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November 26, 2016

I love playing games with you.
Never posing still for your camera.
Those blurry prints
Must be driving you wild.

We cannot let you know
We are really here, humans,
You wreck all that you discover,
And I am a cautious mother.

I leave no evidence of my
Womanly trade - no fire pit,
(Yes, we've got fire, too)
Or kerchief left unfolded.

We laugh as you all sit
And hope we will stroll by.
Occasionally, one of us will,
Just to keep your imagination

Ticking. Then, we will move on,
For fear of discovery.

This is Poem #208 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.

November 13, 2016

We always need to believe
In something. When we are
Facing turmoil like we have never
Known. Who does not want

A Sasquatch wondering the mountains
Of Maine, Vermont, and New Hampshire?
Blurry photographs as evidence,

There is something
Out there.

Truth, elusive,
Hiding in a cave, living in the deepest depths
Of Lake Champagne or
Winnipesaukee. Will she

Leave a sample of blood -
Something never seen on
Earth before to baffle

Scientists and give us
Hope there is something
Bigger than ourselves
In the deep

With Mulder's flying saucer?

This is Poem #199 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.

The front page of The International Cryptozoology Museum’s floor map.

June 5, 2016

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The formaldehyde is up my nose.

How can a person breath under

Glass? I am blind to the scent

Of preservation now; used

To your desperate

Attempts to keep me

Locked under a tight lid. 


You have kindly punched

Air-holes into the tin – 

So no one is going to fault

You your jar of fireflies,

Kept next to your bed

On the night

Stand. Up stairs,

Tucked in tightly

With the light made

Of captivity’s glow. 


This is Poem #89 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.

June 4, 2016

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Piled high, your writing overflows

From paper bags. You never

Know who may want to read

You when you are gone. 


Books line walls and windows

Let in sunlight in the afternoon-

Too hot to type then,

And solve plot problems,


Or souls. But, Saturday night,

Tap tap tap and

The whizz and whirl

As keys pound

Out a procrastinated sermon,

And the mimeograph machine

Squirts purple ink

Onto the Sunday 

Bulletin. Words


From a mount more

Authentic than these sterile,

Modern desks. 


This is Poem #88 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.


June 2, 2016

Swirl around my morning

Leaving a trail of sorrow

In this wake of stress. 


Searching for shade,

You passive aggressively

Condemn my driving. 


If only you could

Dust or vacuum as you

Spin beyond reason’s


Control for a small

Turn made grand

And all encompassing. 


This is Poem #87 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.

June 1, 2016

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Every relationship 

Is a locked glass

Box filled with


Transparent secrets. 

Those closest know –


Manipulation, anger –


Those things can be hard

to hide for long.

And who does not want 

To know what has 

Gone wrong in your union?


We can dust off the shelves,

And replace lighting

To more attractively display

All that’s awry on each

Level –  between broken pipes of bone, and

shards of pottery, and

a rubber toy Indian

some kid lost in the earth

of the backyard. 


This is Poem #86 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.

May 13, 2016

There are real animals

That seem too mystical 

To exist, even after 

We’ve witnessed them.

 

Giraffes eating leaves

From the tallest trees.

Zebras, who double 

As dinners for lions.

 

Even the possum,

Roadkill on 93 North,

Seems too weird to be. 

 

Yet, we doubt

The Yeti or Chupacabra.

Are they any more strange

Than an antelope?

 

In the age of hybrid tomatoes 

And lobsters, cars,

Why doubt a woman 

Has been spliced with a fish?

This is Poem #77 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.

May 10, 2016

 

Are you real? Swimming

Around in circles and swallowing

All that’s popped up

 

Ahead of you. There is hope

for something better – just

Wade through the muck

Of these stagnant tide pools.

 

No kids will safely collect

Shells here in their tiny

Shorts and bonnets. The

Predator always waits,

Spinning in the deep. 

 

 

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.

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.

May 5, 2016

 

Sculpted bits of Pygmy

and fish, not the beautiful

Mermaid that Disney’s inspired,

 

But monsters deep 

In cold salted waters,

Lurking and luring ships.

 

Dazzling with ugly,

Constructed faces, fiends, 

Not princesses at all. 

 

Some are so easily fooled,

a new happy ending

for Happy Meals. 

Long red hair

combed with a fork.

 

Leave them alone. 

 

No legs will grace

A sandy beach to dine, 

Then stab or not

Stab a prince. 

This is Poem #73 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.

Red gingham vinyl

Lines the shelves and a metal

Table housed our coffee mugs. 

Nostalgia doesn’t get closer

Than this. AM radio

Was a smooth train ride

For Paul Harvey and Swap & Shop, and

Your knife scraping

Over crusty toast. 

Nana’s curlers still in

And her pink cotton robe. 

You left the coffee

Pot on all day – sipping

black oil liquid gold 

Between Larry’s visits

And Jean’s. 

You’ve all left now.

Wooden counters replaced

With Corian and the drop

Ceiling gone to the dump

As it should. Do they

Keep

the door

to the basement

Closed and the leaky

Floors and asbestos from

Ruining their lives?

(Get out of our house.)

White linoleum floor,

And the twin oven that made

The best french Fries. 

Heating up Pizza Hut

In the toaster oven

And cooking a real

Meat burger while

You played 

Twilight League. 

This is Poem #72 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.

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