tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63209027005639049262024-03-19T04:11:20.557-07:00stealing firedon't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.comBlogger38125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6320902700563904926.post-19761269926844602632015-10-14T12:03:00.002-07:002015-10-14T12:03:34.049-07:00SAHMI hunt poetry in the rhythm of family,<br />
Heartbeat of a home,<br />
Syncopation of life,<br />
Crescendo of triviality,<br />
Ebb and flow of want, need, have.<br />
<br />
I am the besieged city,<br />
the forgotten tribe,<br />
the lost ark.<br />
I am the laughter of a fool,<br />
ignored,<br />
belittled,<br />
hushed.<br />
I am the wisdom of an old woman,<br />
ignored,<br />
belittled,<br />
hushed.<br />
I am the abandoned generation,<br />
fallen in the crack between an acronym and a simulation,<br />
smothered in the fold<br />
that is the present<br />
in the tesseract.<br />
<br />
It's no good as a script, they said. Too much punctuation, and no soundtrack.<br />
You lost us already.<br />
Too many words.<br />
Too small a budget.<br />
The effects are terrible.<br />
It borders on ridiculous.<br />
Next, please.<br />
<br />
Station stop. On time. Doors open.<br />
Closeopenclose. Openclose. Open. Close.<br />
Can we make the next one?<br />
Arrhythmia of the world.<br />
Next time, kids.<br />
We can wait.<br />
Now, what page were we on?<br />
<br />don't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6320902700563904926.post-22097080029987981102013-01-31T09:27:00.001-08:002013-01-31T09:29:44.040-08:00Hold Only BreathThere is a sweet relief these days<br />
To let the others speak the words,<br />
To watch the sun turn into ice, and ice to rain, and rain to snow,<br />
And not to put them in the prison of my mind,<br />
Not cage the wild ideas that hiss at me and fly<br />
And hold them in the sweaty palm of my control.<br />
<br />
There is no ready turn of phrase<br />
To hold the things that I have heard,<br />
Enfold and capture all these dreams, these tears, these smiles, these things I know<br />
And yet do not know: all the me I've left behind,<br />
A self so fragile it will crumble if you sigh,<br />
So giant that I cannot seem to see the whole. don't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6320902700563904926.post-77504685232282038372012-04-09T10:15:00.009-07:002012-04-09T11:36:51.976-07:00Saxon Braid in Undyed Wool<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">If I could look back on the years</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">in the same critiquing way</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">that my fingers check these stitches--</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Could note the nubs and notches,</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">the patches and holes,</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Knowing that if I wanted</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">I could unravel the wool and redo the rows--</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br style="font-family:georgia;"><br style="font-family:georgia;"></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"> <span style="font-style: italic;"> Would I?</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br style="font-family:georgia;"></span></div><br style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">I watch my fingers bind the final edge.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Feel the bulk of it,</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Stretch and tug and smooth and look again,</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br face="georgia"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Look and look again and feel again like<br />I can't bear to put it down.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br face="georgia"><br face="georgia"></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"> <span style="font-style: italic;"> But would I?</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br face="georgia"></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br face="georgia"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">And my silly heart beats faster.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br face="georgia"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">I always say not to play what-if's.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br face="georgia"><br face="georgia"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">And still I am tugging and smoothing.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br face="georgia"></span><br face="georgia"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"> <span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >the dropped stitches</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > the poor tension</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > the irregular threads</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > stretched thin</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > bunched up</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br face="georgia"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Over time, I tell myself, it will all wear in.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br face="georgia"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Those little things, no one will notice them.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br face="georgia"><br face="georgia"></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Except me.</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br face="georgia"></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br face="georgia"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">And all the while, I know I will be writing this down, writing these words,</span><br face="georgia"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Asking my self aloud for the first time,</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br face="georgia"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">watching my own heart spill out on this page,</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br face="georgia"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">watching my own letters scrawl </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br face="georgia"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">faster and more</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br face="georgia"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">blurred...</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br face="georgia"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">as they are.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br face="georgia"><br face="georgia"></span><span style=" font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" >If I could unravel it and do it again,</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br face="georgia" style=" font-style: italic;"></span><span style=" font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" > fill in the holes</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br face="georgia" style=" font-style: italic;"></span><span style=" font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" > straighten the rows</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br face="georgia" style=" font-style: italic;"></span><span style=" font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" > even the tension</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br face="georgia" style=" font-style: italic;"></span><br face="georgia"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Would I?</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br face="georgia"></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br style="font-family: georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Yes.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br style="font-family: georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">No.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br style="font-family: georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">I don't know.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br style="font-family: georgia;"></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"> <span style="font-style: italic;"> Yes?</span></span><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div></div>don't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6320902700563904926.post-76828327338516553662010-09-21T05:59:00.000-07:002010-09-21T16:01:41.801-07:00as summer passes<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">these days give so much</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">in their too quick hours that I</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br />breathe wordless in them</span><br /><br /><br />The summer has gone by--too fast, as always.<br />Fall. I love fall.<br />School. I love school schedules.<br />Gardens. And canning. And the timeless beauty of the task of saving the fruits of this season to feed my family for the winter. I never feel more the glory of being a wife and mother than in the fall, as I preserve those gorgeous healthy summer days in jar after jar, and wash the blankets, and stack firewood, and fill holes in the cellar walls, and build foundations, and .... oh, wait.<br />But I do love it.<br />And obviously, I haven't been on here often.<br />Autumn has a bad habit of leaving me speechless.<br />And my husband has a bad habit of leaving me computer-less now that the semester is fully under way.<br /><br />But today, I have a computer, and a few minutes of blessed silence, and to prove th<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjddkngzdENryfdQn42BoDRbhD0j_bz1zPZOu4aASZUDO-q92ofXGJM8HvbSGSmpz8Acdo4bgzMo2ThqzB8sn4JvmJM_acGYHItgeyIRm8lllrK_X8Hor24nJKnoIoNj4Y2YIVbcO4djKnJ/s1600/SDC14773.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjddkngzdENryfdQn42BoDRbhD0j_bz1zPZOu4aASZUDO-q92ofXGJM8HvbSGSmpz8Acdo4bgzMo2ThqzB8sn4JvmJM_acGYHItgeyIRm8lllrK_X8Hor24nJKnoIoNj4Y2YIVbcO4djKnJ/s200/SDC14773.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519360248270542562" border="0" /></a>at I have been thinking of this page for weeks, though I had no time, I shall put up a few pictures, in no particular order, of the past few weeks' worth of busyness, that I took with each of you in mind.<br /><div style="text-align: right;">Summer apples.<br /><br /></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsmEkLT4KN8ZHaUrfdcVw9ZLWvxrzFl5WtU81js1IvVGj0jwzOlFv-jsSyXU8Z39eI0lRhQSEA9D7ajxv7xAzwnbyoAD3wuZrIW9YJ6z2PEFnABts-V6i6DSypCV32XkCRNlGlDz8kqrrq/s1600/SDC14851.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsmEkLT4KN8ZHaUrfdcVw9ZLWvxrzFl5WtU81js1IvVGj0jwzOlFv-jsSyXU8Z39eI0lRhQSEA9D7ajxv7xAzwnbyoAD3wuZrIW9YJ6z2PEFnABts-V6i6DSypCV32XkCRNlGlDz8kqrrq/s200/SDC14851.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519361686385219090" border="0" /></a>Pickles. Dill ones. Tons of them.<br /><br /><br /><br />SUNY Potsdam kindly landscaped their campus with crabapples, and every few y<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8HB4_vOyv5tUyEOqiNsCFEIGQKazTj6eJ37m0WJqXj5USrJexNlfZKD062OSjJHD4h9_ms9HbssJ098ndJitgiW3rwHuyFITO8tvGxOhk0iwCFNocM3uhexUfkE1EFGfTA9nAsiIqpy6j/s1600/SDC14865.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8HB4_vOyv5tUyEOqiNsCFEIGQKazTj6eJ37m0WJqXj5USrJexNlfZKD062OSjJHD4h9_ms9HbssJ098ndJitgiW3rwHuyFITO8tvGxOhk0iwCFNocM3uhexUfkE1EFGfTA9nAsiIqpy6j/s200/SDC14865.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519361021181610706" border="0" /></a>ears there is a great season with more than enough for everyone. Except, only my family is crazy enough to put a sheet under a crabapple tree in the middle of a college campus and shake the trees and drag home the loot. Makes a gorgeous spicy jelly.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja-qfBi2blti2hyphenhyphenuR1lUXr4yuAyjVE1XDh8-aY9jCA3VFFykvNPAJEa5jEBn_psg-ih8F7ABCaAAuxv19Vldodb5bkUvawloY53dY5Aeu07M2ukf-tgtsgENcXSaPCU6Zgp8BXuDwpW_1q/s1600/SDC14875.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja-qfBi2blti2hyphenhyphenuR1lUXr4yuAyjVE1XDh8-aY9jCA3VFFykvNPAJEa5jEBn_psg-ih8F7ABCaAAuxv19Vldodb5bkUvawloY53dY5Aeu07M2ukf-tgtsgENcXSaPCU6Zgp8BXuDwpW_1q/s200/SDC14875.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519362288971930674" border="0" /></a>Does he look ominous? We got an hour of happiness out of him:<br /><div style="text-align: right;">stuffed with plastic bags, with jingle bells tied in his tail.<br />Anything to keep a very busy one year old occupied.<br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAX99MeEPbQR2msSk7PUMnAx6p59_vRA5Dv6ZhWZ_t5B-XctN3PGPa-m1PDLKygPdL0n3MEl-Wp4bWOzNKw9VZtoalp3DMJdOC06QeYvJaxbDQOiwHU5et2ATw-qBPSaBYwPzxoOYgOWOw/s1600/SDC14861.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAX99MeEPbQR2msSk7PUMnAx6p59_vRA5Dv6ZhWZ_t5B-XctN3PGPa-m1PDLKygPdL0n3MEl-Wp4bWOzNKw9VZtoalp3DMJdOC06QeYvJaxbDQOiwHU5et2ATw-qBPSaBYwPzxoOYgOWOw/s200/SDC14861.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519360674091764802" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The makings of tomato sauce.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">And...afore-mentioned one year old. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqlV5uNw7KwjiSYP5VvVS4oAOQ60_RmX3TSNotBL9sv0aDGwH1mCdhxIedgriJxjiNKXQxAiLm0bG0Hp1u3RSwJ9KnmKJOXh5Em2BL3L5okf3qqIDsviNbCtXS0ZrROZt81YSZQhCDuOWm/s1600/SDC14882.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqlV5uNw7KwjiSYP5VvVS4oAOQ60_RmX3TSNotBL9sv0aDGwH1mCdhxIedgriJxjiNKXQxAiLm0bG0Hp1u3RSwJ9KnmKJOXh5Em2BL3L5okf3qqIDsviNbCtXS0ZrROZt81YSZQhCDuOWm/s200/SDC14882.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519363025105780978" border="0" /></a>One and a half, rather.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">(No longer quiet right now, by the way).<br /><br />And because the silence is gone, I must end this post prematurely. But I will come back. The "magnetic poetry" words are back on the refrigerator, and as they arrange and rearange themselves over the days, I have no doubt that inspiration will slowly resurrect while the leaves die and the cold cozy days return.<br />My best to all of you out there.<br />May your whiskers be long and your whiskey golden.<br />Or something.<br /></div>don't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6320902700563904926.post-23841569100939841802010-06-07T16:33:00.000-07:002010-06-07T16:41:14.318-07:00<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">There are more words in my head and my heart that want to be in these lines; probably one of these days I will add to the poem. For now, here it is: and as usual, I can't think of the title. It will come to me some day....I hope....<br /><br /></span></span>We called the earth<br /> our mother,<br />The wind our father.<br />We sang the words,<br />and whistled, and laughed for freedom;<br />We laughed with love of dreaming,<br /> of one another:<br />We missed the tears in his murmurs,<br />the sob in her breath.<br /><br />We realized when we, silent,<br />stood by our children<br />And loved with so much anguish,<br /> such helpless passion,<br />Our hands were his, caressing,<br /> that could not hold them,<br />Her arms outstretched for her children,<br />but empty till death.don't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6320902700563904926.post-92114803072649133492010-05-16T18:17:00.000-07:002010-05-16T18:28:23.431-07:00no one ever said<br />how lonely my heart would be<br />when it beat alonedon't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6320902700563904926.post-6177225049108813172010-04-30T17:21:00.000-07:002010-04-30T17:32:31.805-07:00Something about lamplight in the twilight:<br />I don't know what, just something.<br />Maybe I really am a hobbit.<br />Country roads and green leaves and sleepy birds.<br />And lamplight.<br /><br />Just something.don't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6320902700563904926.post-15580849742060752942010-04-12T18:16:00.000-07:002010-06-11T18:38:22.275-07:00Yours TrulyI am grateful most<br />Not that you are handsome,<br />Even though you know all too well that you are,<br />Not that you are the lover of my dreams,<br />Though you know you are that too,<br />Not that you are the father of my children,<br />Born and unborn,<br />Not that you are the hard-working husband<br />That comes home to me every night,<br />Not that you can take me to heights and depths of my soul<br />That I never knew existed,<br />Not that you call me your whiskey girl<br />And your sweetheart,<br />Not that you love to wear a flower on your lapel<br />And suspenders that button on,<br />Not for every little smile and scowl and temper and tease<br />And touch and movement that makes you mine, all and always mine,<br /><br />But most that when we were younger<br />And before you were mine,<br />You respected me,<br />And that before I was your girl<br />I was your lady:<br />For that I am always<br />Most gratefully<br />Yours.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCmKugnX-Hh0Pgo9Wiv2q1_hEkGt7CKwdf-GdUud2uv5tR9Mafz2J_NxxpgS8AsqtOr-ZFsV1bslm6agf91-S5BsrpmYcOc0bGfEVtkwEc1ihguZ7Famk0PUDJpKRdvD9OmZaKtAiAGebp/s1600/n513823160_826529_7532.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCmKugnX-Hh0Pgo9Wiv2q1_hEkGt7CKwdf-GdUud2uv5tR9Mafz2J_NxxpgS8AsqtOr-ZFsV1bslm6agf91-S5BsrpmYcOc0bGfEVtkwEc1ihguZ7Famk0PUDJpKRdvD9OmZaKtAiAGebp/s320/n513823160_826529_7532.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481694892104754850" border="0" /></a>don't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6320902700563904926.post-8288149466470560472010-04-11T16:30:00.000-07:002010-04-11T16:53:54.910-07:00Still NaiveBut why would they?<br />All of them.<br />Toppled like ninepins.<br />How am I different, or how was I missed?<br />We started together,<br />All clean white and shining,<br />Courageous sweet sixteen, and never been kissed.<br />And now I glance backwards<br />To look for my comrades<br />And stop in my tracks and the tears freely flow.<br />Why didn't they tell me?<br />They knew I was there.<br />I'd have carried them through in my arms had I known.don't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6320902700563904926.post-62646234074649334602010-04-05T17:57:00.001-07:002010-04-06T14:07:02.845-07:00Diaphane<span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" >For a moment, when she turned her head,<br />The bursting leaves on the elm tree<br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" >Were cherry blossoms instead.</span><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVqjsPxf5RWKtpYoV-UjA53XGKmUcdE9jck0comSxU2PvnMLNoywL21IE5zg0wbzKQuA-KAxQ6WJ83t0HTZTRJNz_880i0jGeBtpMpyAQOz7_vq02M5dsdEsPo0fECBCxN5n2MHRG_6Umy/s1600/cherry+blossoms.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 162px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVqjsPxf5RWKtpYoV-UjA53XGKmUcdE9jck0comSxU2PvnMLNoywL21IE5zg0wbzKQuA-KAxQ6WJ83t0HTZTRJNz_880i0jGeBtpMpyAQOz7_vq02M5dsdEsPo0fECBCxN5n2MHRG_6Umy/s200/cherry+blossoms.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457133288150609954" border="0" /></a><br /><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"> And I wonder now</span>, she later said,</span><br /><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">If maybe they were as happy</span></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />As I, that I'd been misled.</span></span>don't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6320902700563904926.post-56626876837839822402010-04-02T09:39:00.000-07:002010-04-02T13:10:58.890-07:00I thought they broke the mold<span style="font-style: italic;">John Berberich over at <a href="http://www.slapoets.org/">SLAP</a> passed along to me their latest challenge: a poem a day for all of April. As I lay in bed late last night fighting the stomach flu for the second day in a row, I found three random lines, and congratulated myself drearily on being ahead for one day. Well--um--yesterday was the first of April, as I realized this morning, so I was not at all ahead. Oh well. At least I wrote one for yesterday then, right? </span><br /><br />The same devilment's<br />In the unborn brother's kicks<br />And that four-toothed grin.don't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6320902700563904926.post-63508513684727370762010-02-02T20:02:00.000-08:002010-02-02T20:38:08.019-08:00it's just today<span style="font-style: italic;">There are som</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP7_tUavqdvlHAvkR8XLklxdxbxOw1K0fpAUnSZaJY_cvn9IZqY7XKir9bVk976qljqw1Yezihktmyans3D5NjhWRpDmcYD98Tq6u8FEOB77ATVpiE8FzRfM3l40DavxYUzR3ES_Gxm_jv/s1600-h/SDC14011.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP7_tUavqdvlHAvkR8XLklxdxbxOw1K0fpAUnSZaJY_cvn9IZqY7XKir9bVk976qljqw1Yezihktmyans3D5NjhWRpDmcYD98Tq6u8FEOB77ATVpiE8FzRfM3l40DavxYUzR3ES_Gxm_jv/s200/SDC14011.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433868828081252914" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">e days in life when poetry escapes us--the words are there inside, seething and confused, and w</span><span style="font-style: italic;">e can't put them in order at all.<br />I don'</span><span style="font-style: italic;">t like the poetry that comes out on those days--troubled, ugly, unhappy. Today has been one of those days; but I don't want </span><span style="font-style: italic;">to sh</span><span style="font-style: italic;">are th</span><span style="font-style: italic;">at.<br />Instead, I will follow <a href="http://recently-banned-literature.blogspot.com/">Wi</a></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy2txRUrstruUO5zanOpYE92CSc3NpWCOy69acTjXdpyfaii4lI5L40Gz7Jm8rSKEgLk8ZCZM5COJK0muKIkFLZysL9RAvJ9B6U4JmScpJdC5KbLjLHaE1RaHCC74MaBCH0BZuAcGy1xU7/s1600-h/SDC13996.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 207px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy2txRUrstruUO5zanOpYE92CSc3NpWCOy69acTjXdpyfaii4lI5L40Gz7Jm8rSKEgLk8ZCZM5COJK0muKIkFLZysL9RAvJ9B6U4JmScpJdC5KbLjLHaE1RaHCC74MaBCH0BZuAcGy1xU7/s200/SDC13996.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433869320862686034" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://recently-banned-literature.blogspot.com/">lliam's</a> lead and post a visual poem, snapshots of things that have been beautiful today, little moments that sa</span><span style="font-style: italic;">ve me. They are taken on </span><span style="font-style: italic;">a tiny camera; they are not a photographer's work by any means; and they may mean nothing to anyone else: but at least I know that I tried, on a pretty much no-good day, to cont</span><span style="font-style: italic;">ribute a little beauty to the world aroun</span><span style="font-style: italic;">d me.<br /> </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAiI96wdB0vCBJnAnPFt37oYlrfxGoTi5m5KwCE19LOX78eFATTqj3vL0YEt3mG9iSzejXSNA-DLslOBxIKm2a2e7HgXeOC8wQxabBRYn9RIMIalzIG_Svopf9Hxo-MgBoGwvLqaAWkg2W/s1600-h/untitled.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAiI96wdB0vCBJnAnPFt37oYlrfxGoTi5m5KwCE19LOX78eFATTqj3vL0YEt3mG9iSzejXSNA-DLslOBxIKm2a2e7HgXeOC8wQxabBRYn9RIMIalzIG_Svopf9Hxo-MgBoGwvLqaAWkg2W/s200/untitled.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433869957146784146" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>don't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6320902700563904926.post-36594216412132755732010-01-27T05:42:00.000-08:002010-01-27T05:45:05.308-08:00The Fine Art of FermentationWe are like sauerkraut<br />Or cheese or wine.<br />We keep on growing while the world goes on.<br />Come back from time to time to check the brine,<br />Inspect the mold, and stir the bubbles down.<br />The age will do us good. Just let us rest.<br />The bubbles rise and fall while you are gone,<br />The veins that grow the bluest are the best.<br /><br />I'll tell you when it's time to paint the town.don't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6320902700563904926.post-77971864503187787342009-08-31T03:38:00.000-07:002009-08-31T09:14:37.439-07:00unfinished thought<span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">it's not that his smiles are any less charming</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">just because he uses them to punctuate</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">the joyful buckings of a healthy little body</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">at three o'clock</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">on monday morning</span></span>don't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6320902700563904926.post-58938339340102915902009-08-28T21:54:00.000-07:002009-08-28T22:24:46.351-07:00Of Watercress and Less Important Things<span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >Thanks to <a href="http://ursprache.blogspot.com/2009/08/ill-pass-on-that.html">ursprache</a> for somehow inspiring this train of thought.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><br /><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >The other day as I lay half-awake<br />I realized that for at least two days<br />my life had not ventured further than the mailbox,<br />which is right next to the front door.<br /><br />And that really, when it came down to it, I was just fine with that.<br /><br />Sunbathing on the patio<br />Sleeping baby inside<br />Cold grapefruit juice with the luxury of a straw<br /><br />My life does not need words like confusificate or tumescent<br />to describe it.<br />I talk about other people's lives like that, sometimes.<br />But mine--well, maybe I should expand my vocabulary.<br />I'd really like it to include words<br />like watercress<br />and gesundheit and chiffon.<br />Those are good words.<br />I guess I'm just not quite ready to move on to delving into<br />the language of despondence and murky sexualism<br />till I have put a bit more watercress into my life.<br />I am still stuck at a point<br />where I clip coupons that I always forget to use,<br />and covet Audrey Hepburn's timeless elegance,<br />not to mention her figure,<br />and wish I could grow red geraniums in a window box<br />just because they stand for hospitality.<br />And I suppose I'll be here for a long time<br />before I ever make it to watercress,<br />let alone gesundheit.<br />So be it.<br />I'll get there someday.<br />Don't wait for me, though.<br />I feel like I might come across a few more important entries in the dictionary<br />between chiffon and confusificate.</span>don't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6320902700563904926.post-6656060329737772752009-08-14T22:20:00.001-07:002009-08-14T22:37:50.101-07:00Hardcore<span style="font-family:georgia;">And she is hard.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">I knew her once.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">That night her lips were cherry red.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">(I should have written this before,</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">The day it all ran through my head.</span>)<br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">There's strength, and there's the strong. And then</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">there's crabs.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">You know, with hard-ass shells.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">The skeleton is all outside.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Inside, it's all just gooey wells.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">I just don't know.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">I understand that wearing hearts pinned on your sleeve</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Is too much like the children's games,</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Where someone snatches, laughs and leaves.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">But this--where did it go? and when?</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">The words are sticking to my pen.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">I'd laughed and said, "You're so hardcore."</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">She didn't smile though.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">"I am."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">And suddenly my little life</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Just shriveled up and ran and hid.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">I'd planned to meet her there.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">But where's the girl I knew when we were kids?</span>don't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6320902700563904926.post-11929168728204202132009-08-13T19:35:00.000-07:002009-08-14T22:05:23.721-07:00Candid Shots<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">After that weekend in Seattle last spring, I found myself spending hours at a time scribbling lists of phrases in no particular order in random notebooks, trying to capture a thousand memories. I keep stumbling across those pages. Sometimes, it seems better not to try to organize the fragments. They are what they are.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Bittersweet<br />Life is made of pictures.<br />Plowed furrows flashing by,<br />Perspective, all angled from the flying shadow outward,<br />From the shadow of a little enclosed adventure.<br />Laughter<br />Loud music<br />Love somewhere inside.<br />And yes, I volunteered to sleep on the floor so I could<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> at least be next to him</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> within arm's reach.</span><br /></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />They say it's always rainy there.<br />It was sunny for us<br />Sunny, and purple benches, and purple flowers,<br />And pictures in sepia tone in little corners of a garden.<br />Smooth bark that was hard to keep a seat on.<br />Sunny over in line with the emo kids<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> in the rain.</span><br /></div><span style="font-size:100%;">Sunniest in that dark basement of a venue,<br />With hot sweaty bodies and too much noise<br />That shook the dust from the ceiling.<br />Sunniest there.<br />For me at least.<br /><br />I don't remember any rain, those days.<br />I still have the key to that place,<br />And the ferris wheel ticket,<br />And the band ticket,<br />And the parking ticket,<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> the good kind, of course.</span><br /></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />Life is made of candid shots.<br /></span>don't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6320902700563904926.post-4650176336305581892009-06-25T11:29:00.000-07:002009-06-25T11:52:12.555-07:00Awakening<span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">I stand before the closed venetian blinds</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">With summer morning sun a golden silent promise </span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">Waiting, glowing and awake.</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">And blurred across my early morning mind</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">A hesitation, like the moment of a first kiss--</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">Most important choice I'll make.</span>don't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6320902700563904926.post-67084736657784878842009-04-30T12:38:00.001-07:002009-04-30T19:55:16.323-07:00..<span style="font-style: italic;">.found this in a notebook; forgot I ever wrote it...not poetry, but something</span>...<br /><br />Old man<br />Showing me the old town.<br />Sort of hopeless hope in him.<br />Proud<br />A million stories<br />All true? Dunno--sometimes<br />Just want to ask if they're imagined. Or read.<br />Or overheard.<br />"See this lot? Yup, I own this one and the two across the street.<br />Bought for dirt cheap.<br />Know how much I paid?"<br />No, I don't know.<br />And I don't hear the answer. Too aware<br />of the vacant, dead houses, the dead town,<br />dead and still as a hot summer afternoon<br />with grasshoppers.<br />Only it's a warm winter noon.<br />Too aware of a sort of singing in my ears,<br />an inexplicable feeling of desperate claustrophobia,<br />an urgent desire to scream over his endless voice<br />over his success plan,<br />over his bitter desire to be right,<br />not when everyone else is wrong, but<br />because everyone else is wrong.<br />Because they are all wrong.<br />And I can't.<br />I can't shut him away from me like that.<br />Because some of his stories are true.<br />Because once I heard him admit to making mistakes in his life.<br />Because once he said the only mistake he ever didn't make was his son.<br />And I love him for that moment, however brief, of humanity.<br />And so I smile and nod, and try to keep the walls of my world<br />bigger than this ghost town.<br />Because the world is bigger.<br />More alive.<br />Right?don't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6320902700563904926.post-57170046535939094242009-04-17T14:03:00.000-07:002009-04-17T15:32:12.862-07:00for seattle last yearmae in april, running headlong<br />caffeine steps of saturday,<br />and the world is spinning faster<br />for the children's games we play<br />lean your head back, don't be dizzy,<br />laugh out loud, forget the time<br />lean your head back in the music,<br />watch the dust fall down in rhyme<br />driving wrong way so they told me<br />gonna miss you kids he said<br />leanback make thewor ldspinfaster<br />fasterfa sterrou ndmyhead<br />don'tforgetthe purpleben<br />chestrafficstopperscoffeetown<br />nonoleanyourheadbackfurther<br />dontstopnowwe'llallfalldown...don't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6320902700563904926.post-65304480012233210132009-01-29T09:27:00.001-08:002009-02-13T09:22:07.647-08:00Picture Them HomeI saw summer leaving, this last year.<br />He passed me on our street.<br />He tried to look past me, through me,<br />Anywhere but into eyes where he could see blame<br />Or pleading to stay.<br />He looked like a little boy that afternoon,<br />torn jeans, faded t-shirt, short shock of blond hair<br />and bare feet on a bike,<br />coasting down the hill<br />with the wind caressing his childhood tan.<br />It's hard to tell when you see him, sometimes;<br />he has so many different faces, from day to day.<br />But I knew it was him, that time--<br />Because he wouldn't look at me.don't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6320902700563904926.post-89263531295993387202009-01-09T09:14:00.000-08:002009-01-17T11:32:09.245-08:00Anticipation<span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Airports are sad places, my mother said then.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">But now, I'm not so sure.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Alone, I lean my head against the dark outside</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">And watch embracing wings.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Don't know that it's sad now, so much as human.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">I feel the unborn's stir.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">I think of all the love, and time, and lives inside</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">The darkness of these things.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">No place else so lonely, and so surrounded.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">The darkness of the womb,</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">And early morning hours. Anticipation. Yes,</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">It's that which makes us Man</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Makes mankind my being. Our life is grounded.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Transition is our home.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">So here we sit who can't, for all our human-ness,</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">And wait for times that can.</span>don't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6320902700563904926.post-43195379492526454942008-12-09T12:02:00.000-08:002009-02-13T09:26:37.654-08:00Shameless<span style="font-family:georgia;">Sometimes in a moment when I think<br />I'm gonna go completely crazy--<br />Not the good kind, the horrid kind--<br />When it feels like there's nothing in my soul but dirty dishes<br />and puppy puddles on the floor<br />and bills<br />and phone calls I hate making<br />And I stand before the stupid heater<br />And wish it could ease the ache in my back<br />I look up and see your eyes<br />And for some reason<br />I get a silly little memory from college,<br />of Russ, ten years older than I, scribbling away gently on his paper<br />red head and beard tousled.<br />"What are you writing?"<br />Just being nosy.<br />"A love letter to my wife--"<br />So open, looking up to meet my eyes.<br />"Read it."<br />And me, awkward, nervous laugh,<br />Embarrassed because I asked,<br />Because he told.<br />"Read it. Here."<br />And the notebook turned around, black words on a white page,<br />Standing naked and unashamed before me.<br />And I read it.<br />And somehow, today, life is not so bad,<br />Because a man wrote a love letter to his wife.<br /></span>don't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6320902700563904926.post-46823994468243164432008-11-04T22:48:00.000-08:002008-11-05T22:50:38.469-08:00Contortionist<span style="font-family:arial;">A childhood story said that far away</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And long ago, men bound themselves entwined</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">In twists and curves so tight that where those lay</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The limbs would join. That sketch still in my mind...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> So much they lost. The beauty, and the form;</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> Proportion gone. And where there used to be</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> That grace of movement, they had dared transform</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> And hinder part of them that would be free.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> And hand to head, and arm to breast, they stand</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> And watch the pennies fall before their feet.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> But all I think of is the useless hand</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> And how that closeness is its own defeat,</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And how perhaps I, like them, could be free, </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">But keep the things I love too close to me.</span>don't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6320902700563904926.post-83978305034822102112008-10-12T21:47:00.000-07:002008-10-13T18:42:57.067-07:00Gnat(apparently I have always been obsessed with bugs......)<br /><br />So effortless. I only moved my hand<br />And pressed one fingertip upon the stone.<br />Not even pressed, just placed. And that was it.<br />That winged speck of life that crawled alone<br />Was no more than a blot upon the grey<br />That looking back I couldn't find again<br />Once I had turned my eyes another way.<br />And yet, that was a life. It once had been<br />A little point of wonder, even it,<br />The center of a cosmos so minute,<br />And yet, to it, unknown and infinite;<br />And I had stopped that life. The things we do!<br />One finger from a bigger world reached in,<br />And world touched world.<br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"> </span><div style="text-align: center;">It never even knew. <br /></div>don't be emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12610909211896466990noreply@blogger.com14