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June 28, 2016

It could be so simple,

Really,

To make sure there is enough

To go around – so no mother

Watches her child starve.

The world’s created – in man’s

image. Violence, cash,

“Man-up” have taken hold.

While the elements that matter 

Are swept away as woman’s

Trivial dust. 

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This is Poem #106 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I challenged myself to spend a year in which I’d wake most mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee. By the end of the year,  I had written 241 poems.  Here, I have published second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

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A poem inspired by John Carey’s “To a Cautious Poet

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Put duct tape 

Over my mouth

And the mouth

of my daughter, and

 

We will try 

To yell through the stringed, 

Silver sticky of your

Mask. We’ve had,

 

However, no examples

Of how to do that 

Without accusations

Of witchcraft,

 

Or complaining.

 

She flew to Washington, 

Hopes high for retribution,

But could not find

A ride from the airport.

 

I will guide her still,

With the hope that I am

Not just setting her up

To crash into invisible skies. 

 

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This is Poem #99 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I challenged myself to spend a year in which I’d wake most mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee. By the end of the year,  I had written 241 poems.  Here, I have published second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

I wrote this poem alongside my students after reading John Carey’s poem “To a Cautious Poet,” which is published in Poetry Like Bread, a collection of political poems, which was edited by Martin Espada. The poem speaks of a poet who is “choked by the cord of his caution” after writing his poetry on Venetian blinds and then flashing his words on and off to the world. The prompt was “What would you write on your Venetian blinds?” or as one student put it, “What do you care about enough to die for?”

 

Since today is the Third Annual Women’s March, I felt it appropriate to publish this as a second poem today. #womenswave 

 

June 14, 2016

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An image from the article in Bitch.

 

I read the etymology 

Of the word the other

Day in an article in Bitch,

And the Oxford confirms;

 

Vagina, it seems,

Stems from Latin for

Sheath for a sword.

 

Even this sacred

Orifice that brings 

Life into the world

Confined to the prison

Of what she can do

For a man. 

 

No. Ladies,

Cunt, the article said-

A monosyllabic 

Torpedo – and powerful-

 

Is more to be reclaimed 

Than the N-word

Or fag by our queer 

Community.

 

Toss forth Cunt

Lightly at dinner 

parties. State it plainly

When you lie, legs

Spread and the speculum

Cold and inserted,

To your gynecologist. 

Pull it out seductively,

As you whisper into

Your lovers’ ears. 

This is Poem #96 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I challenged myself to spend a year in which I’d wake most mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee. By the end of the year,  I had written 241 poems.  Here, I have published second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

May 19, 2016

She says after 40 mini-

skirts are a  “no-no.”

Keep those gams under

 

Pants or long, flowing skirts,

Bermuda shorts.

Check you sexuality

 

At the door of not-yet-middle

Age. Like 30 is some sort

Of death sentence

 

To passion, attractiveness. 

I say, ridiculous.  I will wear

Short skirts in my 80s. 

 

I was never comfortable –

I see London,

I see France –

 

In my little dresses

And matching mom-made

Bloomers in the dawn 

 

Of the 70s and women’s

Liberation. At 40

I feel proud

 

To show off legs I work 

Hard to maintain –

muscles –

 

I did not have at 16. 

Legs. Use them. 

 

 

This is Poem #80 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

May 14, 2016

A series of poems responding to stupid things some men say. 

 

If you are a woman

And you are voting 

For Hillary, then 

 

You must be voting 

With your vagina. 

 

The men with signs

Say so. How

Could you not 

Support the latest,

Old, white dude?

 

She is a liar –

though evidence proves she is more 

honest than a single one of her male competitors-

 

And scandal ridden –

no matter how manufactured each accusation

grew through repetition and branding – 

 

We know, however, that 

For any woman to rise

This close to that

 

Ceiling of shells, obsidian

And clear to clouds,

She must be

Phenomenal. 

This is Poem #78 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

May 8, 2016

She always geared

Herself up for disappointment.

Every May she knew

They would not pull through. 

 

Kay Jewelers commercials,

And the teleflorists tell 

Us what we should

Want today. And there is 

 

Always the despondency

Of breakfast in bed, whether

You get it or not. 

What mothers really want – 

 

beyond their babies 

tucked safely

and healthy

in their tiny beds –

 

Is someone to take

Just a corner

Of the heavy flatbed

Of Womanhood.  It is

The only way to get

Chicken soup and 

Neatly folded laundry again. 

 

 

This is Poem #75 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

April 30, 2016

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A meditation on feminist ideals after visiting “Killer Heels” at the Currier Gallery

 

Small, blue eyes watch

Mothers in their vanity glass

Glide lipstick across their mouths and

When alone their tiny feet

Prance in front of full-view

Reflections in platform

Shoes -corked in 70’s

Glamour. She dreams

Of growing up

Into the rites of passage

That define and condemn

Her.

 

The dichotomy of feminism –

Trained as we grow to love

And to hate the adornments

 

Of women. Am I weak

Because I will not go into public

Without mascara?

 

Do torturous stilletos

On the dance floor

Make me silly

 

And shallow?

Red shoe spikes

And jewels and

Power.

 

 

 

April 29, 2016

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According to Urban Dictionary,

A Pamoola is a short,

Obese, and ignorant woman

 

(who has delusions of grandeur.)

She apparently “ear-fucks”

People. The nomenclature

 

Is derived from Puma –

Yet the Pamoola is not

A cougar. No official

 

Record of the cat exists

Since 1938, but hence,

She prowls in the night.

 

This is Poem #69 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

 

This particular poem is part of a series inspired by my visit to The International Cryptozoology Museum in Portland, Maine. Some days I’d just point to a location on the museum map, and write from there.

April 24, 2016 (Zoe’s Birthday!)

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So much of you

Is stored in the dead

Cells squeezed through

Your scalp like a Play-Doh

 

Barbershop in slow motion.

Every heart, broken

By the phone, heap

On the floor,

Tears in the closet,

Shimmies through in the lock.

 

If we shave our heads,

Will sorrow leave

Like a widow,

Bald and cast

To a life of silence

And solitude?

 

There can be joy

Again, I suppose,

A remaking

Of oneself

In the quiet

 

Beyond arrangements

You were too

Young to understand,

And trees

Bearing the fruit

You never got to eat.

 

This is Poem #64 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

April 9, 2016

 

We are still working

Hard – filing away

The shackles of Patriarchy –

 

Wondering where to drop

Them without littering

The world. But if

We talk too loudly,

 

And point it out, well,

We are whining and complaining;

Angry feminists all.

 

Once Helen Keller

Wrote a story and it

All was a rehash

Of something she had

Already read with her hands.

 

I wonder,

Is everything we

Do under a paper doll

Shadow of men.

 

This is poem #56 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

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