The main reason become a writer

“The main reason to become a writer, in my opinion, is that writing is what you love to do more than anything else, and the thought of doing something other than writing eight or nine hours a day, five days a week bores you to tears… Writers are interested in a diverse range of subjects but prefer to move from field to field to satisfy intellectual curiosity, rather than devote an entire working life to one particular discipline.”

- Robert Bly, “Careers for Writers & Others Who Have a Way with Words”

Desiderata

Desiderata is a beautiful old one by Max Ehrmann…always a good reminder.

Choir practice

Another old one…

In the gather and the brush of people
I keep my eyes low, flicking glances.
I would rather not speak, just now-
but the colors!
Each vocal tone richly mixing,
rising in laughter, the gentle bass crescendo in the back left row
and the woman with that pure soprano, in strangely green pants!
Someone, an alto, behind me to the right
has a looser sense of beat and her notes tend to hang into the first breath
of each ordained rest, her voice a little screechy.
I smile, wondering what I really sound like
outside the warm insulation of bloodlines vibrating through my bones
(disembodied, my small notes bouncing off the aluminum folding chairs).

“Requiem Aeternam Deo”: this is a difficult one.
The mutterings between songs change to humming,
those who can read music forging ahead,
hammering out the slight shift from sharp to natural,
curbing the edge of sound into a disciplined staccato of eighth notes,
wincing loudly for the rest of us
when we stampede, bellowing,
over the hallowed ground of some somber intended pianissimo.

Miss Meriel Mink

Miss Meriel Mink, you’ve a bottle to drink!
said her mother one mild muddly May.
With a slurp and a smack, she tossed her milk back,
and scampered on outside to play.

Schoenberg

For the Austrian composer, Arnold Schoenberg.

“The emancipation of dissonance,” you called it.

Did they suspect, when you began?
When you stepped quickly to the podium, rubbing your fingers,
and turned toward them with the traditional slight nod?

They were still settled comfortably in their seats, arms slack,
as you gathered each sound in your fingers,
drawing the notes from your yielding musicians.

You pulled the orchestra onward and in,
lifting and swelling the upright basses that tumbled smoothly down your wrists,
sweeping inexorably into
no,
the wrong, wrong place; the audience winced, shifted,
and you, deliberate and heedless,
with one taut cupped hand supporting the violas
on that one excruciatingly long chord,
continued to wring from their bows
delicately wet sound
reverberating perfectly
in the cochlea of perfect-pitch ears,
refusing resolution.

When you play in Italy, they will hurl their opinions onstage
with rotting fruits and vegetables;
but here, now, you are immersed and lost and safe.

Friday

This poem was written for the Good Friday service at Orcas Island Community Church this year.

Isaac’s on the altar, bound and terrified.
Your only son, and he born to carry on your line
your little one, who has his mother Sarah’s eyes.
Abraham – take the knife and lift it high.

Your husband Jacob loves your sister Rachel still
(your beauty holds no candle to her lovely eye)
and he your husband much against his will;
Leah, take your cup and drink it dry.

Newly freed from Egypt, Israel longed for other chains
you danced for Aaron’s golden calf in revelry and lust.
Drink up, my chosen people: your jewels and your shame.
Your treasure and your worship are ground to golden dust.

The armies of the north will sweep away your tribe,
prophet of the exile. It is yours to cry
for Judah, who cannot be cleansed by any soap or lye.
Lift your voice, o weeper Jeremiah, raise it high.

They’ll say your son was sired by another on the sly
you’ll store these things up in your heart until he comes to die
A sword will pierce your soul; a spear your baby’s side;
Mary, take your cup and drink it dry.

In Bethany you broke your alabaster jar
and poured the perfume on his feet that soon would carry scars.
Costly oil of spikenard, Mary, lift it high –
for this one last anointing, your hair will serve to dry.

I am the Son of Man, who must be lifted high;
I am Israel’s ram, slain by Israel’s knife;
I am the broken jar, poured out and emptied dry;
I am the living water that fills your cup with life.

I have drunk the bitter cup to draw an end to thirst
and you can bear the lifted cup because I drank it first.
My body is the offered bread that yet would break your fast.
The bitter cup was broken when I was broken last.

Lift up your cup of suffering, and drink it to the last;
raise the draught of mystery till sorrowing is past.
Shelter in the shadow with the broken, living lamb:
your sacrifice; your purchase price; the shattered cup; I AM.

And Now You Are Sleepy

Ok, so it’s sappy. Chalk it up to first baby syndrome.. another oldie.

And now you are sleepy, my sweet little bear,
rubbing your eyes and tugging your hair.

Sleepier still is your black, whuffly nose
that snuffles and gruffles wherever it goes.

Yawning and yawning, your red little tongue
is sagging and dragging, my fur-beary one.

Your bumbly belly is full of warm bread;
the honey and cream are nodding your head.

Your plump padded paws are weary from play
and ready for rest from a hum-dinger day!

The stars are all rising to follow the grey
gloaming that bundles and blankets the bay.

Now burrow in close for a Papa-bear snuggle;
give Mama a kiss and a huggly-buggle.

You’re all rosy-cheeked and ready for sleep.
Sweet sleepy nigh-nighs, little bear, sleep.
Sweet sleepy nigh-nighs, little bear, sleep.

For Meriel Aren, Who Is One and A Half

Wow. This was a few years ago!

At last count you had eight yellow rubber duckies,
a staggering number for one so small.

Yesterday you returned from a birthday party
with four of them: a mother with orange feet
and triplets nested together on her back. Detachable.

I’m sorry.

After all, hanging above them all by the tub is the yellow duck washcloth
I bought you before you were born.
Did I set some mark on you in the womb?

For now they are coming, yellow duckies of all kinds.
Something friendly to gnaw on when teething – to use as a doorstop, perhaps?
I imagine your first letter to Santa stealthily penned over by some imp –
“Please forget the other presents; I just want more rubber ducks. Thanks.”
and your confusion when the Christmas morning chimney is filled with yellow duckies.

Perhaps well meaning relatives will continue to bestow them on your bathtub as you grow –
“Just what I’ve always wanted. Thank you, Aunt Hilda!”

Could it be that Sesame Street has invaded the mind of every adult in your world?
“Rubber duckie, you’re the one! You make bath time so much fun!”

Whatever the reason,
I imagine you years from now, an old woman
with a tub floating full of squeaking yellow ducks,
each one from someone who loved you
and the way you learned how to quack, “Kok-kok,”
in your baby voice
when you were one and a half.

Gallumphing Song

A cranky crew we are today;
our mother’s sent us OUT to play.

“Please don’t make us!” we all cried.
“We don’t like to be outside!”

We’ll show her! We will not play!
We’ll stomp and thump and get our way!

Harrumph, harrumph!
Gallumph gallumph gallumph!

Round every bend we’ll crash and roar
where no gallumpher’s gone before!

Harrumph, harrumph!
Gallumph gallumph gallumph!

Our feet are thudding down the trail,
thumping out our thunderous tale…

Harrumph, harrumph!
Gallumph gallumph gallumph!

Our boots are bounding down the hill,
stomping, clomping willy-nill!

Harrumph, harrumph!
Gallumph gallumph gallumph!

Our shoes are splashing up the streams,
muddying the fishes’ dreams…

Harrumph, harrumph!
Gallumph gallumph gallumph!

Our heels are hopping ‘cross the rocks,
dripping drops from soggy socks…

Harrumph, harrumph!
Gallumph gallumph ga-CRASH!

Down we stumble, slip and sprawl,
bumble-tumble, trip and fall!

A muddy mass of fumbled feet
all tangled up, and tired, and beat.

But from beneath our puddled pile
smudgy faces start to smile.

“Let’s go again! Let’s slip and scud,
and slime ourselves with beautiful mud!”

No bumps or scrapes will stop our song-
for we gallumphers gallop on!

Harrumph, harrumph!
Gallumph gallumph gallumph!

Our soles are slouching through the grass,
squelching, squishing as we pass…

Harrumph, harrumph!
Gallumph gallumph gallumph!

Our toes are traipsing through the trees,
tickling the mushrooms’ knees…

Harrumph, harrumph!
Gallumph gallumph gallumph!

Our legs have lumbered far and long,
so homeward now we’ll send our song!

Harrumph, harrumph!
Gallumph gallumph gallumph!

Here we stand before our door.
Gallumphing song we’ll sing no more,

but set our boots upon the mat
and quiet, enter like the cat.

Tiptoe, tiptoe, patter, pad,
Boy! Our mom will sure be mad.

But to our muddy, mussed surprise
things are rather otherwise!

Mugs of cocoa, creamy foam!
“My dear gallumphers, welcome home!”

A Poem for Mimmy Upon Her Graduation

Well, Mimmy dear, you’ve braved swine flu
and snotty sleeves, and students too!

Whitman, Dickinson and the Crucible
left you feeling happy and loosible.

Zora Neale Hurston, close textual analysis!
You taught those kids right out of their paralysis!

You wooed the silent ones in 6th period
with verse from the Romantic Period.

kept your chin up through Spirit Days,
and at Homecoming Week, by golly,
you sent those children Home!

And now it’s your delightful duty
to kindle hearts for truth and beauty,
making sure the written word
is both grammatical, and heard
throughout the tumult of the high-school world.

At the games you’ll cheer from the bleachers
because you love your kids, you teacher!

And here’s a word from Herkie to you:
“Go fight win, Melissa Moo!”

In class discussions of various Hawkinses,
you’ll get all your studentses talking,

‘cause if they sat there poker-faced,
you’d consider class a waste!

You’ve had to cover gruesome Poe
who fills a teacher’s heart with woe,

but when you teach them Johnny Donne
I know you’ll make the whole thing fun!

You will take novels and wonderful poetry
wherever you roam, wherever you goetry!

From Iowa to Zanzibar
your influence will travel far
so sound your yawp, and raise the bar!!

I’m afraid that when you read this doggerel
your clear green eyes will go a-goggerel,

but here ‘tis, a poor attempt,
beat dis-rhythmic, rhyme unkempt

yet nevertheless scribbled here,
because I love you, Mimmy dear.

Katherine the Great

This poem was written in honor of my dear friend Katie.

Katherine loves to play with words
(she likes them best when most absurd).

Long are the hours Katie’s spent
in thought, upon her fundament.

Lovely limericks, lean and lithe
are the stuff to keep our Katie blithe!

Her grammar is a smidgen rough
(she just makes up the stuff!!)

But Katie chirps like a canary
when augmenting her vocabulary.

Sassy Katie finds amusing
words that other folks are using

At morn, a verse is her delight;
at eve, a book will set her right!

Perspicacious, Katherine is!
(Katie’s really quite a whiz).

So, if her den is sounding merry,
Katie’s in her dictionary!

Posting some poems

I will be posting some previously written poems. You will see them soon!

“Last Answers” by Carl Sandburg

I wrote a poem on the mist
And a woman asked me what I meant by it.
I had thought till then only of the beauty of the mist, how
pearl and gray of it mix and reel,
And change the drab shanties with lighted lamps at
evening into points of mystery quivering with color.

I answered:
The whole world was mist once long ago and some day
it will all go back to mist,
Our skulls and lungs are more water than bone and tissue
And all poets love dust and mist because all the last
answers
Go running back to dust and mist.

Come on Home

Have you ever listened to a song a few (or a few hundred) times, and then suddenly heard the lyrics for the first time? Years ago a friend gave me a mixed CD titled, “Bag of Silver for a Box of Nails,” and I never stopped to think about the title. The other day the Indigo Girls’ song, “Come on Home” came on my iPod while I was cleaning and I was blown away by the lyrics.

Excerpt -

“Dark clouds are coming in like an army;
soon the sky will open up and disarm me.
You will go just like you’ve gone before,
one sad soldier off to war with enemies that only you can see.

The dishes stacked, the table cleared;
it’s always like the scene of the last supper here.
You speak so cryptically but that’s not news to me.
The flood is here – it will carry you – and I’ve got work to do.

Come on home – the team you’re hitched to has a mind of its own.
It’s just the forces of your past you’ve fought before;
come back here and shut the door.
I’m stacking sandbags against the river of your troubles.”

Around here fall is falling – the leaves are methodically being blown off the trees, pears and apples are showering down to nestle in the summer-browned grass, the birds are going or gone, mist is creeping up around the low places, and the air is edged with coolness. And I am experiencing that peculiar, annual autumn sinking feeling combined with the tingling breath of excitement – something is happening! Something is coming!

This song is such a blend of tenderness and practicality (“I’ve got work to do”). This is the fierce kind of love that anyone struggling with mental illness or depression very much needs. Who among us doesn’t need a friend who will stack sandbags against the river of our troubles, and will acknowledge the struggle as real? The woman singing to her loved one is not swept away by the tide, but is there to wait and fight alongside, and to remind them, “It’s just the forces of your past you’ve fought before”. Thank you Indigo Girls for such a compassionate, gritty song.

Thoughts on Matthew 27

Pilate “took water and washed his hands in front of the crowd. ‘I am innocent of this man’s blood,’ he said. ‘It is your responsibility!’
All the people answered, ‘Let his blood be on us and on our children!’”

Little did they know what they asked, as they placed his blood-guilt squarely upon their own heads, and upon their little ones. But in his mind-blowing mercy, Jesus answered their request by indeed placing his blood upon them as a covering and a fountain to wash away their guilt.