Tuesday, April 4, 2017

Day 3: Turning Away

Syria, your hollowed, hallowed babies
I look away from your babies
and sand sculpted men against soft women flowing
through lines in the sand erasing and erasing and flowing
I turn away from the tv of babies
I have to. I have a grandson who must keep breathing.
Your everything to lose so unlike and like my everything
you have grandsons you're afraid to lose, too.
Not right now. I have no time for your babies. There's milk that's old and green oranges soaked in mold that I must purge from the bowl.
Syria, forgive us our- is there a phone that's ringing or a mantra in need of singing?
Mother India, pray for Syria. Sister Geneva, you who stand between
inhumane and unfathomably inhumane, don't let hollowed become your name.
Deliver us from-
eyes as dark as my grandson's. Can we escape to the desert?
Eat poolside under a protective umbrella, our only fear a sunburned shoulder, and that is fear enough.

Monday, April 3, 2017

Day 2: Short Story for a Monday Morning

   On the hanger hung the words take me in your arms. I put them on, but they didn't fit me right. I walked outside, arms crossed, head down, embarrassed at my ill-fittingness. Does this make me look human I asked a gravestone. I asked a window reflection. I went home and hung them up on the hanger, shoved back to the back of the closet with all the other pretty things I hope to one day wear.

April 1, 2017

Sat Nam! Since I've given up Facebook for lent, this will be the home for my poems for National Poetry Writing Month, at least until after Easter. My poems get lonely on blogs. So thanks for stopping by and giving them a read. Happy NaPoWriMo 2017!

My first poem is a sestina, where the last word from each line of the first stanza is the last word in each line of the rest of the stanzas, but in a particular pattern. The last stanza is three lines, and each word must be used.

Day 1: A Sestina for Belonging

Blake calls out, Abba! Abba!
as he lifts the wet Cheerio
made of organic beet and purple sweet
potato. Did I say Amen aloud
as sun streams through the soggy O
he holds below the stained glass window?

A dazzling, towering saint windows
the path to beloved God, beloved Abba.
Blake's creampuff hands hold Os
for all. Take this humble Cheerio
he offers with a loud
invitation for the crowd, too sweet-

Blake, some people have had sweet-
ectomies, crusty windows
shut to their souls, a loud
sour drowns out a baby's Abba
lost like a rolling Cheerio
beyond the reach of a breathy "O"-

But his high-flying heart breathes O
so soft, too soft, so sweet, too sweet
beyond what a Cheerio
could get from a beet. The eye a window
to the soul calling Abba, Abba
unafraid, unconstrained love, aloud!

Longing to unsour, they sing aloud
when sung to, they open their mouths to O
yet think you simply said ab-Ba,
syllables pulled from a low shelf, but, sweet
baby, there is no crust on your window,
no dust on your organic box of Cheerios.

Like a eucharist the wet Cheerio
fills my mouth. I did say Amen aloud
Your smile uncrusting the windows
to my souring soul I sing O!
No beet or purple potato sweet
as you are, straight from Abba.

This is your church, so sing your song of O.
Open the window to your wide sweet
Cheerio world cry aloud, Abba!