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April 7, 2016

 

No matter what

I’ll end up short.

Not enough love

Emitted I’m told

 

A mom can never

Find the balance.

I’m too much

Or too little

Everyday.

 

This is Poem #55 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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April 5, 2016

 

A child is born blank

And sponge-like;

Accepts both the toxic

And pure water offered.

 

Thirst is satiated

By the unlikeliest

Of sources – a man,

Sleeping, ragged on the street,

 

A mother’s grimace,

Dad’s failure to be home

For dinner on time. Ever

 

The absorbed information

Rippling and the television’s

Static above all.

 

This is Poem #54 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 below, and write from there.

 

Crypto Map 1

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

bigfoot

Mark an X where

You have seen the unbelievable.

Who will be convinced

Your mythic animal is real?

 

I once saw a panther

slink across a New Hampshire

Highway, but Fish & Game

Say I never did.

 

Big Foot hides in the brush

Of the Maine Coast.

He watches us swim,

Fly kites, swat flies.

 

Donning his Bermuda shorts

And sunhat, carrying

An extra-large beach towel,

 

He hides in the shadows

In the safest parts of

The map, watching

From his hermit

Existence on

The largest coastal shore.

 

This is Poem #52 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 below, and write from there.

 

Crypto Map

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

 

 

 

The hourglass sand slows

like the last kernels

desperate in the bag of microwave

 

popcorn. Do you start something

new when the end is near?

Nana took up acrylics at 64,

and woman I read about,

 

became an expert

waterskier at 85. Why

believe that

 

life ends at 40 and

there is no need

to start something new

 

when half you life –

statistically –

still waits for you?

 

This second nine

filled with wisdom

and life under parr.

 

With 30 minutes

til closing time

run through the museum,

 

order a five-course meal,

take a class.

Live.

 

easterncougar_960x400

 

She slank across

93 North – all hunches

And shadows in the dark.

 

No bear or dog

Boasts such shape

And movement on four paws.

 

Fish and Game won’t

Come clean

And admit she is here,

 

Guarding her kittens

In the White Mountains,

Feasting on deer

 

By the spring. She is too

Sly for security cameras.

Our own Big Foot in the midst

 

Of traffic jams and music

Festivals, beer tents,

and county fairs.

 

Someday, she will saunter

In, rollover to let us

Stroke her belly. Decide

If she wants us

For play

or for prey.

 

This is Poem #37 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.

Crypto Map

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

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 above, and write from there.

 

I’m sure I’m not the only one who has seen a Mountain Lion roaming in New Hampshire. Have you seen her?

If only it were so easy.

Walk up to the ex-boy scout

Grown middle-aged

 

Behind the counter –

Or the sage librarian

At the typewriter –

 

For instruction on directions,

Career path, marriage prospects.

Someone to stop you

 

Swiping that credit card

At the check out

Every time you think of it.

 

“Don’t wrack up debt.”

 

And then, at 40, you’ve

Got a hefty savings. Yes,

Make peace with your

Finances and your soul.

 

Go to church, but don’t

Ever follow anyone’s rules

To the book and don’t

Judge others. “That’s what

We owe history: risk.”

 

This is Poem #35 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 above, and write from there.

A Poem Inspired by a Bottle of Wine

 

An angel hovers –

Robes floating around her –

Billowing breezes come.

Her sword is ready

 

For the kill. When wrongs

Are done, do we do

The work of Vengeance

Or allow Karma

 

To do his work? Smite

Those who wrong and who

May never know

The blame to accept.

 

A bottle of wine

Banshee and Angels

Sell pressed grapes

And 11.6% alcohol.

 

Vindicated: when all

Is again right with

The world.

 

Smite: people do

Not use this word enough

Anymore.

 

The Angel raises her sword

Above her robes; do not

Distract her from

Her delicate work.

 

This is Poem #30 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.

I appreciate your feedback as these poems are not “finished,” and I intend to go back into many of them in the future.

They can move a structure

Across towns and cities –

Away from its original,

River home – to stand

 

Like new. These ancient

buildings, bridges, school

Houses that have witnessed

 

Proposals, weddings, learning.

Spitballs cemented to the ceiling.

 

They sell it to you

For one dollar.

 

You shell out thousands

for new plots and

Taking down power

And phone lines

 

For the slow crawl

From one spot to another.

 

Repurpose. Reinvent.

 

And the ladies drink

Coffee from tall, steel

Percolators.

The sugar sprawled

across the table

and the leaking creamer

Spreads like spilled blood.

In English class

I teach two African

Girls who’ve experienced

 

Such trauma in their

Home country, they have

No memories of their childhoods.

 

It’s interesting that

Michonne wields a machette

as her weapon of choice

and skill

and grace.

 

How she dances

With her implement

of destruction

 

The beautiful beheadings

of zombies.

 

She spins. Her powerful

Arms, her smooth

And perfect skin,

 

A foil to the failing,

Falling, pallid

zombie flesh.

Winter Carnival 2016

 

Lightsabers, plastic

And bright, swipe

Through the corridors

Of this institution of learning.

 

Some wielders wear white –

A rebel alliance – unfettered

As of yesterday; and,

Others, black.

 

Their alliance to the Empire

Clear. Droids beep

And bleep and spin

And roll and distract

 

My students from their

Lessons. Youtube

Taught me how to style

An artistic rendering

Of Rey with my hair,

 

And my flowing white

Shirt and boots

Help me to lead

The Alliance,

 

As we learn after

Hard fought battles,

Scars and lacerations,

We’ve won the intergalactic

War.

 

This is Poem #23 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.

For those of you familiar with the battle being fought on the figurative front at the time this poem was written, I’d also included the following parenthetical at the end:

(Take off your white sweater, Blonde Bitch!)

I appreciate your feedback as these poems are not “finished,” and I intend to go back into many of them in the future.

 

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