And the waves at your back surprise you.

If you go to the sea
Go with a child.
Fall in the dunes
To make sand-angels
And hold seaweed hands as you jump
Wave after wave after wave.

If you go to the sea
Go with your story.
Watch the horizon,
Endless and comforting,
And know more remains to be told

As the sun sets orange and peaceful.

===

 

Out of Nowhere, by Rob Sullivan

long distance call
broke heavy silence
sharp upstart to ennui
little time or space
to take it all in
to focus on the big picture
to hear melody underlying

call to return
cease and desist
stop, drop and roll
from burning desire
to come back
serene once more
simply simple

breathe deep, exhale deeper
pause and examine
observe with intention
love now crowds fear
moonset to sunrise
awaken from the dream
step out of the picture show

when presented with a gift
say thank you
if a wish fulfilling gem appears
say yes
no discussion or hesitation
only cherish and honor
path will become clear

engender surrender
celebrate what it takes
perchance your dance
never stopped, ever bopped
beat goes on, greet the song
do the stroll of your soul
answer: Yes Sir!


Tuesday, November 15, 2016

Uncle Bill, by Sara Robbins

Uncle Bill Rubin was not a blood relative. He was an old Russian Jew my father sort of adopted. He was the closest thing to a grandfather that I had. He was married to Aunt Anne — a New England Wasp related to the Phyfe's, as in Duncan Phyfe. They were an odd couple in the '50s — like my parents were — a Jew and a shiksa.

They never had children but they had Lassie, an elderly, smelly Collie who had her own room and bed (which smelled). My sister wouldn't go into that room or even pet Lassie, but I loved her. They lived in a sweet older house in a section of Po'town which was in decline. They kept their home clean and orderly. Uncle Bill owned an ancient, huge brown car, which he kept in his garage, covered with blankets. Inside it smelled of mothballs. He drove slowly up Main Street, cars honking; he'd curse in Yiddish. The back seat where I sat was huge and Aunt Anne would let me chew orange Aspergum from her purse.

Uncle Bill was the cook. He made wonderful meatballs and chicken soup. Sometimes dog hair would find its way into the food, which was served on colorful Fiesta plates —orange and cobalt blue. They had a complete set, which years later would be declared hazardous due to lead in the glaze. Everything about their house was old, the furniture, the antique rugs, the fake glowing logs in the unused fireplace in a spare room. I used to love to turn the switch on and watch the red/orange glow. Uncle Bill always told me to turn it off.

Uncle Bill spoke Yiddish with my father when they didn't want us kids to know what they were talking about. He also spoke Russian, Polish, German, and wonderfully accented English. Aunt Anne, who had a long, thin Waspy nose, was quiet and demure, always very sweet and a little dim.

He was a tailor. He made beautiful handmade suits for my father. They would go together to pick out the fabric in New York City. When my brother was Bar Mitzvahed, Uncle Bill made Daddy a gorgeous suit. It was December, and cold out. We had a gathering at our home afterwards and for some reason Daddy went out to check the swimming pool cover. Maybe a strap had come loose. At any rate, somehow he fell into the pool. He yelled and we all came to help him out. Uncle Bill just stood by the pool screaming, "Da Suit, Da Suit!! You are ruining Da Suit!" Later we all laughed.

Wednesday, November 9, 2016

Maybe the Leaves, by Susanna Drbal

Maybe the leaves that have fallen will feel crisp under your feet, or maybe they will feel spongy.
Maybe you will kick and skip or maybe you will slip and fall.
Maybe the leaves will be chewed up and composted or maybe they will be left to rot in place.
Maybe one will stick to your shoe and it will remind you of your walk outside in the cold and damp.

Maybe one leaf will stick to your windshield, and maybe one leaf will cling to the wiper as you drive, streaking its way across the remains of bugs and bird shit.
Maybe it will wave as it passes, maybe it will try desperately to escape.

Maybe it will escape, a refugee in a forest of evergreens you now drive through.
Maybe you will open the window to invite the scent of pine to enter your car, the box that sometimes feels like a prison, other times a nest.
Maybe many animals have trodden on the pine needles or nosed at them or nudged them into a bed.
Maybe they like the smell as much as you do.

Maybe, as you drive in the forest of pine, you turn down the radio, even though the music has been a comfort to you.
Maybe now you want to hear the wind, the birds, and the creaking limbs.
Maybe you want to hear the scented air, smell the decay of flesh and greenery, and feel the outdoors, whether warm and gentle or cold and bracing, and maybe you will settle into it.
Maybe your hair will tangle in the breeze.
Maybe your eyes will tear up.
Maybe you’ll hear a coyote.
Maybe you’ll catch eyes with a deer.

Maybe you’ll pull over, find an opening in the trees, and follow a path as far as it goes.
Maybe the path ends at a creek.
Maybe the water is cold and clear and maybe there are tiny fish in large schools gathered near a fallen branch.
Maybe the mossy rock feels cool to the touch.
Maybe you see a pretty rock, streaked with color, and maybe you pick it up and feel the earth stop spinning.
Maybe you look up, into the sun where it peeks between clouds, and
Maybe you drop the rock, with a plop, back into the creek to be washed clean, and
Maybe drops fall off your fingers and ripples grow at your feet, bumping at the muddy banks, and

Maybe across the creek stands an animal, you don’t know what it is, and it’s looking at its reflection in the water, making ripples with its nose as it drinks.

Friday, October 28, 2016

HomePlace: short poems written in 3 different groups


 by some members of the Tuesday Morning Writing Circle

Buffalo, New York
our home
a liberal haven
    - Gabrielle Vehar

Buffalo, New York
my wonderful father —
a snowplowin' machine
    - Gabrielle Vehar

Buffalo, New York
sailing on the lake
before it became polluted
    - Gabrielle Vehar

Newark, New York
not Newark, New Jersey
misdirected mail until zipcodes
    - Kim Falstick

Homer
large Victorian houses on main street
rural poverty too
    - Lottie Sweeney

Homer
my backyard
where the willow tree once stood
    - Lottie Sweeney

Homer
frog pond farm
scrap metal sculptures

Tim Burton would admire
    - Lottie Sweeney

Greensburg, Kansas
main tourist attraction:
the world's largest hand-dug well
    - Marty Blue Waters

Greensburg, Kansas
the town redistributed into other counties —
a big honcho tornado
    -Marty Blue Waters

Greensburg, Kansas
no longer feels like home
without the old landmarks
    - Marty Blue Waters

Ithaca
the House of Shalimar —
one-stop shopping for
turquoise jewelry, rolling papers,
gauze shirts, and indian bedspreads
    - Paula Culver

Ithaca
i go into mourning

David Bowie cancels his concert
my sister and i walk — procession style —
down the commons
our black dresses dragging
black veils covering our faces
    - Paula Culver

Ithaca
i come home to myself
after all these years
    - Paula Culver

Pennsylvania farm
sledding down the hill
on the manure shovel
    - Sue Norvell

Pennsylvania farm
on my belly inspecting clover
aha – four leaves!
    - Sue Norvell

Pennsylvania farm
she plants a riot of zinnias
he sees only greys — color blind
    - Sue Norvell

Highland Park, New Jersey
parents play alongside their kids
in front of the houses
    - Sue Perlgut

Highland Park, New Jersey
we kids have our own world
building houses and stores in vacant lots
    - Sue Perlgut

Highland Park, New Jersey
i'm sure there was a high school cheer
but i don't remember it
    - Sue Perlgut

the Bronx
some girls get princess phones
i do not
    - Zee Zahava

the Bronx
the answer is always no
i'll never get to wear nylon stockings
    - Zee Zahava

the Bronx
i discover that olives
make excellent finger puppets
    - Zee Zahava

===

by some members of the Wednesday Morning Writing Circle


Denver
High Holy Days in the Rockies
mom says there we were closer to God
    - Alison Taren

Denver
I always knew which way was west
here, I'm always lost
    - Alison Taren

Denver
new math taught in public schools
now I need a calculator
    - Alison Taren

Cayutaville, New York
biking after dark
I don't wear a helmet
    - Caroline Gates-Lupton

Cayutaville, New York
convertibles zoom by
too many to be a coincidence
    - Caroline Gates-Lupton

Cayutaville, New York
empty playroom
now full of memories and trinkets
    - Caroline Gates-Lupton

Yorktown Heights
walking to the orthodontist
avoiding the boys on the corner
    - Christine Sanchirico

Yorktown Heights
secret shortcut through the woods
everyone knew where it was
    - Christine Sanchirico

Yorktown Heights
front lawns manicured and tidy
I plant corn
    - Christine Sanchirico

Cleveland
worst winter blizzard in decades
i can't breathe when i walk
    - Elizabeth Burns

Cleveland
my first visit to a deli
salami on rye
    - Elizabeth Burns

Cleveland
riding the rapid transit on Saturdays
to the West Side Market
    - Elizabeth Burns

Bay Ridge, Brooklyn
stand at the rear of the ferry
white foam swirling
    - Fran Helmstadter

Bay Ridge, Brooklyn
along Shore Road
we bicycled to Coney Island
    - Fran Helmstadter

Bay Ridge, Brooklyn
Norwegian bakery on Saturdays
deep breaths of rich crumb cake
    -Fran Helmstadter

the river
the call of loons, coyotes, a farmer's cow
I wake to the sound of power tools
    - Hilary Fraser

the river
seventeen rows of clouds
stretch to the horizon
    - Hilary Fraser

the river
looking over my toes in bed
I see Canada
    - Hilary Fraser

Queens, New York
no car
walk to the bus then the subway
    - Madeleine Cohen Oakley

Queens, New York
our neighbor, a theater critic
excited after seeing "My Fair Lady"
    - Madeleine Cohen Oakley

Queens, New York
my brother and I share
black and white malteds
at the corner drug store
25 cents
    - Madeleine Cohen Oakley

West Newbury, Vermont
the old cemetery
sad little children's graves
    - Mary Louise Church

West Newbury, Vermont
the general store
Lawrence Tyler's wandering hands
    - Mary Louise Church

West Newbury, Vermont
the Tyler farm
the huge white bull
    - Mary Louise Church

West Hempstead, Long Island
looking out the kitchen window
mom bathes me in the sink
    - Rainbow Crow

West Hempstead, Long Island
smoking in the ravine with friends
accidentally burning down the driving range
    - Rainbow Crow

West Hempstead, Long Island
destroying my brand new bike
demolition derby
    - Rainbow Crow

Fargo
seven tornadoes
me, safe in her womb
    - Ross Haarstad

Fargo
train whistles at night
rumbling track lullaby
    - Ross Haarstad

Fargo
the Red River
is muddy green
    - Ross Haarstad


Silver Lake
the crooked tree in the yard
Grandma told us to encourage it
    - Susanna Drbal

Silver Lake
swans in the pen
buckets of rotting lettuce
    - Susanna Drbal

Silver Lake
tipping the sailboat
stuck on a sandbar
    - Susanna Drbal

the Bronx
men place bets in the candy store
off limits to children
    - Zee Zahava

the Bronx
my younger sister, my mother, and i
identical dresses
a woman on the subway asks
if we are triplets
    - Zee Zahava

the Bronx
my father mistakes the Patty Play Pal doll
for my sister . . .
excuse me darling he says
after bumping into it
    - Zee Zahava


==

by some members of the Thursday Morning Writing Circle

New Jersey
still rural and fresh
the woods are my home
    - Annie Wexler

New Jersey
I am 10

young men go off to Korea
    - Annie Wexler

New Jersey
"don't go to the pool"
polio panic haunts my mother
    - Annie Wexler

Barrie, Ontario
the smell of pancakes in an electric frying pan
I eat mine with lemon and sugar
    - Barbara Cartwright

Barrie, Ontario
doing the dishes with my mother
explaining the poetry of Simon & Garfunkel
    - Barbara Cartwright

Barrie, Ontario
listening to Brahms with earphones
my mind traveling far beyond our living room
    - Barbara Cartwright

Long Beach, Long Island
strolled on the boardwalk every day
ocean singing in my infant ears
    - Mara Alper

Valley Stream, Long Island
the grass grows too tall one summer
we frolic like leopards
    - Mara Alper

Valley Stream, Long Island
she is mad at us, threatens with the belt
but never uses it, never ever
    - Mara Alper

Nyack, New York
looking for hawks migrating south
over the Hudson
    - Michael Shaff

Nyack, New York
my first job, mowing grass at a state park
I run over a copperhead snake
    - Michael Shaff

Etna, New York
the duck pond
bullets fly overhead
    - Michael Shaff

Johnson City
at 12 we hang out at the mall
at 17 we work there
    - Stacey Murphy

Johnson City
no one questions Columbus Day
on the way to the parade
    - Stacey Murphy

Choconut Center
my mom in a witch costume
scaring trick-or-treaters home
    - Stacey Murphy

Knapp Creek
Bobbie Lawson and I compete
to be the best at softball
    - Sue Crowley

Knapp Creek
winter, my body numb
I stand over the heat grate as mom peels away wet clothes
    - Sue Crowley

San Diego
dad lifts me to his shoulders
we march into the high waves
    - Sue Crowley

Denton, Texas
June bugs buzz and float
upside down in the yellow porch light
    - Susan Lesser

Denton, Texas
garden roses bloom
father stoops to smell their perfume
    - Susan Lesser

Denton, Texas
mother gazes out at the distant horizon
she misses Canada
    - Susan Lesser

Flushing, Queens
mostly I stayed inside
dreaming of other places
    - Yvonne Fisher

Flushing, Queens
the painting of the Arc De Triomphe
in our shabby living room
    - Yvonne Fisher

Flushing, Queens
we went to the movies
the ceiling filled with stars
    - Yvonne Fisher

the Bronx
that bad man in the button store
flirts with my mother
    - Zee Zahava

the Bronx
after the blizzard
men on our block take turns with the shovel
    - Zee Zahava


the Bronx
dad grows a beard
i stop kissing him
    - Zee Zahava




Thursday, October 27, 2016

Autumn, by Jayne Demakos

It's not that I don't love autumn. I want to convince her that I 
do — the way my soul takes on the interior golden hue; the crisp chill and the simple need for a sweater; the husks of leaves collecting daily. Once green up there — those youngins — now old caskets turning to dust under my feet down here - on the street, on the pavement. I love these things! They are the familiar rhymes of poems that have always made sense to me. But my bones remember the menopause of winter. Barren skeletons of trees against the steely mirror of the sky and my marrow freezes, anticipates the chill of death when God is forgotten. The fire is out and water runs cold from the faucet. It's time to collect my friends. My birthday is coming and it's always the rallying call each year. Halloween, All Soul’s Day, Day of the Dead. Come, let us go into winter together. Light a fire in the middle of our circle. The central hearth that has always kept us warm.

Wednesday, August 31, 2016

Color Memories

Written by members of the Tuesday Morning Writing Circle on August 30, the first session of the new season, 15 minutes devoted to this theme . . . .



Black

I have almost always worn something black. I don't do it for attention or to make a statement. I started out in elementary school, wearing black at concerts, where I played piano or violin, or where I sang. Black is the color of concert dress, so I wore it. No big deal. In junior high I was playing a lot of music, so I wore a lot of black. I often had to play in school, so I wore black all day long. By high school I was always wearing something black. I was severely depressed and had a full-blown eating disorder. Black suited my lifestyle, my mood, and my body. Even if nothing else, I would wear a black bandana around my neck. My high school boyfriend caught on to my scheme and would beg me to take off the bandana. I wouldn't. (Well, except when we were naked. But my pupils were still black, so ha on him.) In college I was a theatre and dance major. It went without saying that I would always have black on. When people asked me why, I quoted Masha in Chekhov's The Seagull, who said, "I am in mourning for my life." I was kidding, but kind of not, too. Flash forward to now: I wear all black. All the time. It's easy, it's simple, I never have to match anything. It's no big deal. Truly. Trust me when I tell you. Black suits me and I suit it. Simple.
    - Gabrielle Vehar


Blue/Green

The blue and green dress my mother wore was my favorite. The fit was perfect for her after she lost a lot of weight after open-heart surgery. Her energy increased and happiness ensued, after the surgery. I loved joking and playing with her, soft games, nothing too physical. I always wondered how she chose the perfect shade of lipstick to go with the blue and green dress. I favor blue and green myself.
    - Grace Celeste


Ballet Pink

If you are a female dancer pink automatically becomes your color. When you are a little beginner, typically the class attire is ballet pink — a light pink, sort of a seashell pink — leotards, tights, and soft ballet slippers. As you progress through the ranks pink remains your friend. Standard class attire is black leotard, pink tights, and if you are proficient enough: pointe shoes. Still seashell pink, but now satiny and shiny. Back in the '70s dancers revolted and started wearing — gasp! — colored leotards. Mine was a sort of watermelon pink. My ballet professor in college called us Easter Eggs. I hope he was referring to our colors and not our shapes. If you were lucky enough to make it to the stage, pink was everywhere. The fairy pink of the Sugar Plum's tutu in Nutcracker. The deep royal pink of Aurora in Sleeping Beauty. The innocent, barely-there-pink of Giselle before she is betrayed by her lover. And yes, there is the pink of your sweaty, exhausted face, at the end of class.
    - Kim Falstick


Teal
   
I live in a teal-colored house — not my choice. Rather, Mrs. Sagan dreamed up the color and had Sherwin Williams create it. But I was attracted to the house on the corner because of its unique color. Teal. Not blue, not green, but a perfect mix of the two. Teal takes me back, back to college days. I'd been making many of my own clothes since I was 12, but the dark teal velvety corduroy jumper was my absolute favorite. With a sophisticated white blouse the teal jumper accented my own colors. My brown hair was deep and dark, my cheeks were rosy. I looked good! And I felt so good every time I wore it. It was so special. But sadly I don't know what happened to it. I'd like to open my closet door and see it hanging there in all its teal glory. 50 years later I still love teal — now it goes well with white hair.
    - Linda Keeler


Blue

My early years were filled with the color blue. It was the Virgin Mary's color, after all, and our classrooms and our church were filled with statues and pictures of her. Often she was depicted by the sea, and then there was more blue. Light blue, dark blue. The nuns told us, erroneously of course, that she was blond with blue eyes. Consequently, I was always chosen to portray her in any school pageant or play. Interestingly, Peter LeMay was always tapped to play Joseph, because he had black hair and dark brown eyes. Apparently the nuns had some different image of the masculine that was, or course, never explained. I was always disappointed that they didn't pick E. J. Burke, my first love that lasted from kindergarten until 8th grade, but that's another story entirely. His eyes were green, like grapes. So I would be draped in blue, blue gown, blue headgear, blue rosary beads. Always feeling like an impostor. I knew in my heart that I had thoughts that the Virgin Mary never had, but I didn't dare protest. Funny, I only recently started wearing blue again and I find I like it. Maybe I am more comfortable in myself, or maybe I think of Mary as more human? Anyway, I hope she liked the color.
    - Margaret Dennis


Rainbow

From the time I was a very young girl I liked to climb a tree when I saw a storm coming. Bracing myself against the wind as it grew to gale force was a special treat — I had to hug to a branch very tightly and feel it swaying as it also coped with the situation. Maybe, even more exciting than that, was the great good fortune of seeing a rainbow arch its way over my head after the storm passed. I loved the way the colors melted into each other in a seamless streak of light. From darkest purple all the way through to the fairness of yellow-white. I tried to count how many colors I could pick out of the blend. And, as it faded away, I sent a prayer out to the Rainbow Queen, thanking her for this exquisite encounter with colors.
    - Marty Blue Waters


Navy Blue

This was my favorite color for most of my life — a particular shade of navy, in stripes that alternated with white on a sleeveless sundress I had when I was six. We lived in a house in Liverpool, New York, with a big screened-in porch. In the summer this is where we ate dinner. My mother would set up card tables — the big one for her and my father; the little red one for my sister, brother, and me. The porch was shaded and cool in the summer with rush matting on the floor. No one else I knew had a porch like this, or ate their meals outside the dining room. Late in the day on these summer afternoons my mother would call us in from the yard and tell us it was time to wash up and change for dinner. I'd go up to the room I shared with my sister and pull out the blue and white striped dress from the closet. After I'd washed the dirt off my knees and hands, I'd put on the dress and immediately feel cool and elegant. Soon after, my father would arrive home from work and we'd find our seats at the table. I'd smooth down the navy blue and white striped skirt, sit up straight in my chair, and love every minute of being on the porch, on a warm summer evening, with my parents, sister, and brother.
    - Nancy Osborn


Purple


As a teenager, I had a purple boa. Not feather, not a snake, but a sheep-skin boa that I wore, which made me feel exactly like Janis Joplin. It was a shade or two darker than lilac, but not a deep purple. It was lovely. And became somewhat matted. But I loved it as a child loves her teddy bear. It's lost, but not forgotten.
    - Paula Culver

Yellow

Running out in the field behind our house to break ears of corn off the tall stalks. Pulling back the rough husks and pale green-yellow silk to reveal perfect rows of sunshine yellow corn. Cooking it until it was bright yellow and shiny, and then slathering it with pale yellow creamy butter, while turning it round with the other hand, making sure all sides were covered. Doing the same with salt. And then eating it like you were typing, butter running down your chin.
    - Paula Culver

Black and White

Feeling like everything in our house was black and white and everything outside was in color. Like the Wizard of Oz. Let me out.
    - Paula Culver


Opal

The colors in an opal ring I wore — white, pink, beige, sparkle — matched the hand-sewn sequins on the mini dress my mother made me. The bodice sparkled and the rest was a satiny pale, pale pink. I wore white tights and pearl-colored shoes. My lipstick was pink, my perfume Tabu. My boyfriend picked me up in his mother's white car with pale blue leather seats. We drove to a new dance club across town. There was a disco ball which seemed to match my ring and my dress. We danced and danced, fast and slow. Then after dancing for hours we sat in his car and kissed for a long time. He was a gentleman, but I always wanted more. He drove me home at the proper hour and walked me to the front door, where my parents were waiting. We said goodnight with a chaste kiss, my lipstick all gone. He left with my heart. I took off my dress and sparkling ring, etc. I dreamed of his kisses.
    - Sara Robbins

Red/Blue/Purple

I got married in an old red shirt of my father's, and blue jeans, by a Justice of the Peace. At our reception the next day I wore a long purple dress — loose rayon — to accommodate my 3-month baby belly. I still have that dress in my closet — dusty and faded. I wonder if it still fits.
    - Sara Robbins


Red

Red — On Eastern Long Island, if we were very observant, patient, and lucky, we'd find indian paint pots in plowed fields being readied for the new potato crop. The pots were round bits of red sandstone with an indentation worn in the middle where dampened fingers of Shinnecock Indians had rubbed the stone to pick up color. We spit on our fingers, rubbed, and traced sienna markings on our arms.

Red — The color of zinnias in a street-side garden. We zoomed past on our bikes as we raced to the school playground to play baseball.

Red — The color of the roses Mme. Jeanne grew in her courtyard. It was a small, hidden spot behind her hairdressing studio, sheltered between our protruding bakery wall and the wall of the tiny neighborhood grocery on the other side. It was a bit of her home country, where only French was spoken.

Red — Always the color of my little sister's sunsuits. Red with small blue doll-like figures one year; red with tiny yellow and blue flowers another. Each wore out in the seat by the end of the summer.
    - Sue Norvell


Pink and Orange

Not my memory, but my mother's excuse for why I got the smallest bedroom in our house. We moved into the house in 1943. I was 9 months old, which is why it's not my memory. My bedroom, until I moved out in 1961, was painted pink. Over the years I hung pictures on the wall, and as a teenager, after seeing a picture in Seventeen magazine, I hung an orange fishnet over two walls of my room. On that orange fishnet I put photos, magazine articles, postcards, and anything else I felt like hanging up. It was under this orange fishnet that I would lie on my bed and listen to Johnny Mathis singing "Wonderful Wonderful" over and over and over again. My mother's excuse for me being in the smallest bedroom was that the painter painted the wrong room pink, and thus it became mine. It wasn't until I was much older, and the house was sold, that it occurred to me that at 9 months old I wouldn't have cared if my room was wallpapered with cowboys. But then again, maybe at two years old my brother would have objected to pink.
    - Sue Perlgut

Monday, July 18, 2016

The Declutter Meditation, by Stacey Murphy

On the inhale, 
I breathe in an open shoe-rack

On the exhale, 

I remove an unhelpful thought


On the inhale,

I make space on a shelf

On the exhale, 

I place an old habit in the trash bag


On the inhale, 

I smell gentle lemony cleaners

On the exhale, 

the old tattered blanket goes to the animal shelter


On the inhale, 

is space and potential

On the exhale, 

comes limitless creation

Saturday, July 9, 2016

In the Kitchen, by Yvonne Fisher



In the kitchen we sat at a small round table eating close together.

In the kitchen I pumped my Bosco chocolate syrup into my milk every morning: one, two, three, four, five, six pumps of chocolate. I grew up on a diet of sugar and potato chips.

In the kitchen we had a half grapefruit as an appetizer for dinner. My mother cut the grapefruit in half and we used little serrated spoons to cut out tiny little grapefruit sections and then we would squeeze the remaining grapefruit juice into the bowl and we would drink it down.

In the kitchen we could look out the window in the early years and actually see the Empire State Building all the way in the distance. Could that possibly be true? The sunsets were incredible in that housing project wasteland where we lived.

In the kitchen we ate goulash all the time. My parents' food from the old country. I spit out the fat from the meat and pushed it under the rim of the plate, hoping my mother wouldn't see it.

In the kitchen my mother would threaten to hit us with a wooden spoon when we were bad or fighting with each other, my brother, Michael, and me.

Every time my mother would open the drawer with the wooden spoon we would scream and beg her and promise to be good.

In the kitchen I never wanted to eat.

In the kitchen the TV would be on blasting in the living room while we ate our meals.

In the kitchen one day my father cut his arm and hit a vein or an artery and blood spurted out everywhere while I watched in horror.

In the kitchen there was a rotary phone with a ringlet cord where we all would talk on the phone. My mother would gossip in Yiddish to her friends for hours.

In the kitchen I sat by that phone and waited and waited for my boyfriend to call.

In the kitchen my parents found a used washing machine and brought it home and when they opened the top a million cockroaches ran out while I watched in horror.

In the kitchen I quietly snuck cookies at night after everyone went to sleep. I couldn't stop eating cookies.

In the kitchen I stayed up all night typing my report for school the night before it was due on an old, rusty typewriter.

In the kitchen I couldn't see the Empire State Building anymore after they built that tall apartment building. I couldn't see sunsets anymore. There was only a little sky left.

In the kitchen I listened to the radio when I came home for lunch while my mother sang along: I love you a bushel and a peck.

In the kitchen I fought with my mother about when I would wash the dishes. I washed them as late as I possibly could.

In the kitchen I danced around while my brother was seriously learning to cook.

In the kitchen I read books because I had no place else to go.

In the kitchen we ate creamed spinach, creamed corn. Everything was creamed.

In the kitchen my father died. He collapsed right there in the kitchen. I called the doctor on the rotary phone. He said he would come over. We waited for the doctor to come. My mother was leaning over my father's body. My brother was playing knock hockey at the community center. I was standing at the door waiting for the doctor. When the doctor came he told my mother to give mouth to mouth resuscitation. They closed the door to the kitchen. I didn't see when my father died.  My mother walked from room to room, keening. I followed her from room to room. My father lay dead in the kitchen. Someone went to get my brother.

A week later we sat in the kitchen. It was Thanksgiving. We had no turkey. We had no Thanksgiving after that.

In the kitchen we sat at the round little table and looked out the window at what was left of the sky.

Friday, July 8, 2016

What's In My Pantry?, by Kim Falstick



What's in my pantry?
cat food — most important!
noodles
couscous
quinoa
corn meal
Bisquick
WINE
canned beans
canned tuna
WINE
flour
sugar
baking soda
baking powder
corn starch
WINE
kosher salt
black pepper
more spices than I can count
WINE
shredded wheat
oatmeal
raisins
the makings for s'mores
WINE
saltines
canned tomato soup
olive oil
balsamic vinegar
red wine vinegar
soy sauce
worcheshire sauce
WINE
vanilla extract
almond extract
baking chocolate
WINE

did I mention WINE?


Tuesday, June 14, 2016

Writing the Body: a collective list



This list was created on Monday, June 13, 2016, at the start of a workshop held at the Tompkins County Public Library. The theme of the workshop was "Writing the Body / Moving the Body" and making individual lists was our 5-minute warm-up. Here are samples from each list, combined into one larger, collective piece . . . a body mosaic.


My body is beautiful the way it is, it is artistic, natural, magical. My body is part of the universe. It is not perfect, it does not define me, it is not an object. My body is 68 years old, it enjoys gardening and having fun again, it is growing more and more gray hairs. It does not walk the dog anymore, it does not adjust well to changes in altitude (getting out of a chair, going up the stairs).

My body is partially broken, almost hairless, getting stronger. It is supported by at least three mechanical devices. My body is old but it is not ancient. It is not getting weaker, betraying me, preventing me from doing what I want to do. My body is useful, important to me, still telling me things, able to remember things, comfortable. My body is not useless, weak, worn out, too demanding, afraid to communicate.

My body is a fun vessel to inhabit. It is female, ripe, mature, nicely curvaceous. My body is part Native American, part German. My body has been changed by birthing and nursing. My body is appreciated. My body is on the path toward dying. My body is not skinny, male, problematic, irritating, teen-aged, fragile, sad, or small. My body is faithful, familiar, where I live. My body is not young.

My body is alive. It is a miracle. It is an energetic waterway. My body is able to heal itself. It is able to run on solar power. My body is not immortal, immutable, unwise, stationary. My body is not without flaws, but I don't care. My body is mine, it is large, functional, observant, sometimes in pain. My body is aware of all the senses. It is not ugly, it is not petite. It is not yours.

My body is the best gift from my parents. It is the strongest soldier I know. My body is changing every day. It is a canvas, it is what people judge me on first. My body is too demanding. It is betraying me. My body is not always my friend. It is not a dumpster, it is not a quitter, it is not someone else's property. My body is not a toy for you to play with. My body is not like anyone else's.

My body is open, it is an extension of my mind folded inside out, it is a living breathing house. My body is how my heart carries out its wants. My body is not mine alone, it is not private, it is not dead. My body is not fixed or afraid. It is not disconnected from me. My body is comfortable. It is sometimes in my way. It is a thing I like to decorate (with gold). My body is annoying at times. It is the result of the life I've lived for 74 years. My body is not as agile as it used to be. It is not an excuse. My body is not always obedient to my wishes.

My body is my own, my cage, my prison, my enemy. My body is dependent on coffee. My body is all I have. My body is identical to my twin sister's yet completely different. My body is mortal, fragile. It is 22 years old. My body is not yours, it is not made to please you. It is not my ally or your home. My body is not what I see in the mirror. My body is a blessing, my instrument, my nemesis, my enemy. My body is an enigma. It is my question mark. My body is not what it used to be, it is not my dancer's body. My body is not someone I want to take a shower with.

My body is brave, experienced, strong, aging, muscular, sagging, slowing down, wanting too much food too often. My body is growing hair in all the wrong places. It is not as predictable as it used to be, it is not as tall as it used to be, it is not as anxious or as worried as it used to be. My body is most alive early in the morning. It is stronger today than it was last year. It is calm. It is 65 years old. My body is not ever going to run a marathon. It is not a disappointment to me. It is not my mother's or my father's but I recognize bits and pieces of their bodies in my body.

My body is.


+++


Thank you to all these contributors:

Annalisa Raymer
Barbara Kane Lewis
Betsy Herrington
Dianne Ferris
Katherine Grudens
Kim Falstick
Lynn Olcott
Mara Alper
Mary Louise Church
Patricia Grudens
Rainbow Crow
Rosette Epstein
Ruth O'Lill
Victoria Pallard
Zee Zahava

Thursday, June 2, 2016

Memories: Under 20 — a collective list

This week in each of the Writing Circles we did a twenty minute warm-up, recalling memories from our lives before we were twenty years old. Here is a sample of what came up for us:
 

I remember . . . .

the time a stray dog came onto the school playground during recess and peed on my little white ankle sock and I cried so hard I had to go home

my first kiss, age 5, on the school bus, with a dark haired boy with pretty brown eyes

my sister and I wearing matching outfits for years and years, until puberty changed everything

daddy's garden where he grew the best tomatoes I've ever eaten; going to junk stores with my mother and loving it

sleeping in my bathing suit so I could  jump into the pool when I woke up in the morning and the summer my hair turned green from too much swimming in chlorinated water

brushing the neighbor's dog every day, until I had enough fur to make a pillow

dancing outside at night by myself under a blanket of stars

my fisherman's sweater that I got at the thrift store, and how I would wash it and then stretch it so it would be super long and comfy

the voice lesson where my father asked me to imitate a recording of an operatic aria, and I did, and my big voice finally popped out

taking off my shoes to walk in the mirrored room with my brother at the Albright Knox Art Gallery

my mother standing and stirring and stirring something on the stove while I picked myself up off the floor from where my father had thrown me

throwing bibles around Sunday School class just to be a pain, and getting kicked out by Mrs. Lazaar

watching a neighbor's house burn and smelling the horrid  smell of complete ruin

watching the TV show, "My Little Margie," with my best friend Sylvia, at her house in Orient Point, Long Island

listening to the tiny stones in the waves on Long Island Sound as I ate my picnic lunch by the foamy sea-walk when the tide was going out

riding the school bus home, without my mother's permission, when I was 5 years old

fifth grade: a film about menstruation, my feeble attempt to talk to my mother, and my vow to never again try to talk to her about anything important

fifth grade: my teacher taking my hand to show me how to write properly and my snatching my hand away, yelling "Don't Touch Me!"

fifth grade: anger big enough to blow up everything and everyone in my house

fifth grade: receiving a guitar for my birthday — all through my adolescence and beyond I played and sang angry songs and tender songs and songs of longing and yearning and songs telling my stories and my passions, my fears, my hopes, my losses, my triumphs

believing that something really bad would happen to me if I pulled that tag off the mattress of my bed

the smell of my father's morning cigarette as the smoke wafted up the stairs from his seat at the kitchen table, making its way to my bedroom — first on the left

standing next to my desk at school, reciting the 5-times table and being so happy I hadn't been asked to do the 7's

my favorite T-shirt in my favorite color, yellow, with the word "yellow" written across the front in red

watching our German shepherd play in the small pool my mother had put up and filled for us; he only went in when he thought we weren't watching

my sister and I taking our dolls for a walk beside the road,  racing, and Kaye passed me and then Mr. Hinman's car hit her doll carriage and knocked her to the ground

three knolls behind the house — it was great fun to walk over them in the summer and to slide down them in the winter

mom and us girls would go into the woods to find hepaticas as soon as the snow was gone; sometimes we found dog's tooth violets

Glen Johnson had the most beautiful blue Chevy and I would wait on the front porch for him to pull into the yard to pick me up for a date — we'd stop somewhere along the way and do a little necking

my favorite place to visit, Nellie Bly, a small amusement park for children — eating pink cotton candy that stuck to my hot hands and to my face

the librarian in our small Brooklyn library who let me rummage through the old Nancy Drew mysteries in the back room, which made me feel pretty special and almost like a librarian myself

the end-of-year kindergarten banquet: I wore a pink dress and white sandals with little heels; my hair was up in a bun — this was the first time I felt like royalty and I didn't want the night to end

the puppy who arrived from the woods when I was three years old, and who stayed for 15 years

the frustration of trying to get roller skate clamps to work on tennis shoes

riding in the back seat, on my knees, backwards, to see where we'd been

biking around the neighborhood to organize a baseball team but avoiding George

the scariest, darkest outhouse in the world, on South Bass Island

having burgers and beer for lunch with my father and brother in local bars, at the age of twelve

listening to my parents giving us "the talk" about the evils of drinking and smoking as they sipped their Rob Roys and puffed on Lucky Strikes

learning my draft status was 1-A and I would soon be going to Vietnam

riding my bike down Rose Drive —  not allowed — too steep — too bad!

taking ballet classes in Rochester, a 45-minute drive each way; I had been the big frog in a little pond in my hometown and now I was just a frog

my ballet teacher, a large woman who wore black chiffon dresses and spiky heels; her hair was an unnatural shade of red and she could yell like a trooper, but she needed to in order to be heard over the noise from the bar below

standing in my crib, diaper in place, eyes wide with wonder and amazement, taking in all the things in my view

playing spin the bottle and no one wanting it to land on me and me, so shy and awkward, praying it would pass me by

shyness so strong it made life almost unbearable

hating my parents so much I couldn't wait to leave and then, after the leaving, being so homesick I had a hard time being alive

feelings of self-loathing, never imagining I could experience anything resembling self-love

the blue and white quilted carpet in grandma's kitchen that felt spongy

my sister hiding in the cupboard after she upset grandpa; then finding my sister and telling my grandpa

learning to play a song with five sharps in it and bragging about it to my friends at school

coloring a triangle green before the pre-school teacher told us to, because I could read the instructions, and getting in trouble for not waiting to be told

smoking one of my dad's cigarettes in the bathroom where the bottle of Jean Naté sat on the chrome shelf for twenty years

a small stand of pines on the grassy bit between where we lived and the highway, where once a week every summer the bookmobile came

taking a book down to the riverside and lounging in a tree whose trunk split above the water, sun dappled and happy

doing rain dances in the side yard when a storm was germinating, the smell of ozone and long rumbles

receiving a fat envelope from NASA that had color pictures of the Gemini and Apollo space crafts

finishing "A Separate Peace," by John Knowles, between classes, and being stunned emotionally the rest of the day

being inducted into DeMolay, which was sort of a Masons junior

liking archery because you didn't have to run

building a giant snow igloo fort, almost three feet tall

using my piano lesson dollar to buy an ice cream sundae

Susan made the grass with blue and yellow while I made mine with just green

thinking "Thank goodness for Joanie Quateraro" who occupied the bottom rung on the friends ladder, right below me

trying to be brave and walk to school alone, but the big boys down the street threw rotten potatoes at me and I ran home

hot summers in Illinois, sitting in the living room on the floor, curtains closed against the heat, organizing our marble collections in the gloom

at night, in our bedroom, my younger sister whispering and whispering to me to please, please not fall asleep, she didn't want to be the only one awake in the house

our neighbors always got to drink Kool-Aid in the summer but we never did; it was so unfair

in the summer we would ride for miles into the country near our house — no one noticed us, no one worried about us, no one bothered us — and halfway through our ride we'd stop at the dairy that sold ice cream cones and then sit in the cemetery across the road and eat them

to pass the time on hot summer days I'd flip through Bartlett's Quotations to read what famous people had to say

my sister and I spent every summer afternoon at the pool; she tanned, but I turned into a lobster

my dad reaching down and grabbing a rattlesnake by the tail, snapping it in the air like a bullwhip, cracking its head off and sending it into the next county

putting a wad of gum in the church collection plate one time, causing my mother to see the devil blossoming within me, and that fear compelled her to start looking more closely for other evidence that I might be heading straight for hell on a hijacked Baptist Underground Railroad

sitting under the maple tree in the front yard, soft grass on my legs, searching for 4-leaf clovers

going into the powder room and lining up all the miniature white plastic tubes of lipstick samples from the Avon lady

taping the Sonny and Cher show on my portable cassette player so that my sister and I could act it out until the next week's episode

burning my fingers on my oldest sister's electric curlers

wanting heart-shaped rose-colored glasses like Elton John's for my birthday and not getting them; but I did have plaid platform shoes so at least I got something like Elton John

Cape Cod, age 5, 1957:  the smell of hot sand, warm carpet of pine needles, low tide

walking out through deepening water, waves slapping almost to my mouth, and then the miracle of reaching the sand bar, and the safety of shallow water

going to my family’s favorite restaurant, The Wee Packet — Bob Briggs, owner and chef, was a big man with a big voice and he wore a bright yellow apron and a bright yellow tall chef’s hat;  he was a jokester with both adults and kids, but sometimes I couldn’t tell he was joking and  once he scared me so much I ran crying out of the restaurant

my childhood home in rural New Jersey and the creek that flowed behind it, in the woods, where I collected orange salamanders and put them in a jar with holes punched into the lid

fireflies on a June night, so many that the yard was lit up like a fairytale

reading the "Babar the Elephant" books and feeling that Celeste and Arthur were real, just like people

my beautiful bedroom in our new house, with a flowered bedspread, and Degas prints of ballet dancers on the wall, all of which were chosen by my mother without any question of what I might have wanted, and how that seemed very normal at the time

leaving home for college at 17, not knowing that it was the beginning of a journey that would change me completely and make me not my mother's daughter

planting green beans with my mother and pushing them back into the earth when they began to sprout

reading books while walking to school because I couldn't put them down

the whispered imperatives of the wind while riding my bike  downhill

the sweet/sour crunchy pillowy pancakes, freshly made with buttermilk, and dressed with lemon juice and sugar

the smell of the River Thames by my grandfather's house

the thrill of the cockpit view my first time in plane at 4 years old, sitting on Daddy's lap because he worked for the airline so we could sit with the pilots

my skirts too loose, my socks too wide, all slipping down because I was so small and they were so big, not grown into yet

gum on the end of my nose as punishment for chewing it in class

walking into dark woods lit by moonlight, swallowing the full moon whole

stargazing — wondering, longing, hoping there were others out there looking back at me

riding in a convertible to Canada with my girlfriends when gasoline was well under $1 a gallon

the Mr. Softee ice cream truck on its daily neighborhood run

sleepovers at friends' houses where I was always the first to fall asleep

eating rose petals

eating ice cream and potato chips for breakfast

tap dance lessons, accordion lessons, piano lessons, drum lessons, Polish language classes

playing "priest" in my bedroom, my bathrobe tied in front in a big double knot, swinging the incense on each of my brothers and sisters seated before me, blessing them and pretending to be reading in Russian from the Curious George book held in my left hand

wishing for a father, to go along with a mother, like all the other kids had

sitting for hours at my little aqua and black metal table, copying library books by hand

the exquisite "thrill of naughty" when the water balloon left my hands, bound for my sister who was far below me

the sharp pain of being pulled by my ear from my seat, on the first day of kindergartner, and then being bullied into compliance by my teacher and the principal, Mother Superior

the sheer joy of hearing the greatest rock and roll song ever recorded for the very first time — 1960: "Quarter to Three," by Gary U. S. Bonds, of course

every Wednesday — Weekly Reader Day! — climbing to my special perch and inhaling each story, cover to cover

delivering newspapers in a hurricane from a sense of duty until a wise customer told me to go home because my safety was more important than their reading the news that day

having a pretend wedding and forcing my family to sit on the couch as I walked down the aisle with a lace curtain on my head as a veil

my mother asking me what i wanted for lunch every day and I always said peanut butter and jelly and I always got it

listening to Barbra Streisand when I was 15 years old and thinking I wanted to be her

always being scared

being surprised at how good I was at jump rope and how proud that made me feel

going from never fighting with my mother to suddenly always fighting with her

my mother always tenderly peeling and cutting an apple for me as we watched TV at night

when the first Burger King opened in our neighborhood and my dad had a huge fight with the manager because he didn't want any ketchup on his burger and the man told dad never to come back again

my mother was very unhappy about the junk drawer in the kitchen, under the sink — it was always too full, too messy, too damn junky

my grandma would come to our apartment early in the morning and make everyone a Guggle Muggle: skim milk, Bosco chocolate syrup, a raw egg, mixed up the Osterizer blender — as soon as you heard the whirrrr of the blender you knew it was time to get out of bed

on rainy days all the kids in our apartment building gathered in the long downstairs hallway to roller skate or ride our bikes back and forth, play jacks, jump rope, and always making lots of noise, and not caring that we drove the grownups crazy

my first lie, in first grade: I told the girl in the seat in front of me that I was really a third grader but I was in her class as a spy

. . . . I remember it all

THANK YOU, dear contributors:

Annie Wexler
Barbara Cartwright

Chris McNamara
Cora Ellen Luke
Gabrielle Vehar
Grace C.
Janie Nusser
Joyce L Stillman
Katherine May
Kim Falstick
Kim Zimmerman
Leslie Howe
Lisa Schwartz
Mara Alper
Marty Blue Waters
Mary Louise Church
Nancy Osborn
Paula Culver
Ray Edwin
Rob Sullivan
Ross Haarstad
Sara Robbins
Susanna Drbal
Teresa Wagner
Yvonne Fisher
Zee Zahava

Thursday, May 26, 2016

Our Own Made-Up Languages Lead Us To Poetry

Here are poems written by some members of the writing circles this week. First we wrote gibberish. Then we called upon our "expertise" in our own made-up languages and translated nonsense syllables into small poems. This was a quick warm-up and lots of fun.


Annie Wexler:

soola toni soola klimish
donish woomino nils
Jashi tuglaki


this is mine, all mine
give it back to me
Jashi, I beg you



Barbara Cartwright:

gleeg ow nombi
chimamba
sluisha
ninakabindi ninakabindikae
ninaka


flat lake much moving food
busy bird so fast
home now
with those who come from here
gathering their heartbeats to her beating heart
all beat as one




Gabrielle Vehar:

schminga schmonga-blah
ichi cummi est
schminga-fah!


if you are slow to talk
when you open your mouth
others will be slow to listen!


ay-chi wa wa wa-wah
condi schmeary schming —
canda-fah!


let's go have a drink
for old times' sake —
it will be good fun!


 

Grace Celeste:

su nee zuat
qe buba waet stu na
click click do
ce ce
ya goatye aught


hello sweet
the buffalo greets you
the time is now
goodbye
to each her own


 

Jayne Demakos:

say la mordid on
il ona on jim
si fomi ish in si nome a shim
if a my in a listo my
kin a line a no-o
say la mordid if a my a go


this morning started wrong
the tiger is in wait
she tears at your heart; she breaks your skin
go in the car and be safe
this morning started wrong; begin again


 

Kim Falstick:

Atia ma eetog
egraz fo sas
umu elt alpoo


Petunia mama goat
grazing in grass
tummy is lumpy
 



Liz Burns:

odu iklat emte po
boda ifly jlkwe mo
fleda ikbar nowa ku
emta odu illa su


the hummingbird beat
its wings near
the morning glory and
then flew away


idla upsu gita ly
mobale pumi ina ky
addl opah lima ton
noda ina bede son


the sun set very slowly
purples and pink spreading across
the sky like a field of
lavender and phlox



Margaret Dennis:

Tui Ablia
Musomocha seri
Lablona ar samplioso mo
Su Ma rain-ee
Tatanesee
La


You are all
My beautiful mother
Above land or sea
Or all the rain
Forever
Love



Marty Blue Waters:

ba na bipbo dun cha ha
bo booookie wa na
sashimonogagay jute jute baboo


I love to eat noodles
sucked from the plate like long curly straws
schloopy funny bite bite


 

Nancy Osborn:

Jemel, jemel
Ila ah gorney
Ena gorneyish mala


The sky, the sky
Filled with clouds
Even the sun is cloudy


Nura imal poosha
Tinto imal poosha
Pooshama heela oo-rah


The fog is damp
The mist is damp
Dampness surrounds me


Notingle palam cur-eesh
Zenka kalat
Oo-me salenga bash


The cherry tree blossoms
Are they ready to fall?
Let them fall on me
 



Paula Culver:

durka bombi essi dorki
makka mukka moorda memmbe
ika oka ponzilla perqoi pantifica
lumkaykay omnowica u lozairna


oh you sweet thing
making much of my swollen heart
i offer you a long gaze
kisses under the waterfall



Rob Sullivan:

ma ya ki
ma ya ki
be bye swin-ka

qui chi lan
tu kal yan
lu shan bun

wa clor pon
lon de fon
gi chla hun

ma ya ki
ma ya ki
be bye swin-ka


night of glory
night of glory
all will be as will

to the heart
for the soul
be true — expand

let go of boundaries
never mind negation
you are free now

night of glory
night of glory
all will be as will



Sara Robbins:

Eee Ya Ki!
Eee Ya Ki!
Ono bolo toptop hehe
Krakka kolo ooh la po
Ono bolo hehe yaii
Ee Ya Ki!


Come and play!
Come and play!
One boy stands alone
Frozen pond, skates in hand
One boy alone cries
Come and play!


Moomie scolo
Yaya plando
Avu! Avu!
Moomie carpo o ploto
Moomie scolo panga
 


Woman cries
Baby howls
Wah! Wah!
Woman dries her tears
woman cries again



Stacey Murphy:

owsa owsa ow
bolo ee-ya dombobo
da jala eeya


yes yes you
climb in, here, my heart
here we rest

(alternate translation):
shake shake jump
twirl with me in the this dance
there is no dance without you


* * * * * (clicking sounds)
shaaaah plee donda da da
* * plee-ya

sun sun sun sun sun!
butterflies we lift the sky
sun sun . . . lift us



Sue Crowley:

jabe ul omno voyum skl en tabik ummm

given all, to live as the water moves


nimo skl nelinosum faykun un satolaria

now, rest in the tall grass and behold the sky


crunelum omnu dadicat illexelum

come all unto the ruler who declares himself most excellent



Susan Lessser:

gamal ong ha ting derong
mcdoodle nak eks frambik
tak a mern ushk sabrot cloing billintor
faram stamsik — mik, mik, mik


the cat tells tales with swinging tail
no one thinks them true
but he knows much and wants to share
the mouse peeks in — again, again, again



Yvonne Fisher:
 

ik bluge grooge nikt
imba badeem tevi
bligmu upin drakski


indigo bunting eats dinner on the feeder
at night we watch TV
in bed bright blue iridescent
big moon dark sky


ber bru blik blee bla

brighter than brightest bird indigo bunting behold!



Zee Zahava:

ling
pat taku shi
meeegrim


lost
in garden shadows
gecko


pep swool unk dri
wishi aloo
seei o'kum


girl and her frog
water's edge
young love


whim whim whim
toto ha
lamma ta


inhale inhale inhale
this street
so sweet


smee cri otchum
kili ma tomay
deevit olfa


the sun on my face
the way you
kiss my cheek


way hay skillie
mini mini tomay
pin jette


hello cardinal
i was waiting for you
now here you are


opo: k'k'k'k

oh how i miss you: pineapples


=======

This poem was written by Margaret Dennis. She took a group of random words that had been scattered across a piece of paper, and transformed them:

drops   rain   taste   fall   splash   tears   water   heal   wet

taste the drops of rain as they fall
water splashes: wet
tears heal

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

Bodies, by Marty Blue Waters



I love bodies of water. They are always on the move. A river flows and floods and sometimes is reduced to a little trickle of galloping molecules. The ocean tides keep ancient time. The waves break with a great churning of overexcitement and then leave salty bubbles behind to wash the sand and make it smooth, taking all footprints back into the sea. This never gets tiresome. It's like a steady heartbeat that works on its own whether or not you're aware of it. It is the essence of life, in its various rhythmic patterns.

Even a stagnant pool of yucky water has motion. Rain splatters into it or someone steps in it or a dog drinks from it. A deep, still pond with a mirror surface reflecting land and sky has sudden movement when a frog jumps in and cracks the glass open. Bobbing ripples travel out evenly until their circles disappear and the mirror repairs itself.

I grew up on the ocean floor, also known as Kansas. My bicycle was my boat and it took me far out into that place New Yorkers call "the middle of nowhere." The most magical spot in the universe to me. The land is not greedy for attention the way a mountain range or a panoramic mecca can be. Those things do draw a crowd and are deeply gorgeous. I'll hand them that.

But it's the sky, the clouds, the wind, the moon, the stars, the advancing storms that all do their own spectacular jobs with great, anonymous style that I admire. Different every minute. This is what occupied the mind of a sailor like me. The wind was a brutally brilliant artist friend, creating a constantly moving canvas in endless waves of poetic moods.

When I was around 8 years old, I watched a documentary about how the entire mid section of North America was once a vast, shallow ocean, many many eons ago. Then, when dryness overpowered the elements, the water receded, and the plains were born. Enormous salt mines were left behind, deep underground, and now they serve to supply the needs of the present world, especially when it gets all iced up. And there is also a fresh water ocean hiding deep below the surface of the plains. I'm not sure how that got there, but it has become the basis for farmers' irrigation systems that try to outwit the natural dryness of the land. Someday that will be forced to change into another element too, no doubt.

So thinking of Kansas as the bottom of the ocean was a wonderful image that lodged into my brain and gave me a new perspective on my home terrain. After that, when I hopped on my bike to go explore new dirt roads, following the most exquisite vanishing points imaginable, tooling along endless straight lines next to fields of wheat or pastures of sorghum, I was a sea captain sailing into the uncharted waters of western Kansas. My companions were my dog, jackrabbits, turtles, coyotes, rattlesnakes, birds, skunks, deer, prairie dogs, and anything that moved in its own path whether I saw it or not. All of us traveling along like little fish in the big ocean.

Sunday, May 22, 2016

Body Memories, by Annie Wexler



Age 7.  My mother tries to curl my fine straight hair with a curling iron. The ringlets droop within a minute. "You have terrible hair," she says. My first knowledge of shame.

Age 9.  I live in the country. There are few other kids. My body is skinny and wiry. I can climb trees, forge streams, catch insects. My life is in the woods.

Age 12.  A baby sitter tells me, "You have beautiful legs." My first moment of consciousness about my body. After that I start looking in the mirror.

Age 13.  I go on a nighttime hayride in the back of a big pickup truck with a Jewish youth group. Benjie Levine lies down next to me and I feel his erection. I don't know what it is. Benjie later becomes a gynecologist and later still goes to jail for fondling his patients.

Age 13 1/2.  I get my first period. There is a red stain in my panties. I run and tell my mother. She slaps my face and I am in shock. "That  is what my mother did to me," she says. "To bring the blood back to your face." Then she shows me how to use a sanitary belt and pad. It will be years before tampons.

Age 14.  I run a race in summer camp and win and am declared the fastest runner of all the girls. I get a trophy. I feel pride for the first time.

Age 17.  I leave for college. I have dyed blond hair cut in a pageboy style. I wear knee-length skirts and sweater sets with pearl buttons. I am my mother's daughter.

Age 19.  I leave college and spend time on a kibbutz in Israel. I shed my old clothes in favor of khaki pants and work boots. I stop shaving my legs and armpits.  I do hard physical labor and my body sings with exhilaration. I am no longer my mother's daughter. She never gets over it.

Age 21. I get married for the first time. We have sex. I don't know anything about orgasms. I have to fake liking it to be a good wife, but my body isn't really there.

Age 28. I am pregnant with my first child. I throw up every day for the first six months. What is my body telling me? My breasts are huge and my belly stretches until I think I will burst. And when I do, everything is blissful. I nurse my son at 2 a. m. in a rocking chair. I have never known such peace.

Age 40.  Another child, a failed marriage, a new lover who tries to seduce me by hand-feeding me chocolate truffles as foreplay. It works. I am in my sexual prime and it is that little window of time after birth control pills but before herpes and AIDS. My body revels in its juicy glory.

Age 55.  Another failed marriage. Menopause. No more cramps, no more fibroids, but no more youth. My body won't sleep at night. It torments me with hot flashes. Hair thins, everything dries up. Where will I be in 10 years?

Age 74.  My body is happy again. At peace with the changes. Some things point down that used to point up. Some things sag that used to be tight. Brown spots on my hands, pain in my back. But I feel strong and healthy and in love with my body. For as longs as it lasts I am grateful.

Friday, May 20, 2016

Body Scan, by Barbara Cartwright



I used to have nice feet. Beautiful feet. Especially if my toes were painted with nail polish. Red. Or some other striking color. But as you age, feet are the first to go. They insist on sensible shoes. Flat or flattish with a rounded toe box. They tire easily. And they can't be coerced into going on. Now, nail polish is what I use so people look at my feet but not too closely. They think: "She paints her toes. She must be taking care of herself."

I'm fond of my ankles. They're not thick. They could be narrower, but as far as I know there's no plastic surgery that makes people's ankles more definitively thin. And even if there were, I wouldn't go for it.

I have good calves. Not great but good enough.

I'm a little knock-kneed. I remember the pediatrician telling my mother it was the only part of me that wasn't perfect. Liar! I'd like to give him a piece of my mind today but what good would it do? What good would it have done back then? Still, who the hell was he looking at?

My thighs have seen better days. Those number in the single digits, if you must know. If I lose enough weight they begin to approximate what I expect from a pair of thighs. That's a big if. Also they used to be stronger. They're still strong enough for hiking and stairs. Or an evening of dancing.  But if I bend my knees and sit on my haunches, I have a terrible time getting back up. I want to cry for help but I'm too embarrassed. Sometimes I sit like that for hours. Perhaps it's a lack of elasticity that's to blame, which I'm sure I could improve upon if only I did regular yoga or stretches. But I never remember to do anything I feel guilty about for not doing. And these are the last activities that come to mind if I'm already sitting down.

My abs are in a witness protection program. Even I don't know where they are. We don't communicate. It's not allowed.

My waist comes and goes, depending on what it has to compare itself to. On bad days, it looks like a Calvin Klein model but wider, like someone on a steady diet of cake and ice cream sodas. On good days, I can consider wearing a belt. Note the word consider.

I used to think I wanted perkier breasts. I read somewhere they should fit perfectly into a champagne glass. The wide kind from the '40s and '50s; not the tall flutes we're accustomed to today. These days, if I want to pour my breasts into a glass, it has to be a sturdy tumbler, the kind you get at IKEA or Crate and Barrel. Wide mouth, straight sides. I prefer not to dwell on that right now.

Once I joined a gym and went regularly for a few months. I liked the way my shoulder and neck muscles took on their own identity. How I could flex them at will if I rotated my outstretched arms palms front, then back. My biceps refused to play along. I don't know why. You'll have to ask them.

I am more than okay with my neck. But I prefer my face when it's less puffy. Still, I prefer a nightly glass of wine even more. My hair has good days and bad, usually nothing to do with any input I might have.

I am very fond of my ears. Wouldn't change a thing. Though it would be nice to stop the ringing. Likewise my nose and mouth. Fond, that is. My teeth could be whiter and shinier. I think it's that age thing again. Cf. earlier reference to feet and toes.

My hands don't seem to be changing much at all. Except one knuckle is arthritic and bent, just like my mother's got to be. And I have one finger that pops in the morning. I forget what you call it. Trigger finger? Something like that. It eventually stops popping if I clench and unclench my fist a few times. It's really just when I wake up that I notice it. The doctor says she can give me a shot of cortisone but I'm afraid I'll pass out from the novocaine they shoot you up with first. I'll just go on saying "good morning pop-up finger" until it hurts or won't pop back up at all.

And maybe, just maybe, by that time I won't be able to see it crook or hear it crunch. I'll be so far gone, it'll just be cake and ice cream sodas all day long.

Finally an upside to getting on and getting old.

Thursday, May 19, 2016

The Body In Place, by Yvonne Fisher



Is the body different when we are in different places, different locations? Of course it is. My body was so different, during my week in New York City, than it is up here in Ithaca.

In Ithaca I have space to feel my body, to move around, to stretch and breathe in good air. In Ithaca I feel the aroma of lilacs drift in through my nostrils and float down through every nerve, blood vessel, and bone of my body down to my toes, the soles of my feet, connecting me to the very ground and earth I stand on. My body is part of nature and I cherish it. I become the lilacs and the lilacs are a part of me.

Here in Ithaca, my body absorbs healthy, nutritious food whenever I want to eat. The food nourishes and strengthens me. I drink coconut water to replenish. I eat coconut cereal with coconut milk. I become part coconut and I live my coconut-filled life. My body feels blissful and well-tended.

In New York City, I had a different experience. My body walked around concrete for miles and miles, to Broadway and back to Chelsea, to the East Village, to Soho, and all around. I walked with hoards of people, crowds everywhere, so that my body blended with all the others, creating a dense, tense harmony of sorts, dodging around people, scooting away, brushing up against people, running a bit, slowing down to a halt as if we were actually waiting in line as we all walked down the street.

As I looked at other faces, other bodies, I became them and they were surely part of me. We were the same, a massive species, all looking around, all looking up at neon ads for sexy underwear, flashing lights, explosions of movement and stimulation everywhere. We melted into the harsh, exciting environment like bionic babies in a robotic, electronic world. Everyone was looking down at their phones, car horns were honking angry and frustrated, sirens screaming, all of us oblivious, cool, walking on by.

My body was strong and tense walking all over the City.  Twice, I went for neck and shoulder massages to ease the stiffness, the tension, the pain. My body ate dinners late at night in dark, steamy restaurants with unbearably good food: the freshest sushi, the tenderest clams, the richest salmon and lots of wine flowing, being poured into my glass so I just kept drinking, who knows how much?

All of it felt out of control. I was giddy with delight and sensual pleasure and indulgence, sleeping at different peoples' houses, apartments, couches and beds, like the vagabond I was meant to be. My body adjusted to everything, slid into different beds, overstimulated, exhausted, thrilled. I could barely sleep.

This was my body's experience in New York City. I could do anything, everything, cry, laugh, talk endlessly, be silent, play, dream, melt into all of it, be overtaken and surrender to it.

On the bus back to Ithaca I felt my body relax, collapse. I was going home to sanity, simplicity, lilacs.

Someone on the bus, three seats away, had a bad cold and was coughing and sneezing. Oh no, I thought. I took my yellow pills that I get from my acupuncturist, to ward off colds. When I got home and went to bed I fell into a deep, dead sleep, letting go of all the stress and excitement. My body melted into my clean, purple, flannel sheets.

When I woke up the next morning I had a head cold. My brain was filled with cotton. My body was worn down. My debauched days and nights made my body sick.

I did recover quickly and still could smell the lilacs. My body was home, safe.

But what a fabulous time I had!

Wednesday, May 18, 2016

Body Time, by Nancy Osborn



If I had to focus on one part of my body as the representative part, the epitome of who I am, it would be my legs, along with their feet, knees and hips.

Legs: strong, sturdy, ready to walk anywhere, up to the challenge of hills, loving the splash of rain water puddles, but not too happy about ice.

And willing to carry more than just myself. They've carried a sister riding piggy-back, a baby (first inside me then on my back), knapsacks of school books, library books, groceries, laundry, a yoga mat and meditation bench, backpacks of clothes for travel in Greece and Italy.

Feet: overlooked at times but having the uncanny ability to draw my attention when they are hot, when they are cold, when my socks have rumpled themselves down under my soles, when my toes cramp during meditation, when my shoes are too tight.

Legs and feet can create the most elegant and beautiful movements in dance. And I love my legs and feet for having been willing to school themselves in these motions. Now more often I school my legs and feet to fold and relax into meditative silence, allowing the rest of my body to slow and quiet itself.

Knees: I could just consider them a part of my legs, but as I age these joints have begun to demand more attention and care. Now I can no longer expect my knees to gracefully lower me to a squat. Now I must sometimes pamper these joints and use a helping hand when rising from meditation or sitting.

Hips: another often unappreciated part of my leg, just there, helping me walk or fold into a forward bend, swing my legs or land a jump gracefully, until they don't help. I knew long ago that I should never take my hip joints for granted, learning this lesson the hard way during a dance concert. Another woman and I were expected to gracefully extend first our left leg into a slow développé and back, and then when that movement was completed, to do the same with the right leg. But I could never do it quite so smoothly on the right, despite hours of practice. There was some sort of quirk in my right hip joint that made the movement less than smooth. I always hoped all eyes were on my partner at this point. The same quirk shows itself in yoga poses these days, reminding me that we aren't just mechanical creatures, though some anatomy illustrations might give that impression in their diagrams of bones and muscles. We are creatures with living parts, less than perfect parts, parts that age and change.

When I was younger I'm sure I took my body and all its parts for granted. At the slightest impulse it would do what I wished: stand up, sit down, bend, turn, twist, jump, glide. There was no need to think about how the parts of my body accomplished these movements, they just did. And maybe that's the way of life: when young you just get on with things, make your way in the world, using your body almost unconsciously to move forward, both literally and figuratively.

But as I move into the last phase of my life I find that I can no longer remain so unaware of my body. I've come to realize that if an accident or fatal disease doesn't bring my life to an end, that my body itself will find a way to remind me that a life doesn't hurtle forward non-stop forever. And that it has, in fact, been reminding me of this for awhile.

My body calls out to me to notice it, to care for it more attentively, to coddle it even. It makes it quite clear that it is slowing down and with that slowing, that my life is also moving toward the stillness of death.

There comes a time when it is important to take account of the slowness of age, to reflect on all that the body has experienced and known, to honor the way it has supported my being through all my years. That is the body time I am in now.

Friday, April 29, 2016

Two Collective Lists

On Thursday afternoon, April 28, 2016, a group of people met at the Tompkins County Public Library to participate in a workshop called "Poetry for the People." We wrote collective list poems and poem/prose inspired by other poets' work. We ended by reading some haiku out loud to each other. We had a very good time! Below you will find two collective lists created by group members. Contributors' names appear at the end.

Poem of Ourselves

I ride my bike as often as I can
I look forward to outdoor summer concerts
I like blue and green and sometimes yellow
I try to find the path that's clear
I might fall short and lose my way
I can't know all the ins and outs
I get  my inspiration from spending time in nature
I am working on a third book of poetry
I have a cat named Mia and a granddaughter named Mia
I am an only child
I am creative and resourceful
I am a grandmother, whose role mode is my grandmother
I am me
I was like that, once
I am yours, forever
I crave silence but often forget to allow it
I sometimes long for a place I couldn't wait to leave
I am a professional secret keeper
I wish I had a magic wand so I could cure the ills of the world
I love to watch out my window and look at nothing, or perhaps the wind blowing the leaves
I am always ready to accept a lunch invitation on the spur of the moment
I hold joy and sadness together inside
I am pushing myself into new and scary places
I play piano, timidly or confidently, depending on the day
I celebrate sin
I celebrate reaching up and reaching under
I celebrate sitting on the ground
I was married once but I'm better now
I was worried once but now I can't seem to remember why
I was lonely once but then I became my own best friend
I try to remain in the present instead of sinking into the past or drifting into the future
I have waited many years for my hair to grow long enough to braid
I may not remember your name right away but I will remember the book I recommended to you more than 20 years ago



The Happiness Poem (inspired by the 19th century Japanese poet, Tachibana Akemi)

Happiness is when you find a tiny flower in bloom under the old dead leaves. Happiness is  when the exact item you want, in just the right color, is on sale and you get the very last one. Happiness is finding the stars under the clouds as they blow away out to sea. Happiness is fresh baked bread, right out of the oven. Happiness is feeling completely at ease. Happiness is receiving that long awaited reply. Happiness is  a T-shirt that fits just right. Happiness is a salad stuffed with greens, cucumbers, onions, olives, and no dressing needed. Happiness is seeing without the aid of glasses. Happiness is the memory of a kiss that sealed a deep and abiding friendship.

Happiness is when you spy your daughters walking around the backyard, and though you notice with a pang that the little one is now the taller of the two, instead you choose to focus on the fact that they are holding hands. Happiness is is hearing your son and daughter deep in conversation, talking and laughing, and ending by saying "I love you," and not because they have to. Happiness is a long soak in a hot bath, a stack of books waiting to be read, receiving real mail addressed in a familiar hand. Happiness is is standing at the edge of Lake Superior while the waves wash up against your legs and you throw your hands up in the September air and you laugh and laugh. Happiness is seeing the face of your baby sister for the first time. Happiness is sitting, staring out the window, notebook and pen close at hand, and having inspiration come along and smack you upside the head with a baseball bat. Happiness is when you finally, finally, do a beautiful assisted arabesque in a dance class and your dance teacher looks over at you and says "Good." Happiness is walking into a bookstore and breathing in the smell of printer-ink, words, and blank notebook pages.

Happiness is playing a piano duet with your teacher and finishing at the same time. Happiness is a fragrant bouquet of peonies from your garden. Happiness is eating a chocolate ice cream sundae at Purity. Happiness is is getting a phone call from your best friend. Happiness is seeing your book in print. Happiness is finding a love note in your lunch bag. Happiness is your knock on the door, asking for cookies and milk. Happiness is seeing your eyes light up and your beautiful smile as you climb up Tuthill Ridge holding a newborn deer in your arms. Happiness is the sun setting in the west, leaving a trail of apricot. Happiness is the smell of coffee perking in the morning and sharing a quiet moment with you.

Happiness is when your old dog follows you with his eyes, whatever you do, and you exchange meaningful looks. Happiness is waking up in your own bed in your own house. Happiness is the white trillium coming back again each spring, in the same spot next to the old shed. Happiness is having jars of food you grew yourself. Happiness is having a full larder. Happiness is looking out a sparkling clean window and seeing the full moon. Happiness is dancing for a long time without stopping. Happiness is teaching children to sing "Zip-a-Dee-Do-Dah." Happiness is a coconut cream pie.  Happiness is a birthday visit from every single family member.

Happiness is when someone other than me washes the dinner dishes. Happiness is practicing the piano and my fingers remember what to do. Happiness is candles lit, tulips in vases, and the family sitting around the table. Happiness is no new drama. Happiness is finding a kindred spirit in an unexpected place. Happiness is when I have enough bold colors to start a quilt. Happiness is when I am the center of someone's universe. Happiness is when I'm in my tent and I can smell the campfire and hear the owls bid me "good night." Happiness is when I'm laughing with my safest friends. Happiness is when I'm in love . . . for now or/and forever. Happiness is sitting in my favorite chair by the window, reading a book I am enjoying, then falling asleep — was it 2 seconds or 20 minutes? — and waking up and continuing with my reading exactly where I left off.

Happiness is when a group of strangers come together to write and after two hours they know each other better, through the stories they have shared.

Workshop participants:

Barbara Kane Lewis
Bill Murphy 
Caroline Gates-Lupton
Julia Ganson
Kathy May
Kim Zimmerman
Laura Gates-Lupton
Patty Little
Paula Twomey
Ruth O'Lill
Zee Zahava






Wednesday, April 20, 2016

The Leo Sayer Poem, by Stacey Murphy

Their songs spill over the fence
Along with the scent of warm charcoal.
The neighbors from Burma preparing for a feast,
Serenading me
And my rake
And my garden
On a fine April afternoon
Now hip-hop, now rock ballad
My ears yearning to learn the words that are in their own language
And then — a song in English.
Leo Sayer from the early '80s
And we are all singing —
Voices from their yard,
A really strong tenor from across the street,
My own among my weeds,
Even the birds harmonizing —
We raise our collective “Whoa whoa  yay yay”
To the blue sky,
Our hearts soaked in music
Giddy with the promise of warm days to come
So we sing to them —
To our lives,
Our people,
Our universes —
Our hearts so full,
We love them more than we can say.