tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15193378130497806642024-02-20T10:15:04.466-05:00PaintedParrota literary journal associated with zee's writing studiozee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.comBlogger375125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1519337813049780664.post-45714973951566457502020-02-16T07:47:00.001-05:002020-05-06T12:57:42.570-04:00Places in the World<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>This is an edited (shorter!) version of my poem Places In The World</i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>You can watch a video of it, a Poetry Collage, made by Sue Perlgut and read by 12 wonderful women:</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><i><a href="https://vimeo.com/414863437/fcd8a0f227">https://vimeo.com/414863437/fcd8a0f227</a><br /><br />Places where I hesitated before entering<br /><br />where I bought a book just because I liked the cover<br /><br />where I was the least athletic person in the group<br /><br />Places where I felt invisible<br /><br />where I forgot to breathe<br /><br />where I wanted to leave but had to stay<br /><br />Places where I learned something new and fabulous<br /><br />where I didn't know any language that was useful<br /><br />where I was still and quiet and alone and happy<br /><br />Places where I felt comfortable in my own skin<br /><br />where I embarrassed myself by laughing uncontrollably and inappropriately<br /><br />where I held her hand and she held mine<br /><br />Places where I danced with abandon, until my feet wouldn't move any longer<br /><br />where I was mistaken for somebody else<br /><br />where I was actually very brave<br /><br />Places where I kept my mouth shut<br /><br />where I pretended to be English<br /><br />where I said the opposite of what I meant<br /><br />Places where I have gone in my dreams<br /><br />where I met someone I'd always wanted to meet <br /> and they turned out to be as wonderful as I thought they would be<br /><br />Places where I had an epiphany<br /><br />where I didn't understand the instructions<br /><br />where I expected to be welcomed with open arms and I wasn't<br /><br />Places where I succumbed to the irrational urge to buy at least <br /> one new pen that I didn't need<br /><br />where I wept in public<br /><br />where I entered a room and walked right out again<br /><br />Places where I waved to somebody, thinking they were somebody else<br /><br />where I fell asleep in public, drooled a little, and maybe even snored<br /><br />where there was a ghost in the room<br /><br />Places where I didn't see her at first and then I did see her<br /> and I was so happy she was there<br /><br />Places where I sat around a campfire singing those <br /> good old tunes with utmost sincerity<br /><br />where I wrote in the dark<br /><br />where I gave up too soon<br /><br />Places where I had to say "no" repeatedly before I was heard<br /><br />where I regretted not being more competent in math<br /><br />where I bumped into something or someone <br /> because I was walking and reading at the same time<br /><br />Places where I looked up just in time to see a bird begin its song<br /><br />where I could have consulted a dictionary but I chose not to<br /><br />where I didn't recognize myself<br /><br />Places where I ran out of ink<br /> </i></span></span>zee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1519337813049780664.post-52806213277539080392019-10-02T16:32:00.001-04:002019-10-02T16:32:16.798-04:00late bloom rose, by Rob Sullivan<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">late bloom rose</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />alongside of past-due mates</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />dry leaves, brittle stems</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />all their part to play</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />some days in the sun</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />gentle rain begins</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />on the rose</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />the leaves</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />the stems</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />and my aching bones</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></i>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">NOTE: Rob wrote this poem on Thursday morning, September 26, 2019, just before our writing workshop began. Inspiration came from the rose growing on the bush at the corner of E. Buffalo Street and N. Cayuga Street .... the DeWitt Mall Rose Bush.</span></i></span></span>zee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1519337813049780664.post-73284112512188905012019-06-16T11:45:00.000-04:002019-06-16T11:45:13.046-04:00Give the Gift of Touch, by Barbara Cartwright<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />As a child, I believed my future self was hiding in my hand. I’d pore over other people’s writing, looking for who I might be in backward slants and forward scrawls, in carefully printed letters and in decorative script. In the flourishing tails of g’s and j’s and p’s and ‘y’s. And in the ever so exotic epsilon e. Now that, I thought, was truly me. Though I couldn’t make a whole self out of just one letter. And where exactly was the future me in all the rest?<br /><br />Do we have a choice in how we’ll write? Or even who we’ll be? Or are we born with our hands already knowing how they’ll write, with a history of our ancestor’s script residing in our loops and lines, like a parallel DNA? Sometimes I’ll look at my writing and say: My capital G is just like my Dad’s. And that zippy bit of pen and ink where you have to guess the word from the company it keeps, that’s so like Grandpa Bill. <br /><br />I cannot see my mother in my hand. I have tried too hard too long not to be like her to let her into what I write. And her letters were — let us just say they were dramatic and unique, just like she was. Her i’s wore wide open circles over top, and her t’s had protracted crossbars, extending left to right. <br /><br />Still, I look longingly at her hand each time I read a recipe she’s written out. Strange how out of mere ingredients like flour and salt, Tbsps and 1/4 cups, a person can come to life, so real, it would take nothing to reach over and give the gift of touch. <br /><br /><br /></span></span>zee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1519337813049780664.post-563034031882021192019-05-15T06:02:00.000-04:002019-05-15T06:02:07.698-04:00Clouds / You Seem to be You, by Zee Zahava<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">I read these two poems on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.</span></i><br /><br /><b>Clouds</b><br /><br />you say<br />it's a cumulus zoo up there <br /><br />look! <br />you point<br />and the car swerves a bit<br /><br />steady <br />(I whisper to myself)<br /><br />do you see that?<br />you urge<br />eager to share your discovery<br /><br />so I swivel my head <br />follow your pointing finger<br />all the way to . . .<br /><br />what is it? <br />I ask<br /><br />(I see a cloud <br />one of many <br />I am not yet pulled in)<br /><br />don't you see it? <br /><br />you want me to find it on my own<br /><br />you are my guide <br />but still you want <br />to leave room for my imagination<br /><br />alas, my imagination falters<br /><br />I see amorphous fluffs of white moving along<br />I'm not good at this game<br />I give up so quickly<br /><br />it's a pig's head <br />you exclaim<br />a pig's head<br />on an elephant's body <br />and the elephant's tail<br />looks exactly like an alligator<br /><br />and there's a bear <br />you continue <br />up on its hind legs<br />getting ready to swallow the <br />alligator/elephant/pig<br /><br />don't you see it? <br />— you’re excited now — <br /><br />oh, oh here comes a lion! <br />surely you see the lion!<br /><br />right <br />I say <br />sure, the lion <br />I see that<br /><br />we both pretend I'm telling the truth <br />that I can see with your eyes<br /><br />I do see the lake <br />I assure you <br />resting the back of my right hand <br />on the passenger-side window<br /><br />that's good<br />you say <br />the lake <br />yes <br />that is the lake<br /><br /><br /><br /><b>You Seem to be You</b><br /><br />you seem to be you and I seem to be me —<br />but who knows?<br />is it possible we are apple seeds in the same sweet apple?<br />or hats perched atop mannequins in a shop window<br />in oooh-lala-Paris?<br />and if we are hats<br />then I want to have a wide brim with a floppy purple flower<br />(a peony?) </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">hanging down the right side<br />and you can be whatever kind of hat you want to be<br />I am not feeling especially bossy today<br /><br />but I will say this<br />if it turns out you are not you<br />and I am not me<br />and we are neither apple seeds<br />nor bird feathers<br />nor pine trees . . .<br />if you are not you and I am not me<br />and we are two different people<br />who don't yet know each other<br /><br />then my biggest wish<br />is for us to meet one day<br />and recognize some unmistakable spark<br />to be drawn together by a bright light<br />or a pleasant smell<br />or a strong vibration<br />or a single musical note<br />it could be anything<br />as long as we connect again<br />(or would it be considered the first time?)<br /><br />because<br />what other reason would there be<br />to get up in the morning<br /><br /><br /><br /><i><span style="font-size: small;">Note: I offer profound thanks to Terrence Keenan for his poem "A Sweetness Appears and Prevails." His opening lines ("The reason we bother/ to get up in the morning") and the phrase toward the end ("You seem to be you/ and I seem to be me") led me into my poem</span></i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span>zee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1519337813049780664.post-35999302350461545752019-05-14T06:33:00.001-04:002019-05-14T06:33:41.510-04:00The Elephant Vanishes / The Declutter Meditation, by Stacey Murphy<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Stacey Murphy read these two poems on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.</span></i><br /><br /><br /><b>The Elephant Vanishes</b><br /><br />I meditate on the removal of obstacles<br />and the Universe appears —<br />a great golden elephant<br />in a green, wooded glade<br />carefully picking logs off the path before me<br />moving them aside gently:<br />hesitation, gangly and thorny;<br />lack, hollow and brittle;<br />distraction, thick and heavy.<br />With one look over her shoulder and a playful flip<br />of her tail the elephant<br />winks and she vanishes.<br />It is up to me to move forward.<br /><br /><br /><br /><b>The Declutter Meditation</b><br /> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On the inhale, I breathe in an open shoe rack<br />On the exhale, I remove an unhelpful thought<br /><br />On the inhale, I make space on a shelf<br />On the exhale, I place an old habit in the trash bag<br /><br />On the inhale, I smell gentle lemony cleaners<br />On the exhale, the old tattered blanket goes to the animal shelter<br /><br />On the inhale is space and potential<br />On the exhale comes limitless creation<br /></span></span>zee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1519337813049780664.post-63806493706563281832019-05-13T07:34:00.004-04:002019-05-13T07:55:02.830-04:00the contortionist and the poet / go to unexpected places, by Ian M. Shapiro<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Ian M. Shapiro read these two poems on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.</span></i><br /><br /><b>the contortionist and the poet</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />a contortionist<br />and a poet met<br />in the early evening<br />on an overnight train<br />from dallas to el paso<br /><br />they shared a <br />non-sleeping cabin<br />initially not speaking <br />the contortionist reading and<br />the poet looking out the window<br /><br />but time passed and <br />one thing led to another and<br />they introduced themselves<br />and seemed intrigued<br />by each other's work<br /><br />what must it be like<br />to go out before crowds<br />and twist your body <br />into so many shapes? <br />asked the poet<br /><br />the contortionist said <br />well, i keep looking for <br />new shapes and sometimes <br />i get weary of <br />the old ones<br /><br />but what i found, in time,<br />is that it's not the <br />extreme contortions <br />that interest people<br />it's the subtle ones<br /><br />it's the small deviations<br />from what typically is <br />and not only does it <br />interest people more<br />it's of more interest to me <br /><br />i seek less to impress people<br />than to connect with them<br />less to show the impossible<br />than to show what might<br />well be possible<br /><br />and then the contortionist <br />straightened up and asked<br />what is it like to write?<br />what excites you as a poet?<br />what makes it worthwhile?<br /><br />the poet looked out the window <br />and said maybe it's similar<br />i less frequently seek to<br />try and twist new sentences<br />and new combinations of words<br /><br />and i rather seek to describe <br />the world as it is and <br />also to describe the <br />world as it could be<br />in small excursions from what is<br /><br />and then the two women <br />became reflective and <br />thought of their exchange<br />and as time went by <br />they both took out food<br /><br />and they shared sandwiches <br />hot drinks and sweets<br />as the train traveled <br />on into the night from<br />dallas to el paso<br /><br /><br /><br /><b><br />go to unexpected places</b><br /><br />go to unexpected places<br />go to the most unexpected places<br />go up to dark attics<br />and then go to the outer edges<br />of the dark attics, above the eaves <br />and open old boxes you left there <br /><br />go to unexpected places<br />go up mountains to caves<br />go inside the caves <br />and then come back and sit <br />at the entrances of the caves <br />and look out, and look in<br /><br />go to unexpected places<br />look for unexpected places<br />go to empty houses<br />and see what was left there<br />and even better, even more<br />see what was felt there<br /><br />go to unexpected places<br />go to flat rooftops, especially <br />if their access doors are locked <br />find a way round to get up there<br />and then stand up on the parapet <br />go up there and look right out<br /><br />go to unexpected places<br />go to a balcony high above the city<br />and pitch a tent late at night<br />and sleep there and wake there<br />and see the city from there<br />and let the city see you <br /><br />go to unexpected places<br />look for and find unexpected places<br />go to the most unexpected places<br />and look out, and look in <br />find the most unexpected places<br />and let unexpected places find you<br /><br /><br /></span></span>zee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1519337813049780664.post-4553992460774583812019-05-12T08:47:00.000-04:002019-05-12T08:47:00.832-04:00As The Crow Flies / Dance Your Heart Out, by Heather Boob<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><i><span style="font-size: small;">Heather Boob read these two poems on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.</span></i><br /><br /><br /><b>As The Crow Flies</b><br /><br />If I could draw a map of my heart<br />it would need to be topographical<br />so that you could lay your hands on it —<br />like braille —<br />to feel my existence,<br />to empathize with the contours of my experience,<br />and the inclines and rolling valleys<br />(upon which I have ridden)<br />representing my relief.<br /><br />One day when I’m wise and the lines on my face<br />reflect the journey of my heart,<br />I hope that the crow who has made his footprints<br />at the corners of my eyes,<br />will come to rest on my shoulder —<br />as he will learn, that even<br />the shortest distance to fly<br />would not be fast enough<br />to get from here to there —<br />from every joyful smile to the next.<br /><br /><br /><br /><b>Dance Your Heart Out</b><br /><br />The room was so hot that<br />the walls were sweating.<br />The floor was sweating.<br />A direct effect of the energy exuded<br />by a band called The Nightsweats.<br />When you really start to let go<br />your knees will sway.<br />Your pelvis will shake.<br />Your inner Elvis will show himself.<br />I dance alone<br />in an empty room<br />to let go.<br />I dance, surrounded by<br />strangers.<br />Sweating.<br />We harvest heated energy.<br />How efficient.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span>zee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1519337813049780664.post-38067506344913132602019-05-11T06:13:00.000-04:002019-05-11T06:13:28.443-04:00My Mother's Lipstick, by Sue Crowley<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Sue Crowley read this poem on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.</span></i><br /><br /> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My mother's lipstick, a deep shade of red, sat on her dressing table the morning after she died, the first thing I saw when I walked into her room. <br /><br />My mind was already on what to take from her closet, what to bury her in, but that little pink tube arrested those thoughts, as did the odor, distinctly her own, that clung to her empty clothes. <br /><br />I picked up the lipstick, looked in the mirror she had looked in every morning for decades, and colored my lips bright red. <br /><br />Carefully, so carefully, gliding the cream across that delicate skin, thinking all the while: This is the last kiss. <br /><br />Then I went to the closet and buried my face in an old sweater thinking: This is the last hug.<br /></span></span>zee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1519337813049780664.post-10012088099694094842019-05-10T06:23:00.000-04:002019-05-10T06:23:20.011-04:00Numbered, by Susanna Drbal<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Susanna Drbal read this story on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.</span></i><br /><br /><br />Your days are numbered. Patty heard the man on the TV say that to another man. Both of them wore cowboy hats and neither of them had shaved for a few days. Patty rubbed her cheek, thinking of the kisses she got from her father every night when he tucked her into bed.<br /><br />Patty knew days were numbered—she’d seen them on the calendar that hung in the kitchen next to the telephone. The calendar had pictures of cats wearing different, funny outfits. Right now the cat wore a cowboy hat and leather chaps. There was a number circled on the calendar, in red ink. Patty had watched her mother count on her fingers, with her lips moving, and then circle it. Patty didn’t know why.<br /><br />Patty knew her numbers, or some of them anyway, and since Monica had taught them to her, Patty saw numbers everywhere. They were on tags inside her shirts and underpants, on the buttons on the telephone, around the dial on the TV, on the clock that ticked and chimed. Patty saw numbers outside too, on street signs, on a wooden board nailed to the front of the house, and on the back of the station wagon. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7, Patty said to herself, over and over. Sometimes she counted on her fingers, 1-2-3-4-5-6-7. She counted her fingers, but she didn’t count her thumbs. It didn’t seem right.<br /><br />So Patty knew about numbers, she knew about calendars, and tonight she was allowed to watch channel 5, so when she heard the grizzly man say, ‘Your days are numbered,’ Patty knew exactly what he meant. But she didn’t know why he had to seem so angry about it.<br /><br />When the commercial came on, the one where there was a little man on a little boat in a toilet bowl, the clock started chiming. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7 and then another one. Patty didn’t raise her head up from her teddy bears and their tea party on the living room floor—she didn’t want her father to notice that it was bedtime. Patty wanted to see what happened after 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-and then one more.<br /><br />But her father folded up his newspaper and her mother called from the other room that it was time for bed. Time for forty winks, she said, and Patty knew that was a number and that it was a big one, but she didn’t know how to get to forty and she couldn’t wink once, let alone 2-3-4-5-6-7 times plus one more.<br /><br />Patty scooped up her teddy bears and her father scooped her up and said, one-two-button my shoe, and Patty wondered about shoes with buttons and then she wondered about shoes with zippers. She liked riding in her father’s arms and then he plopped her down on her bed and he helped her into her nightgown. The nightgown was blue and had darker blue flowers and squiggly lines all over it. Patty wasn’t sure if the squiggly lines were 6’s or something else entirely. Sometimes they looked like whales leaping out of the water.<br /><br />Patty brushed her teeth and watched her father’s face in the mirror. He stood behind her, in the doorway, looking down the hallway at the TV. Patty could hear a pinging sound from the TV and horses neighing and people yelling. She couldn’t tell what they were saying, but her father watched and rubbed his chin where it was whiskery and grey.<br /><br />Patty lay down in bed and her father pulled the covers up under her chin. She held her favorite teddy in her right arm and chewed on his left ear. The fur was starting to get thin and matted. Patty’s father sat next to her on the bed and read to her. His legs reached all the way to the bottom of the bed and his toes pointed right at the ceiling.<br /><br />Patty didn’t listen to the story, not really. She knew it by heart. There was a barnyard with pigs and cows and sheep, and they were fed oats and slop and hay, and the farmer cleaned their pens and planted seeds and the animals ate a lot and ran around and played, and they tried to find a hole in the fence. They found a hole, but by then they decided they’d rather stay in the barnyard.<br /><br />At the end of the story, the pigs and the cows and the sheep are lying in bed, with straw pulled up to their chins, and the stars twinkle overhead. One sheep looks at the stars and can’t sleep, and she starts to count, 1-2-3-4-5-6-7, and before you know it, she is asleep.</span></span>zee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1519337813049780664.post-85102883472488842492019-05-09T06:15:00.004-04:002019-05-09T06:15:48.122-04:00How We Learn, by Yvonne Fisher<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Yvonne Fisher read this poem on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.</span></i><br /><br />Haphazardly, we learn<br />By tripping over our own feet<br />By trial and error, mistake after mistake<br />By listening to a mentor, a teacher<br />By listening to people<br />By listening<br />By looking around<br />We learn by finally realizing<br />By having an awakening, an epiphany<br />An aha moment<br />Or else gradually<br />We learn gradually<br />Too late<br />After trying everything else first<br />By crawling on our hands and knees<br />Bloody and broken, searching<br />By questioning everything, everything<br />By climbing toward the stars<br />Looking up, looking up<br />Sometimes we learn by giving in<br />By surrendering<br />Or by accident<br />Or sometimes we don’t even know<br />That we’re learning<br />But we do<br />We still do<br />We learn</span></span>zee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1519337813049780664.post-15336127425315103722019-05-08T07:57:00.002-04:002019-05-08T07:57:28.897-04:00Saying Goodbye to that Old Desk, by Jim Mazza<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Jim Mazza read this piece on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.</span></i><br /><br /><br />We sent my childhood desk to the dump this week.<br /><br />It was not an especially nice piece of furniture — just a small, wooden, two-drawer, rectangular desk — drawers on the right and a place for your legs and feet on the left.<br /><br />It was purchased when I was ten and my father said I could paint it any color I wanted, so I chose sunshine yellow — which for unexplainable reasons — seemed better than my favorite color, fire-engine red.<br /><br />I was proud of my bright-yellow desk.<br /><br />Later, in my teen years, the yellow was covered with a mahogany stain, which looked a bit more mature, I suppose.<br /><br />My childhood desk held what all desks hold: scissors, a stapler, pens and pencils, and pads of paper — lined and unlined.<br /><br />This is the desk where I spent endless hours drawing floor plans for houses that I imagined living in someday. This is the desk that held my first electric typewriter — a powder blue and white portable, manufactured by Brother.<br /><br />It was the place I sat to write my first love letter and it was the desk where I kept the first love letter written to me.<br /><br />That was many years ago. More recently, the desk had been relegated to our basement — being sort of ugly and a bit too small for practical use by an adult.<br /><br />It sat there, in a dark corner surrounded and covered by many other discarded bits and pieces of the past thirty years. So, when it came to our recent basement clean-out, the desk wasn’t the only item on the “to-be-tossed list.”<br /><br />There was the 1950s-era cookie jar, covered with raised ceramic flowers — also yellow — but a dingy yellow pretending to be gold or mustard or, perhaps, butterscotch… a wedding gift to my parents, later handed down to me for my first apartment.<br /><br />There were bottles of beer left over from an open house 15 years ago.<br /><br />There were two decades of Utne Readers — the first ever printed — that Nancy had been saving. (We decided to keep the first two years and selected covers of others.) <br /><br />There were old lamps with broken shades; glass vases covered in heavy, opaque dust; decaying plastic planter boxes and more.<br /><br />None of these objects added to the junk heap brought back fond memories — or really any memories at all.<br /><br />But under this mountain of non-treasures, these throw-aways, stood my tiny desk — forlorn but resolute. In fact, I was sure the desk was looking out at me from beneath the piles and saying, “After all we’ve been through, how could you?”<br /><br />I closed my eyes and opened them again as the desk was lifted onto the truck, destined for the dump. As it reached the tailgate, I caught my breath. <br /><br />For underneath the mahogany stain, in places that had chipped away, I could not only see the 50-year-old bright-yellow paint but the memories of my childhood, too.</span></span>zee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1519337813049780664.post-29176477459756013842019-05-07T06:34:00.000-04:002019-05-07T06:34:21.055-04:00See This Photo, by Summer Killian<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Summer Killian read this piece on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.</span></i><br /><br />See this photo of me in the kitchen with Teo. It is our first night home from the hospital, the third night of his life. I don’t know what I am warming up in the microwave, can’t remember what I ended up eating. In my face, see the softness, but the new edge, too. This is the face of somebody’s mama. See the pride: I grew him. I pushed him out. See the way he belongs. See the way the wrap I’m using to carry him is tied all wrong, though I practiced and practiced with a stuffed bunny while still pregnant. See how I don’t know it. See how I look like I know what I’m doing. See the way you just can’t know what’s to come. See me standing in the kitchen on Albany Street, believing I can fathom what it means to really love somebody.<br /><br /><br /></span></span>zee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1519337813049780664.post-36656000683647146282019-05-06T06:51:00.003-04:002019-05-06T06:51:39.309-04:00The Hypnotist, by Marty Waters<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Marty Blue Waters read this piece on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.</span></i><br /><br /> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was sitting at my desk in my 5th grade classroom, minding my own business, staring at the world outside my window, when an announcement came over the loudspeaker from the principal. “Everyone please convene in the auditorium now for a surprise event.”<br /><br />We all walked silently to our assigned seats.<br /><br />Our principal introduced a man who was going to present a special show for us and he said “we should all pay careful attention because things might not be quite what we think they are!” A big man strode up onto the stage. He was dressed like a magician, with a phony mustache, a cape, and a lopsided top hat.<br /><br />He called out for four volunteers. My hand was the first one up. We marched up to the stage and sat on the chair we were motioned toward. I was on the far end so I could study what happend to the first three victims with an eagle eye. Mustache Man stared at each volunteer for quite a while, mumbling words I couldn’t hear. In turn, each slumped forward in their chair and seemed to be in a trance. When Mustache Man snapped his fingers, each jumped up and went back to the audience.<br /><br />I was pondering what the trick was supposed to be when Mustache Man zoomed in on me. I didn’t like his eyes and one side of his fake mustache was starting to fall off. I kind of snorted a laugh and stared right back at him, narrowing my gaze. Then I realized I was supposed to be a part of some joke, so I pretended to fall into a coma, like the others had, and dramatically draped myself across my seat. Mustache Man snapped his fingers sharply and curtly motioned for me to return to the audience.<br /><br />He went on to a new act making things disappear, or something like that. I was bored to tears.<br /><br />Then Mustache Man started telling a story about a cat and a dog who met a donkey and a rooster on the road to Wichita. Whenever he said the word cat, Vonda jumped up and purred “meow, meow, meow.” Whenever he said the word dog, Tommy stood up and shouted “arf arf arf arf arf.” And whenever he said the word donkey, Dennis rose up and bellowed “hee-haw, hee-haw.” They were all visibly confused and embarrassed by their sudden impulses, but each time they heard Mustache Man mention their animal in the telling of his story, they shouted out again.<br /><br />It was rather obvious whenever he said the word rooster nothing happened. Even so, the story was a huge hit and all the animals got wild applause and cheers.<br /><br />Oh Good Grief! I was supposed to have been the rooster, if I had been able to understand what Mustache Man tried to plant inside my head. Oh well.<br /><br />At the end, as Mustache Man was about to take his bows, I fiercely felt it was my moral duty to make sure the rooster didn’t get completely left out of the show. I jumped up and crowed at the top of my lungs, “Cock-a-doodle-doo!”<br /><br />There was a stunned silence in the auditorium and I realized, once again, I had made my very important point at exactly the wrong moment. Something I had a tendency to do, unfortunately.<br /><br />I slunk back down into my chair, hoping nobody would ever mention this day to me ever again. Fat chance of that.</span></span>zee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1519337813049780664.post-74979666830806764892019-05-05T08:43:00.002-04:002019-05-05T08:43:54.639-04:00Maybe I Should / Second Sight, by Peaches Gillette<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Peaches Gillette read these two poems on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.</span></i><br /><br /><br /><b>Maybe I Should</b><br /><br />Maybe I should move away to some remote place <br />where the trees stand ceremoniously tall <br />and the sun is forever setting.<br /> <br />There<br />I will embrace the quiet of my inner world —<br />speak no words — have no voice —<br />I will just listen,<br />Tenderly listen <br />to the whispers of all those who have suffered —<br />Those who still want to tell and retell their stories through the movement of the wind,<br />through the falling of the rain,<br />through the understanding <br />that we whose souls ache through time<br />will be forever one.<br /><br />Maybe I should take all the metal I've collected over all these years<br />and get back to building the rocket ship I dreamed of building long ago.<br /><br />I would take off,<br />fade into the pitch-blue of the night sky<br />throw kisses to my old friend the moon<br />and sketch along the contour of the universe<br />fueled by an urge to find home.<br /><br />Maybe I should count backwards each time I have a birthday<br />and get younger and younger <br />with each breath I take.<br />This undoing of my aging self<br />will not be about any regret of growing older - <br />it will be about meeting my child-self again -<br />revisit the time I left behind <br />and linger, playfully, <br />in the details of days gone by.<br /><br />Maybe I should go back into the dream I had last night and try to find my mother;<br />she sounded sad.<br />She wanted me to come and be with her, <br />but her voice trailed off into silence <br />before she could tell me where she was.<br /><br /><br /><br /><b>Second Sight</b><br /><br />Sometimes I see more clearly with my second sight. <br /><br />It is the sight that originates in the soul, <br />finds its way into the heart, <br />and spiritually crystallizes what I see in the world, and in others.<br /><br />My eyes explore the composition and the delicateness of their perfect form. <br />My darling granddaughters - <br />their bodies young and free in this old world.<br /><br />I gaze at their sweet lips forming words in whispered tones. <br />I listen to the secrets that only exist in the world of girls. <br />They dance for me - <br />another secret.<br /><br />Their young bodies are hopeful and strong <br />like the beginning of a new day.<br /><br />They watch me <br />making sure I don't look away.<br /><br />You see Grandma Peach? We know how to do a split.<br /><br />Their observant and socially curious eyes take- in and repeat all the latest dance moves.<br />They are exquisite visions of life in one of its greatest states -<br />moving,<br />energized,<br />growing-<br />pulsating spectacles of loveliness.<br /><br />They are visions of grace <br />becoming a part of who I need to be.<br /><br />I watch,<br />I cannot take my eyes off them.<br /><br />I feel tears <br />rising from the deepest place of my love for them -<br />rising like a swelling body of water, <br />baptizing them<br />and carrying them to Holy lands within my very being.<br /><br />They ask, Why are you crying Grandma Peach? <br /><br />I say because you are so beautiful, <br />like the beauty of the sun <br />and sometimes so much beauty makes me cry.<br /><br />They look deep into my eyes.<br />We share one of those special moments <br />in which we see one another<br />as clearly as one see the heavens.<br /><br />Their dancing goes on.<br />I continue to watch<br />with both my first <br />and my second sight<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span>zee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1519337813049780664.post-63753461844495098532019-05-04T06:12:00.002-04:002019-05-04T06:12:42.409-04:00Short Poems in Response to Phrases from the Work of Mary Oliver, by Rob Sullivan<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Rob Sullivan read this piece on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.</span></i><br /><br /><br />once the eyes are opened<br />the world never appears<br />without its juice and spark<br />the everyday becomes singular<br />==<br /><br />set in stone?<br />all will crumble to dust<br />all will change form<br />over and over<br />maybe we know what we know,<br />all the rest<br />hearsay, conjecture, guess<br />eternity is one<br />of endless possibilities<br />who am i to say?<br />who am i?<br />who?<br />==<br /><br />don't we all love<br />a good mystery?<br />myriad opinions<br />live together nicely<br />coexistence is plausible.<br />oh, dogma<br />you'll find that under philosophy.<br />no, i don't think<br />it's filed under non-fiction.<br />==<br /><br />if one sees litter<br />strewn about the thoroughfare<br />it would behoove one<br />to pick it up<br />leaving the path<br />a bit more tidy.<br />if one experiences<br />wails of distress<br />from a dying mother (earth)<br />one should be prepared<br />to work for her salvation<br />and leave this planet<br />a bit more<br />alive and well<br />==<br /><br />sacred vow<br />lifelong commitment<br />sacrament, most holy<br />yet divorce comes<br />nearly every time<br />for all,<br />save poets<br />willing to give all<br />in return for the great<br />big, beautiful world<br /></span></span>zee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1519337813049780664.post-11435258103656843832019-05-03T06:45:00.005-04:002019-05-03T06:45:58.343-04:00Hands of a Gardener, Susan Lesser<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Susan Lesser read this piece on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.</span></i><br /><br /><br />I hold my hands in front of me and sigh. I have the hands of a gardener. The reason I do is because is I have an alarmingly large garden, a series of gardens really. There is the peony row, the perennial garden, the vegetable garden, the herb garden, the raspberry patch, and the red and white garden down at the end of the lawn which isn’t really only red and white. Closer to the house you will find a couple of sincere hydrangeas and irises under the dining room window, azaleas and Lenten roses stand in front of the kitchen windows. Behind the garden shed is a secret garden that is so secret nothing is planted there, but we need to pull the weeds between the paving stones anyway. I could go on.<br /><br />As soon as the ground thaws in the early spring, I am down on my hands and knees, digging in the muck, moving the Hidcote Lavender to the back of the herb garden and the common thyme to the front, pushing the shrunken pea pellets into the ground that is still splashed with lingering spots of snow, and removing last year’s canes from the raspberry patch. <br /><br />I start out with gloves, gardeners’ gloves with thick bits where the designers think I might need some protection. I put the gloves on, honest I do, but very soon something happens and the gloves come off. I will find them later, soaked with rain, under a rhubarb plant. I want to pull out the early weeds, the dandelions and the invasive Michaelmas daisies with my bare hands. I want to wiggle my fingers into the mud to find the roots, to follow them and tug them out. My tiny lettuce seeds, like pepper from a shaker, need a warm hand to pull the earth over them and tuck them in. No gloves. Throughout the gardening season, it is easy to see my hands are the hands of a gardener, testimony to my hours in company with living growing things.<br /><br />My fingernails are ragged and require repeated vigorous scrubbing, and much clipping. There are scratches where I tangled with a climbing rose in an attempt to prune it back. Roses are at once one of the loveliest and most vicious of garden denizens. There is a pinkish rash on my right palm from a misguided attempt to pull a rogue stinging nettle that was camping next to a Plantain Lily. Some days my knuckles are swollen from gripping the orange-handled trowel so tightly for so long. And totally yucky are the occasional gluey remains of a squashed slug, accidentally sacrificed as I weeded out the lettuce row. Slug residue does not wash off as easily as I might think; it will require scrubbing with the sturdy brush I keep under the sink. I am no fan of the garden slug, neither its name nor habit. However, when in my probing of the welcoming earth, I come upon a common garden earthworm, I am careful to treat him gently and move him to a soft spot of turned soil, out of reach of my trowel.<br /><br />There is a story in my hands, not the sort a palm reader might tell, but a story just the same. It is a story of seasons and growing things and touching the earth we live on, live in.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">==</span><br /><i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />NOTE: This piece appeared, in a slightly different version, in the journal GreenPrints, No. 117, Spring 2019</span></i></span></span>zee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1519337813049780664.post-71073454373290131572019-05-02T06:57:00.004-04:002019-05-02T06:57:57.763-04:00 Watch Pocket, by Tina Wright<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Tina Wright read this memory-piece on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.</span></i><br /><br /><br />Some blue jeans have a little pocket on the top of the right front pocket and when I told someone in the family, younger generation, that it was a watch pocket for a pocket watch they said, I wondered what those were for (…good for loose change too.) I got thinking about pocket watches when a kid at work the other night talking about batteries in his wristwatch laughed when I told him I used to have wind-up watches and he gave me that you are a dinosaur look.<br /><br />My first pocket watch said Little Ben on its face beneath a cracked plastic cover (smashed when picking stones). The Big Ben version was the alarm clock in my parent’s bedroom—with the big butterfly wind-up key—and when my sister and I heard it ringing in the morning from our bedroom down the hall, we pretended we were sleeping and waited for dad to pound on our door and say wake up, time to milk the cows.<br /><br />I loved my Little Ben in its watch pocket, the brass back reflected the sun and felt cool and sweet in my hand. I set its time by the daily fire whistle five minutes to one that blew in the village of Moravia. Sometimes when we heard the siren in our hayfields miles away, we knew we were late for lunch.<br /><br />One day we heard the daily whistle around the usual time and it kept blowing for many minutes letting the volunteer firefighters know that a fire had rudely started at a very inconvenient time, just when the daily whistle sounded. So it blew and blew to say hey Moravia this is a real fire!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span>zee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1519337813049780664.post-63049797344615723442019-05-01T07:39:00.001-04:002019-05-01T07:39:31.507-04:00The Formula for a Forever Life, by Barbara Anger<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Barbara Anger read this poem on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.</span></i><br /><br /><br />First thing in the morning<br />Awake to gratitude.<br /><br />Squint if it’s a gray day.<br />You may feel the sun<br /> Inside<br /> You.<br /><br />Feel the vibrations of<br /> A prayer<br /> On your lips.<br /><br />Feel the air on your naked body,<br />Put on something comfortable to wear.<br />Don’t mind<br /> The old stains<br /> Down the front of your shirt.<br /> The frayed cuffs of your pants<br /> Or the tear along the seam.<br />Please just let your elbow scrape through that hole.<br /><br />Put on your old shoes<br /> That hold the shape of your arch<br /> Inside the definition of each toe.<br /><br />Go out into the air<br /> With a twirl<br /> Find a spot<br />To stick your fingers<br /> In the rich darkness<br /> Of the soil.<br />Let the grains of dirt and sand<br /> Run<br /> Through your fingers.<br />Feel its moisture.<br /><br />Then remember<br />You collected milkweed seeds.<br />Find them on the top shelf<br /> Of your cupboard.<br />For a moment<br /> Feel the silky<br /> White feathers<br />Still attached to the seeds<br /><br />Grab a trowel<br />Dig deep and wide<br />Enough for each seed<br />To sprout<br />Upward and out<br />Reaching the sun<br />Till at the waning of summer<br />It calls to the monarchs,<br />“Here I am.<br />Come find me.<br />I will help you live forever.”<br /><br /></span></span>zee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1519337813049780664.post-45971760531174759322019-04-30T06:33:00.001-04:002019-04-30T06:33:41.327-04:00Typewriters, Sue Norvell<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Sue Norvell read this piece on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.</i></span><br /><br /><br />Ah, the typewriter. Really, a brute of a machine. They were heavy to carry. <br /><br />They required strong hands and fingers to depress the keys smartly enough to make that oh-so-satisfying [snap] as the metal arm swung up and out to print the letter 't', [clack] as the ‘h’ hits the paper, <br />then [...tap, WHING!] as the letter ‘e’ ends the line.<br />The bell dings, saying, “whiz the carriage back, begin anew." <br />[Whizzzz, clunk. Clack snapa tap tap snapa tap tap…]<br /><br />Your fingertips are cupped by the metal ridges running ‘round the keys. <br />They fit each other: the letter B and the left index finger, [snap]<br />the S and the right ring finger, [snap]<br />reach up for an I,<br />down for an X, [tap,tap]<br />then stretch with the thumb for the space bar —<br /><br />(double space at the end of a sentence, please!)<br />[whunk whunk]<br /><br />Remember how the the shift keys worked? No auto capitalization here!<br /><br />Depress the key, the carriage rises, [bump]<br />capital B hurries to begin a new complete thought [snap]<br />The carriage drops again for the lower case ‘e’ [thud, snap] and you’re off:<br /><br />[Bump snap thud snap snap tap-a tap, clack tap-a-tap snap …. whunk whunk]<br /><br />You say your prose is fading? The poem’s vanishing? Or worse, never making it to the page at all?<br />The ribbon needs replacing!<br />Now, of course, the stains and odors on your fingers need vigorous cleaning,<br />or your work will be smudged.<br /><br />“How many carbon copies did you say?”<br />One mistake, many layers. <br />[Crinkle, rub, rub, crinkle, rub, crinkle, rub…. mutter, mutter... cuss, cuss, cuss]<br /><br />Whew.<br />Finished.<br />Roll the paten, free the paper<br />sign it: “Henry…”<br />address the envelope, <br />fold the letter........ lick lick lick. [STAMP]<br /><br />DONE!<br /><br />But now remember, typewriters did not lend themselves to impulsiveness<br />nor did they limit characters available <br />for either reasoned, rational thoughts <br />or nasty, rauchy rants<br /><br />The effort required insisted on intention, allowed for more reflection.<br />Perhaps this machine’s finest hours were in the rash letters left unshared,<br />the insults never sent<br /><br />Lets us consider this blessing: there was no “send” button.<br /><br /><br /></span></span>zee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1519337813049780664.post-18814470734711710752019-03-30T06:53:00.001-04:002019-03-30T06:53:31.232-04:00The Elephant Vanishes, by Stacey Murphy<br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />I meditate on the removal of obstacles<br />and the Universe appears —<br />a great golden elephant<br />in a green, wooded glade<br />carefully picking logs off the path before me<br />moving them aside gently:<br />hesitation, gangly and thorny;<br />lack, hollow and brittle;<br />distraction, thick and heavy.<br />With one look over her shoulder and a playful flip<br />of her tail the elephant<br />winks and she vanishes.<br />It is up to me to move forward.</span></span>zee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1519337813049780664.post-61814883922261805852019-03-28T15:42:00.000-04:002019-03-29T12:26:45.847-04:00Full Upright and Locked, by Jim Mazza<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /><br />There is a moment when ... <br />you have buckled in, placed your tray table into the full upright and locked position, and listened to the safety message about exit doors and unlikely events (such as a water landing), how to inflate your life vest by pulling on the tab after you exit the aircraft or by blowing into the small red valve (should the life vest fail to inflate) and how the little beacon light will illuminate automatically.<br /><br />There is a moment when ... <br />the captain says over the loudspeaker "We are #3 for take off" and "Flight attendants please be seated" and we are reminded to keep the window shades up during take-off and landing.<br /><br />There is a moment when ... <br />the child in the row behind you has stopped kicking your seat and the guy next to you has finished his dripping hot-sausage-and-pepper-and-onion submarine sandwich brought onto the plane in his carry-on, and the arm rests are lowered.<br /><br />There is a moment when ... <br />the plane moves toward the runway and waits, and then moves forward again and waits, and then, finally, makes a turn <i>onto</i> the runway to wait again.<br /><br />There is a moment when ... <br />sitting at the end of the runway it seems everyone, for a split second, has stopped talking — although the baby in Row 29 is still crying. <br /><br />There is a moment when ... <br />in the near silence the plane is perfectly still but its power and throbbing desire to hurtle down the runway is obvious and all around you.<br /><br />There is a moment when ... <br />there is absolute peace as you realize that the adventure is afoot and there will be memories and photos and writing-filled travel journals.<br /><br />There is a moment when ... <br />the pilot releases the brake, the engines roar and the plane speeds down the runway — and it is a moment of light-headed happiness and full-on joy!</span></span>zee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1519337813049780664.post-21685725035421382162019-03-14T18:28:00.001-04:002019-03-14T18:28:37.152-04:00Warm Recollections of my Father, Prompted by Mary Oliver’s line “It was a long time ago that…,” by Saskya van Nouhuys <span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><br />It was a long time ago that my grandmother died. My father was a teenager. Soon after that he went to boarding school which must have been lonely, though he wouldn’t admit to being lonely. He takes pride in his solitude. After leaving he didn't live with his father again until much later, when I was five years old. While we lived in my grandfather’s house I woke up early to sit, watching him do his morning yoga. <br /><br />It was a long time ago that my father, in a fit of rebellion, dropped out of graduate school at Columbia and moved back to California to teach writing at Stanford University. He lived a beatnik life, met my mother, and played an unstructured croquet game that lasted days and spread over the front and back yards of a whole neighborhood.<br /><br />It was a long time ago that my father taught me how to ride a bike at the park. After losing interest in guiding me awkwardly as I tried to balance he retreated to the tennis court with his friend. Between shots they yelled pointers and made encouraging gestures. Gradually I figured out how to ride on my own.<br /><br />It was a long time ago that we had a yard with a lawn that my father mowed. In one corner was a navel orange tree that seemed magical because the oranges from it had no seeds. It became even more magical after my father explained that since it had no seeds it must be the only one, and there would never be another, because trees grew from seeds.<br /><br />It was a long time ago that my father made scrambled eggs that were too spicy for the family breakfast on Saturday mornings, and then went off to play tennis with my mother, and then came back and made espresso with her, and then worked in the garden while listening first to the baseball game and then later, in the afternoon, to the opera, on the transistor radio that he carried from spot to spot in the yard as he worked.<br /><br />It was a long time ago that my father and I painted rainbow stripes in the tiny downstairs bathroom of the house I grew up in. When we finished it was entirely striped, all four walls, the door, the floor, and the ceiling.<br /><br />It was a long time ago that I sat on the stairs eavesdropping on the adults in the living room where they gathered every Tuesday night to discuss their dreams in “dream group.” One morning my father told me he would fall asleep on his side with his arm up. Then when his arm fell down he would wake up and remember the dream he was having at that moment. He explained that it was a way to remember dreams you otherwise wouldn’t know about. I tried it that night and many after, but failed. I still try it now and then.<br /><br />It was a long time ago that I helped my father build a darkroom in the garage. Then he taught me how to use it, and I had a quiet refuge where I could go as a teen and in the dim red light expose images on to photographic paper, bathe the paper in a sequence of trays of chemicals, and watch as the image took form, and fixed.<br /><br />It was a long time ago that my beloved cat died, the one who was born in our yard and slept with me every night. My father said tenderly, with tears in his eyes that I knew, even then, were for me, not the cat, “Mewer died.”</span></span>zee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1519337813049780664.post-73160823804592040962019-02-28T17:22:00.003-05:002019-02-28T17:22:42.549-05:00Our Daughter’s Best Birthday Present Ever, by Rebecca Dolch<br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />When Lydia turned three, her best friend Beth took a rubber band and cut it, making one longer piece. She wrapped scotch tape around each end and put it into a small box wrapped with birthday paper. When Lydia opened it, she turned to her 4-year-old bestie and said: “Bethy! I love it! A jump rope for my dolly.” They understood each other then. They are still best friends 35 years later.</span></span><br />
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zee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1519337813049780664.post-59165724413727076432019-02-19T06:17:00.003-05:002019-02-19T06:17:53.910-05:00Buttons Are Such Small Things, by Susan Annah Currie<br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />We found a black, two-hole button on the car floorboard. It was a bit dirty and had a single black thread through one of the holes. What did it fall off of? Does one of us have a blouse or sweater with a missing button? Should I go through the closet and look for everything that has black buttons to be sure each button is secure and not missing? Or does it belong to a friend who, even now, is looking at a black sweater missing the bottom button and wondering what happened to it? Come to think of it, most things have zippers now — or Velcro. I wonder if the story of the discovery of Velcro is true? Was someone trying to get prickly, sticking burrs off a coat and suddenly had a eureka moment? "I will make Velcro to fasten coats and shoes and pants!" I imagine a cowboy getting off his horse back at the ranch, the sleeves of his coat covered in burrs like cockle burrs or sweet gum balls. Did he abandon buttons altogether? They are such small things. </span></span>zee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1519337813049780664.post-89749959003400784362019-02-18T13:25:00.001-05:002019-02-18T13:25:46.847-05:00All the Ways I will Not Be Perfect Today, by Yvette Rubio<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><br />All the ways I will not be perfect today:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><br />I'll sweep the floor and leave the pile for later.<br /><br />I'll make tea and leave the soggy tea leaves in the pot until tomorrow.<br /><br />I'll have hundreds of judgmental thoughts about everyone else's life.<br /><br />I won't file the pile of bills on my desk.<br /><br />I'll inevitably say something that will annoy someone I love.<br /><br />I'll cut the avocado horizontally, an imperfection my older son pointed out to me this Christmas.<br /><br />I'll not pluck the white eyebrow hair that sticks straight out.<br /><br />I won't work on family history research.<br /><br />I'll watch too much on Netflix.<br /><br />I'll read half of what I intended of the books I checked out from the library.<br /><br />I won't recycle as much as I should.<br /><br />I won't compost at all.</span></span>zee zahavahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16237637489899888701noreply@blogger.com