Headline Poem 3/31/14 -- Down the road

I read this headline today -- about a dying man and his daughter. The community came together to create a special memory for them. One line caught my eye, "Down the road." Of course having lost my own dad young, I understand that line. The little memories I have mean so much, and down the road, they make me smile, and love everyday. 

Down the road

Years from now, down the road, you'll remember the aisle

you walked holding his hand, the last gift he ever gave to you, solid, where layers upon layers of hope and fear collide, in this memory, for life. 

You know he'd give anything to stay, but he can't. That's not how it works. 

Like a pebble, small but mighty, you'll smile with sunshine in your eyes, happy to have lived with him, happy to be alive. 

Down the road, there will be times when you'll curse the stars, and be upset for what you are without. 

You'll know how longing feels, true. 

But, you'll also know how high you can climb, and that you have gifts, insights, and a friend on the other side. 

This loss will allow you to connect with others who know how it feels, famous authors, strangers, and characters who seem real. 

Life will lead you through adventures, license plates will pass from differents states and countries. 

People will share their memories with you, letting him live on through them. 

The hardest part may come when you have children of your own. 

You'll be sad for what you are without, and may fear what they could lose, like you, but it will teach you about strength and being nice. 

There may be some who will try to knock you down, who will see your vulnerability as weakness, and may even try to use it to get ahead. 

You'll see through them. 

You'll see what's real.

Vulnerability is strength. It means you are alive. It means you feel. 

Trust your gut, even when some people say you have a hole. Do not let them tell you that is weak. Holes are everywhere. 

If someone tries to use that against you, know that they are probably hurt. 

Write love letters, write for you, even if someone tells you not to. 

Climb mountains. Jump with frogs. Drink fine wine. Laugh at yourself. 

Visit with true friends. 

Listen to poems. Let them take you where they will. 

Let the ocean splash inside of you. 

And no matter what, give and receive love.
His absence will hurt, but it is also the greatest gift. 

Headline Poem 3/30/14 -- The Beggar & The Skeptic

I read this article today about beggars in Hawick, on High Street. Here is the link. I think this is England, excuse my ignorance. I also saw a few beggars on my own today while driving through Las Vegas, Nevada. One in particular, mixed with this headline, led to today's poem, "The Beggar & The Skeptic."

The Beggar & The Skeptic 

She sleeps on a bed carved from olive roots, 

A castaway since birth,

with unforgiving sight, and crooked teeth

A poisoned eagle's message lures her,

a liar says it's time to leave

Go disguised in the morning when you rise

Walk through the desert and weeds, do not stop,

until you reach the wild sea, (pretending to be peaceful and trouble free)

The beggar abides, hopeful to please 

He smokes from his two-faced opal pipe, 

smirking as he watches with two shrouded men

She begs, as she was told, for anything the giving hands will give,

food, money, madness, advice 

She receives

The howling winds and skeptic plus two all watch her silent scream

They used to beg with wailing rocks, they used to believe, these skeptics three

She does not stop, plowing through concrete jungles chalked with dirty intentions, 

worse than coyote cries and sunburned eyes

As a child she was covered in salt

The beggar lies, the beggar lies

The skeptic justifies, the skeptic justifies

Days turn to years, when she reaches the sea, the eagle flies, talons deep, the beggar and the skeptic plus two meet

They are the same

Reunited, only to be asked to flee

It's not safe, say the skeptics three 

The wise man circles his hands, mixing smoke and images in his mind

He draws a picture, and says they must go east

The skeptic questions, the beggar agrees

Headline Poem 3/29/14 -- A Spring Sojourn

For many, this week begins Spring Break. There are a few headlines swirling about this recess to recharge, but I'll focus on the break part. One of my favorite words, sojourn, comes to mind. Rest, reside, temporarily travel to places near and far that make you happy, and that feel like home. Today's poem is about my own spring pilgrimage. I also added a little tribute to Mother Earth, who last night, shook things up a bit with an evening earthquake in Southern California. 

A Spring Sojourn 

in

a

place

my soul

calls home

Each year, unique beginnings

replacement hitches, flat tires, and infamous leaks,

You get the gas, I'll take out the trash

Six pairs of socks, at least, yes, bring your rain coat, and don't forget the dog leash 

Where is the dog? Susanna! 

Through the hustle and bustle, the earth shakes, a reminder of who's in charge

You're only entitled to so much control

Prepping for the windy roads,

I sing along to my favorite travel songs --

Fast Car, Get Out The Map, Carolina On My Mind...

Rejoice in the chaos and noise, omm,

we bicker like my grandparents used to,

they stayed in love omm 

Morning turns into early afternoon, neighbors' beautiful grandkids play with ours on the lawn

Everything's packed, shit, tires are practically flat -- give them more air, easier to travel when you're full

One more stop for cash, and we're on the road

Umm mom, pull over as soon as you can, the Thule is loose on the van! 

Cars whiz by, let's go!

Fed-Ex trucks on their way with deliveries, orders, good, and bad news, wrapped, licked, and stamped

Ice cream dessert in the desert, almost to our first stop, 

Sin City, where boy meets world, flashback to our oldest at five years old, processing the Circus in the stars, and naked women scattered on the floor

Bug-eyed, mommy, whoa, mommy whoa

It's okay buddy, let's go

As the years pass, we discuss

Same places, different faces, all on the way to our temporary home

a spring sojourn 

Headline Poem 3/28/14 -- A Major Divide

Millionaire Row on Troost Street (Photo credit NPR)

I read this article today about a major divide in Kansas City, Missouri.

A Major Divide

Top of the morning to ya with a tip of your tall black hat, on millionaire row,

slums submerged just below 

the surface. 

A prominent shift divides already divided lines,
race and class and economics 

hit you in the face, a punching bag of fate. 

Ripped and shredded, cut deep, 

lives no mirror can place,

distorted beyond recognition, 
widening the break between 

the white and black, the have and have-nots,
the poor meet not-poor, 

hard to ask "how do you do?"
when you are not a part of them, nor are they a part of you

the language sounds the same, but it's spoken in different tongues. 

Money is thick, on Troost Street. 

Wads of cash, flash, green.
Troost Street lines separate more than cars and pedestrians. 
School children sit and observe the push and pull, 

parents fearful they might congregate,
together black hands and white hands, voices shrill, we need more lines!

Manipulate -- do not desegregate. 

I to you, and you to them. 

We are not friends.
We do not share the flight down
the major, divided street in which the hate cannot escape. 

Money creates what money creates.

East of Troost, down on 18th and Vine, you will find 

more of your kind.
Before you bridge here to there on etched-in lines, you must decide 

if it's worth it to dissolve time. 

Headline Poem 3/27/14 -- Beacon Street

Boston (Photo credit Boston Herald)

New England quarterback Tom Brady watched this morning as a fire burned in Boston, a few doors down from his house on Beacon Street. Here is the headline. Two firefighters died in the blaze. I wrote today's poem as a song. I tend to do this, humming to a tune in my head. I think I could sing some of these poems to life if I could only learn to play my guitar that is starting to collect dust in the corner of my room.

Beacon Street  

It must have been scary

It must have been sacred

It must have been surreal

For you

Out there on the ledge

all of the life lines

just passing right by

For you 

All of the times that we made our sweet love

I had forgotten about you

But times like this lead all of us to take some time to 

just recall what's real

It must have been scary

It must have been sacred

It must have been surreal 

For you

Out on the ledge

The fire's burnin'

My wheels are turnin'

and I'll do anything to stay alive right here 

You should have studied a little harder

and stopped a bit less in your tracks

The years have been blurred now,

and I just I wish I'd tried a bit harder

back then 

Right now there's a ladder 

it's climbin' right up here

it's going higher out there 

No matter what, I'm at his mercy

Please God, don't take me, not yet

Please Lord don't leave me

Please let me stay here 

and be

Please let me stay here 

and be

I'm just not ready

Somebody needs me

I'm not too steady

down here 

Out on this ledge now,

But please

Just leave me down here 

I'll tremble less down here 

First kiss is flashin'

First love is teasin'

First loss is trickin'

First miss is missin'

Right here

I close my eyes, the smoke is blindin'

Last embrace, last call, last smile, last glimmer of sunshine

I thought it was too bright, 

but boy was I wrong

down here  

Out on the ledge now, they all flash right by,

and I realize

it's time

Headline Poem 3/26/14 -- Almost Indigo

Harlem, NY (Photo credit Google Image) 

You know that feeling that you've met someone before, been somewhere before, and are connected to a stranger you have no reason to feel connected to other than it just feels right, like your paths crossed because that was part of the plan, and the way it's just supposed to be? Think about those that you know, and those that you used to know who are no longer in your life... they may be alive, but they are ghosts. Some are in them and still feel far away. Then, think about some of the places you've been that just feel like home, whether it's the first time or the tenth time you've been there. Today's poem is about this constant drifting of people in and out of our lives -- teaching us, envying us, loving us, and changing us. It is based loosely on the line I read in this headline about a woman who moved from Oakland, Ca. to Harlem, NY. -- because it felt like home. 

Almost Indigo

Resting somewhere between blue and violet, there are days when it's hard to believe I'm part of the same rainbow
From India to Europe and back to Greece, I traveled the natural world without release
Why did I leave in the first place?
If I were her and she were me, would we believe the things we've seen, or would we be fools to go based on sight alone?
We are the color blue, with different tones

There's a letter on the fridge, I hung there before our stupid war
I never dreamed that would be how I'd learn cursive,
those times are no more
I hung on to that piece of paper like nothing before
This was when she became almost indigo, almost a ghost,
which are supposed to be white, but she taught me ghosts can wear any color, be anything
There is no set attire for those who seek to come and go

Harlem was like a secret, flushed, I'd wake to the memories of my dreams of this place
waiting for me by the bus, kissing him, and holding it
alleys and restaurants, drinks ordered and delivered in shiny blue-green glasses, heels under the table, coy,
almost indigo

Oakland held me as long as I'd let it, but
the key and lock and latch and safe rusted, needing to be abandoned like a dog with a full belly,
at least you've been fed, now go, now go

Almost indigo, I did my research by checking the stars and the constellations
I knew about Libras and Capricorns, and sensed when it was the right time to go
more grounded than you'd ever know... but God doesn't give just anyone Sagittarius Rising, and a song like mine
there is no way these wings are supposed to hover rather than fly

thank you
your letters meant everything to me, but I got so caught up in them that I thought I couldn't do it on my own
I had to learn that I could do it on my own
in Harlem, my home

the lady on the corner knew I had the gift, just like I knew she'd given birth to a son named Jeremiah
she wanted to run when I took her palm and started to trace the lines
she knew I knew
she knew
she knew she wasn't home
almost indigo, it was time for her to go...

Headline Poem 3/25/14 -- They Say

Darrington, Washington landslide (Photo credit Google Image) 

Yesterday, authorities told loved ones, and the world, that there were no survivors from Malaysia Flight 370. All passengers and crew perished in the Indian Ocean, they say. The survivors want evidence, and there is none. Also in the news since Saturday are the headlines about the Darrington, Washington landslide. They are looking for survivors, but are finding more bodies each day. Here is a CNN article about 9 questions that still are lingering regarding the flight disappearance, and another about the deadly landslide. Today's poem is about what "they say" -- they being the media, and those watching, reporting, and sometimes, but not always, sharing they facts.


They Say

There was a man who blew me away
in the grey skies as we played,

and promised each other to stay 

I wish so much that he would be here now

with me in the morning light,
but we know that it isn't right 
That's not how the story goes, 

I'm telling you it's hard to believe 

that he's not coming home

That's what they say 

Around here it's always sort of weird

spinning and skipping stones

I'm always, but never, alone 

He said he'd never leave 

He said he'd be in the rain 

He said he'd always stay 
But that's not how the story goes

He's not coming back to me 

That's what they say 

Staring out at miles looking for pieces of him

no yellow or white lines to blur 

just memories of fruit and baptisms 

There will come a day when my life will end

until then I'll just wait for him

they say things I don't want to hear 

I never wanted to let him down
I never wanted to live alone
they say I will 
they say I am

It's hard to believe he's not coming home 

what do they know
what do they know
what do they know 

what do they know