Ugly Cat Speaks

Cranston High School West motto: A place where we treat people as we would like people to treat us

2012-01-29T23:21:00.000-05:00

This is the text of an email I sent to the administrators of Jessica Ahlquist's high school, Cranston West. Feel free to drop them a polite email (no harassment, please!) with your thoughts (or solutions) to the issue they are currently facing.

Dear Principal Knowlton and Assistant Principals DeVall , DePalma, Magnelli and Schiappa,

I am saddened to learn of the controversy plaguing your school, which is probably detracting from providing quality education, but not valuable life lessons, to the students in your care. Speaking of lessons, I'm sure your students have been reminded of the motto you proudly display on your website when incidents occur within your jurisdiction involving defamation or harassment.

I imagine that being administrators of a high school is no easy task and, given the current climate you are faced with, it must be that much more difficult. I wish I could simply email you the answer to how to stop small minds from attacking those who wish to assert their rights in the face of a vociferous majority. All I can offer is my support to you in finding a way to see past the politics (and the religion) to ensure that you maintain the constitutional rights afforded to all of your students.

Your very difficult job is to educate not only the students in your care, but their parents as well. If you take solace in God, may that deity inspire you to do the right thing. As an Atheist, I have neither the right nor the inclination to deny you your faith. I ask that you respect the beliefs of all of your students, but remember that the authority in your community school is the government, and, specifically, the court system. Separating that authority from the one in which many of your students and their parents place their trust is essential to resolving this troubling issue.

In Peace,

(name included)

a concerned citizen

PS Have you considered King Solomon's approach and splitting the banner to make both sides "happy"? (Perhaps that isn't a viable option, after all.)

Seventh Annual Florence Poets Society Fall Festival Poems

2011-09-27T19:18:00.000-05:00

This year I didn't read since I hadn't done much writing over the past year (as this blog can attest to). But, as usual, I get inspired from listening to all the wonderful poets reading at the event. I wrote the following poems at the Festival on Sunday - with exception of the last poem, who's title was inspired by a conversation I had at the festival, but was actually written two days later. Enjoy!

facing it
no longer denying
blemishes on
your record

no longer ignoring
those red flags
in the system

forgetting
momentarily
the emptiness

in your wallet
to make sure you are
an organ donor

you check accounts
in case your luck
has changed then

arrange the empty
bottles neatly
on the counter

ltv
9/25/11

force of words

was it the
audio settings
bass tones thumping
each hard consonant
or was it the
the content
each word stumping
the status quo
letting questions
rise like worms
after a rain
seeking out
something new
to consume today

ltv
9/25/11

Mary Oliver Fan Club
For Lisa Starr, Poet Laureate, RI

The poet spoke
Only a few words
Before dropping
The name of
Her favorite poet
Then again and again
In her discourse
She slipped the
Poet’s words and presence
So that the fact that
She was Poet Laureate
Got lost in her adoration

ltv
9/25/11

Fate in the Beginning is Romantic

if it was responsible
for bringing us together
and if you expected
it would fail
not for lack of love
or for trying
each week
to work through
what would become
irreconcilable differences
would knowing
it was inevitable
make it easier to navigate
the lonely dinners
and the nights
on the couch
because the bed
is now too big

ltv
9/25/11

Opportunity

throughout the town
the Entrepreneur drives
all the while belting
out a creepy, children’s
siren song
though Summer is fading
the bright orange
ice cream truck
continues searching
for an audience
and in the silence
between the poems
the mechanical tunes
appear – drawing
attention away
from the speaker
however briefly
as poets reach
for pen and paper

ltv
9/25/11

eternal Twilight

it’s not the sparkling
seen on the lake
at the Summer house
when the blow-up rafts
are brought up to the dock

it’s not the darkness
creeping over the
leaf-strewn streets
as children are called
in to finish homework
before their supper

it’s not the coldness
of a creatures heart
soulless or otherwise empty
trudging over the
freshly fallen snow

no, it is the media
vampires – sucking
the life out of
the youth of a generation
who bleed clichés
and live with the
pallor of poor writing

ltv
9/25/11

poetry news report*

sour
sister Suzie
seeming forced
and artificial
nothing but trouble
no smiling around it
slipped into the parking lot
funny when high
didn’t feel like chewing
some kind of white-boy afro
would have given potential
detractors an opening
if they needed it
what the fuck
is he talking about

ltv
9/25/11

*written with actual lines from
three poems from one poet

sadly, I eventually had to kill Nadine

she spun a home for herself
quite nicely out of the way
for days never seeming
to venture away
so that the neighbors
sighed in relief when
they could see her
sitting quietly
on her front porch
ignoring them

but predators don’t wait
forever when
there’s limited prey
instead today or maybe
last night she crept
to a new location
infringing on a particularly
panicked neighbor
in ways she couldn’t
comprehend

and when she was discovered
too late she realized
the error she made
and tried to scamper away
but, sadly, eventually,
I had to kill Nadine
with the shower massager
on streaming – water
dripped from the ceiling
as the spindly spider legs
slipped down the drain

ltv
9/27/11

Another Tribute Poem

2011-09-11T19:24:00.000-05:00

Another Tribute Poem

hungry for heroes

survivors who don’t trust words

find comfort in them

ltv

9/11/11

Many people have stories of where they were and what they were doing on this day a decade ago. Those who worried huddled in front of television screens watching the horror of the day unfold. We were all watching when the second plane hit. Cell phone towers buzzed with messages of reassurance to those across the country, across the world, across town. That technology bred heroes. Flight 93 passengers learned en route that an attack was underway and chose to act. Think about that for a moment. How many thousands of feet above the ground - oblivious - until the hijackers took the plane. Frightened, they sought out their loved ones. Instead of being comforted for as long as they possibly could, with new information, they chose to launch their own counter-attack on the terrorists. And they succeeded. Sending a message to those who would attack us again: Americans are resourceful. Americans are united. And united, Americans are strong.

This post is a little out of the ordinary for me as a pacifist and a liberal; but what non-pacifists and non-liberals sometimes forget is that we love our country too.

Some July Poems

2011-07-24T16:37:00.000-05:00

On the Volga

Only the lapping
Waves remain –
The silence of the
Expansive river
Haunted by the bodies
Still sinking, still
Settling in the silt
Amongst the remains of
The obsolete pleasure boat
Finally out of service
One trip too late

ltv
7/11/11

the cat days of summer

lounging
with paws outstretched
heads draped
over the edge
of the recliner
and the sofa
they gaze at me
grabbing my keys,
my work bag, and purse
I wonder if they know
this keeps them in kibble
or do they think I’m crazy
to venture out in this
sweltering summer heat

ltv
7/12/11

CD VS PMS

it lingers like a memory
or an unknown,
unpleasant odor
yet still I know it
in the pain
I search for meaning
the elusive ‘why’
I check the days,
the job, the current
worries rattling
in my brain
they are the same
as they always are
can I blame this on
that anomalous
woman thing
that men and doctors deny
makes such a difference
a scapegoat for something
more sinister simmering
under the surface

ltv
7/13/11

planned parenthood

it is selfish to yield to
genetic curiosity

the time to explore
such theories passed
decades ago

now science becomes
the natural choice

women, men believing
their commitment to biology
proves their worth

as if Nature has made
some grievous error

not them – for waiting –
because they have options now
they have status, money

unlike how it would have been
struggling to survive

on only two lowly incomes
or worse – sacrificing one career
for an unscheduled life

ltv
7/24/11

forty-two

2011-07-10T12:35:00.000-05:00

42

alone again with the Universe around me
swirling galaxies buzzing with life
all alone, separated from the others
the ones with skin, with fur, with feathers
the microscopic membrane barriers
designed to keep us defined

but in that definition
we have forgotten what we mean
I mean the ones in these sentient bodies
the naked apes attempting to gain
dominion over those who have already
figured out their purpose in this life

we keep searching – the skies, the earth,
the ether and dark places other creatures shun
some are brave enough to look inside
and still believe the journey isn’t over
we construct mythologies proclaiming
our superiority over the beasts that crawl
the fish that swim and the birds that fly

but why then are they free to roam
free to live and love in whatever way they do
not worried about legalities or paper
they navigate their world based on instinct
that inherent truth within them
guiding their every move

we force laws and social contracts
on the other lonely beings like us
so that we can feel more at home
in this skin that isolates us
rattling rules around in our heads
regarding who can share our lives,
our beds, our thoughts and insecurities

if I were a bird would I try to fly
away to the stars, risking exhaustion
or worse, the flaming death of Icarus
if I were a salmon would I fight
my natural urges to go home
and travel the oceans looking
for the one thing I know isn’t out there

ltv
7/8/11

Does anyone read blogs anymore?

2011-06-12T20:37:00.001-05:00

curiosity

Nature purrs in the distance
after an electric tail twitches
across the night sky
it is understood
that She is agitated
spitting down rain on
gawkers who run inside
when Her purr
becomes a growl

ltv

glory days

we speak of Freedom
from our college campus rallies
into the lens of the media
shaping our opinions
we choose channels
more often than we
select our moral bearing
sharing theories about
other people’s lives
or lies the government
might have told us
we claim to seek
the truth but stop
short at the entrance
to our souls
roles we play
take over the corpus
of our lives
and we speak about
freedom in the past
tense – like a memory
we regret or
haven’t made yet

ltv

Some poems I found from last year but never did anything with:

{untitled}

in the distance
not so very far away
in the smallish
public park
the train
whistle
sounds
in
short
bursts
randomly amidst
the sound system
of the poetry festival
too muted
to interrupt
the refrains of
death and flowers
but once – as if arranged –
it tooted as
the voices quieted

after a two minute poem
by the Poet extolling
the childhood virtues
of ghost trains
varn – Varn – VARNEY
HOO – Hoo – hoo
his voice trailed off as the
crowd absorbed the eeriness
so well portrayed – and then
in the distance
the train whistle
sounds in short bursts

ltv
9/26/10

Look

the immigrant geese
from the unchecked
Northern borders
angrily alight on the
brownish-green pond

the paddle boats are
tied to the docks
as dusk approaches

weary park attendants
herd families towards
concessions and exits

music wanes as the
band wraps up for the
long-suffering poets
politely staying for the
last few members of
their group to read

cookies, soup and crackers
vanished hours ago
along with the friends
of the featured poets

soon the only sound
disturbing the park’s calm
will be the evening residents
fighting over the visitors’ scraps

ltv
9/26/10

The latest batch

2011-05-29T19:40:00.000-05:00

It seems I haven't been writing either poetry or the novel. And, yet again, as I prepare to work on the next chapter of my novel, I find I need to post some poetry before I can begin. Procrastination works in mysterious ways.

Sisyphus’ Day Off

as the boulder
rolls down the
never-ending hill
he paints poster board
primary colors against
a white background
“Stop War – Make Peace”

ltv
4/19/11

mathematical problem

these problems in my mind
words like fictions or films
posed erroneously
trigger real emotions
until reality becomes
abstraction leaving me
adding irrational sums
to an already fractional
Existence – I am –
of course – divided
unable to find a common
understanding
still uncertain
as to whether I should
add to this life or
subtract from it

ltv
5/4/11

anniversary

after twenty-four years
all that remains is
a faint nagging while
I push through this
sluggish rainy work day
sipping coffee and wishing
my ethics allowed me
to call in sick when
all I really need is
a good cry and more sleep
I keep you in my heart
most days you are there
so quietly, so integrated
I hardly notice the
comfort you give me
until days like this
when my aging brain
reminds me that
something important
happened

ltv
5/xx/11

a couple of spring poems

2011-04-15T22:30:00.000-05:00

waking up

in the chill of the
not-quite-Spring morning

heat rises from the
awakening trees
tufts of steam

or smoke from a
hidden garden gnome

climb the length
of the melting icy
bark of the slumbering tree

it is hard at work
manufacturing life

ltv

morning lesson

she sees it
lying in the
scars of snow
beneath the new
highway overpass
a hint of green
grass surrounds it
resentful, perhaps, of
yet another obstacle
to emergence
ignorant of the
usefulness of its
decomposing little body
the girl’s face
is contorted in horror
Easter is next week
and now her head
is not filled with
marshmallow fluff
and chocolate bunnies
but of this twisted rabbit
next to her school bus stop

ltv

Yet another way to avoid going outdoors!

2011-04-11T21:17:00.000-05:00

If you like relaxing to the sounds of nature (or meditating to them) or if you have loud neighbors and just need something on in the background, try visiting this site and making your own nature composition.

http://naturesoundsfor.me

I made the following composition which can be saved as a wav file on your computer or saved as a link to share with friends. Enjoy!

http://naturesoundsfor.me/Late_Autumn_Night

The First Budding Poems of Spring

2011-03-06T21:38:00.001-05:00

Hopefully there will be more. (At least I am still working, however slowly, on the novel.)

- sometimes the reason -

things happen
at least that
is not in dispute
good things - bad things
I hate to admit it
there – is – always a reason

I will not cop to God
or some after-market
rationalization designed
to make the comforter
feel better – that – never works

no, things happen
sometimes because
humans are imperfect
we are ruled by our emotions
or are completely devoid of them
we’ve been damaged by
other people’s expectations
and the false hope that someone
somewhere – sometimes –
has a greater plan
over which - we have no control

ltv
3/2/11

the in-between times
neither happiness nor sad
the storm is coming

ltv
3/1/11

Are we really that different?

the birds return - then
the season signals
the slow marching
of the insects

or do they awaken
as the melting snow
floods their winter homes
very much like it does our own

but we don’t flee – unless
you consider Home Depot
as a safe haven – inundated
each season, by us, to adapt

like ants dragging leaves,
birds finding twigs and string,
and beetles tamping down mud
to fortify our homesteads

ltv
3/4/11

March

muddy snow
rain-tossed branches
pieces of last year's
squirrels' nests litter
what's left of a
winter wonderland

dirty, wet, and
slowly thawing
beautiful things
fight to be free
with such force
it displaces the
ugly earth - necessary bits
feeding the struggle
to become

ltv
3/7/11

A Backlog of Poems

2011-01-14T19:23:00.000-05:00

It turns out the new year has made me prolific. Here's a bunch of poems I've written in the last week or so.

the obliging snow

falls like stars
on a dying planet
white ash raining
down from oblivion
attacking everything
it encounters – clinging
like bleach to bark,
plastic, metal –
all of nature and of
human accoutrements
made color-less in the storm
a season of destruction
we don’t have to manifest
in smaller ways on our own.

ltv

the artist as a young woman

who knows what walls
were touched by woman’s hands
what pottery or gold inlays
were crafted or designed
by a feminine mind instead
we never saw a trussed up woman
alone on the streets of Paris
or in a café or a riverside tavern
we see Impressions of family life
children because she had one
or children because she didn’t
while men could explore nudes
and landscapes – it would be
a hundred years before she could
paint the world around her
as something other than
the walls she called home

ltv

[untitled]

Hope is not a pit stop
on a tragically short journey
it is a companion and
navigator - necessity
requires that mindfulness

though on slower, longer trips
we forget entirely
about that spare tire
or triple “A” card

sometimes waiting hours
on the shoulder
broken down until
Hope arrives

ltv

Homes of Hope (Burundi)

they had no age
since birthdays
were a luxury
their nation
couldn’t afford
and so, they were
eternally children
before the orphanage

Hutu, Tutsi, Twa together
until they created
a new life, established
the day that was
to be theirs forever
trading obscurity
and their place
in the ground
for family,
advancement,
and their place
in the world

ltv

What's Black and White and Red All Over?

2011-01-09T17:54:00.000-05:00

This probably means I am some sort of evil person, but the cartoon above is absolutely hilarious to me. Thank you Robert Leighton for your irreverent sense of humour. (And thank you for this puzzle website too.)

A Couple of Poems

2011-01-02T20:00:00.004-05:00

You see what I did there? The poems are about relationships, get it? Okay, enough self-appreciation. I am posting these two recent poems because I am a poet and they deal with my life. I am not naming anyone in the poems, nor will I confess that they are, in fact, about a particular person. As with all of my poems, the content is an amalgam of experiences and people which get filtered through my brain and emotions and end up as poetry. If anyone has a problem with that, I'm sorry. No, strike that. I am not. Grow up and deal with it. (Besides, there are only a handful of people who actually read this blog.)

My love is a dead, red rose

My love is a dead, red rose
That is rotting on the stem
My love is a knitted sweater
That is unraveling at the hem

As dark as you, my fiendish mate
So callow was my love
And I will owe you, still, I fear
For ridding me thereof

For ridding me thereof, I fear
My heart was turned to stone
O, that I can love again, I fear
Our days are spent alone

And fare you well, my lonely love
And fare you well a while
For you will always wear a scowl
But I have learned to smile

ltv

S******e Stalemate

POST REMOVED

ltv

Lesson Learned from my Cat

2010-12-31T10:28:00.001-05:00

Lesson Learned from My Cat

The broken staccato
Of Kes’ purr punctuates
The morning kitchen

Like a faraway woodpecker
She steadily rat-a-tat-tats

Occasionally taking one deep,
Loud, long sigh before
Continuing the rhythm

This is what contentment
Sounds like – looks like

Eyes closed, body relaxed
She knows she is safe and
Comfortable with a full belly

I check the clock on
The coffee maker again

As the fridge loudly
Kicks into yet another
“replace-me-soon” cycle

I will be late for work if
I continue writing, but

I am safe, comfortable and
My belly is full

ltv

Bobby pins, a Hitchhiker, and the Police...

2010-12-27T21:41:00.000-05:00

or, "My Christmas Eve Adventure." First let me say two things 1) this is a true story, 2) yes, I have already been lectured by the police and my Mother regarding my actions.

This story begins on Friday, December 17th when I got my haircut at a local, low-cost hair salon. I wanted bangs, but I wanted to keep them long proportionate to the length of the rest of the hair. I specifically said that I wanted to keep my hair long (it was below shoulder-length before the cut) It looked fine, though a little shorter than I wanted, right up until the point when it dried fully and I realized that not only was the length WAY too short, but the layers were even shorter. Oddly enough, the long bangs were the only thing she got right. I played with my hair for about a week trying to find a decent style that suited me (I still haven't found it). On Friday, December 24th, I was preparing to journey to my Mom's house in the Eastern part of the state. I had the brilliant idea of twisting my layers and bobby pinning them up during my drive down the pike. When I was about halfway to my Mom's I would take out the twists (which would still be wet) and I would have a nice wave to my hair, giving the new style volume and, hopefully, a decent look. I didn't care that I looked like a cross between a punk rocker and a haute couture fashion model who's head was placed on a average woman's body, I figured I would be in the car and no one I knew would ever see me.

Some time after exit 9 on the MA Pike , I saw a white van on the side of the road and a woman with her thumb sticking out. Normally, I would either ignore her or call the police on my cell to report the situation, but something compelled me to pull over. It took me a while to safely pull over, so I had to back up a little bit to get to a place where the woman could safely approach the passenger side of my car. I prudently placed all of my personal belongings in the back seat far away from arm's length of the passenger's seat. The woman walked up to my car and I rolled down the window. She said "he left me here to get gas, can I get a ride to the nearest gas station?" She seemed decent enough - lucid, no indication in her eyes that she was on drugs or drunk or otherwise a psychopath. She looked a little ragged like someone who's been out in the cold on the MA Pike might look, so I told her to get in. She introduced herself, shook my hand and thanked me; and we drove towards the next exit. The next exit was Rt 290 - a major road. I was hesitant about veering so far off my own path home, but decided it was probably the best thing to do. As we approached the exit, the woman asked me if I was going to Boston. I told her no, but I was heading in that direction (obviously). She asked if she could drive with me since her ultimate destination was Boston. She then said "I feel safe with you." [That's when my spidey sense kicked in.] I told her we could continue and I could drop her off at the next MA Pike rest station. As we drove she then asked to be dropped off at a hospital [no, I didn't ask her why]. The next exit was towards Worcester (Rts 146 & 20). I took that exit figuring I would find a hospital near the main route in Worcester. Unfortunately, after traveling on Rt 20 East for a while, I ended up in Shrewsbury before I saw any signs of a hospital.

I decided to stop at a gas station to get directions. Let me state at this time that the woman still did not appear to be in any state of distress. She wasn't agitated or upset. She was calmly sitting in my passenger seat, with her hands placed visibly on her legs. It was almost as if she were trying to comfort me by letting me know that she wasn't a threat. Even still, when I got to the gas station it occurred to me that I did not want to leave the woman in my car alone while I asked for directions. Luckily, a police car drove up behind me. I waved frantically at the officer who pulled up behind me and approached my car. Upon seeing the police car, the woman calmly announced to me that she had been kidnapped, raped and beaten for three days. I told the woman that the police officer could help her. I got out of my car and told the police my story. The police officer took my statement, talked with the woman whose story seemed to change a little bit as she spoke with the officer. The ambulance arrived and took her away and the police officer gave me a stern but concerned talking to about picking up people in this day and age. He also commented that the woman was most likely a former drug addict since she had mentioned being on methadone and had a shelter card instead of any form of ID. I explained to him that I don't normally do that, but since it was Christmas Eve it seemed the right thing to do.

The police officer left and I got into my car. I looked in the rear view mirror to back up and noticed the twisted knots of hair on top of my head. "Oh my god!", I thought, I must have looked like a crazy person to the cop! [Here is an approximate picture of what I looked like. Sadly, I did not have the foresight to take a photo of myself at that time.] I quickly took out the bobby pins, but my hair had completely dried by then. My wavy effect had morphed into full-on crazy curls. It sort of looked like this but more horizontal. I spent the rest of the car ride home trying to flatten out the bozo curls protruding from my head.

I arrived at my mother's house (and to my family who had not yet seen the new short haircut I had complained about over the phone), and began unloading my car of Christmas presents and overnight bags. When my sister saw my hair she stifled an "oh my god". I cautioned her "Don't look at my hair, it's a long story involving bobby pins, a hitchhiker and the police." And, after telling the story, I got lectured by both my YOUNGER sister and my mother about how I "could have been killed", etc, etc.

The moral of the story is this: No matter how much I want them, I can never have bangs!

Auden's Truth and Other Poems

2010-12-09T22:46:00.000-05:00

'Tis the season (for me) to write poem after poem as I approach, then stealthily pass, my birthday, which this year falls on a Saturday. Once again I will claim that I will be working on my novel and, so as not to keep you in suspense, I will not work on it. (Though maybe THIS time, I'll make a liar out of myself and finish Chapter 17!) <---Is this delusion, dreaming, or just optimism? Oh well, life's too short to worry about that. Enjoy the poems.

Auden's Truth

Even poets lie
When faced with
Such harsh reality
As war or human frailty

Suffering acceptance
From the masses
For a line without proof
You failed to see the Truth

“We must love each other”
You wrote, but thought
The conjunction was the lie
“Or we must die”

Were you such a Realist
You couldn’t invoke
Your own license
To make a difference

To concede that for
Some - though not for poets,
Of course - Life without love
is death (or the semblance of)

ltv

delaying the inevitable

like God’s disappearance
when Science emerged
the question from your child
at the beginning of December
of her eighth year
packing up the paraphernalia
not to hide the evidence
rehearsing a question
you know she’ll answer “yes” to
quarter past eight
on Monday morning
writing poetry to pretend
the weekend isn’t over yet

ltv

[unnamed]

what Scientists and Spiritualists
fail to understand is
that God didn’t succumb
to Scientific Theory
we’re just getting
to know Him by
His proper identity
rather than this
hologram of blind faith
each moment we see
the pathway to cure disease
each planet we discover
shows us more of
the Universe – whom we
have erroneously named “God”

ltv

[Untitled]

2010-11-28T19:33:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure whether my blog title is ironic (since all of my poems here have titles) or just lazy. I'll go with the former since that makes me seem clever. It's only been two weeks since I last posted and have written a good handful of poems (and some others which don't qualify as "good" and won't be included here). Either I have to write less or post more often.

Enjoy (or don't, I don't really care.)

osmia avosetta
(solitary bee)

petals – soft –yet
dragging in the mud
towards her larvae’s nest
one at a time
pink, yellow, red
all colors she cannot see
delicately placed and
secured with insulating mud
these births will not be shared
with her distant hive cousins
these siblings will be
protected together as they grow
then burst forth from
mom’s pretty nest
to start their own solitary lives

ltv

Afghani Girl

There is no Halloween
In the Middle East
Yet even without
Her ghost costume
She appears to some
A monster of charred flesh
She lied and blamed
The gas stove for
Her failed attempt
But the doctors can tell
- As can we all -
That the pain of death
Was nothing compared
To what she was facing

ltv

morning routine

just before the pain
that moment my
body prepares me
my eyes flutter as
if about to dream
fog envelopes my head
I am compelled
to breathe deeply
before the iron spikes
take hold in my gut
clumsily tumbling
through my body
bumping against sensitive
spots – again – and –
again – until – I –
breathe to settle into
the fog which now
comforts me in
feigning ignorance
of the future
I return to normal
for just long enough
to forget that another
wave is coming

ltv

free will

as I try to negotiate the world
there is nothing I can control
I can pretend to wave my hands
move a car into another lane or
manipulate someone with my emotions

but that is not control
that is merely influence
ironically – we have endowed
our Creator with the same

He can’t control – instead He
has given it to us – and we –
mirror that external impotence
in our daily lives – except we fail
to grasp the one thing we have
complete autonomy over

ltv

my choice

why did I say yes
was it because there was
no reason to say no
or was it because
I wanted
to do this favor
for other reasons
perhaps I saw
an opportunity
for solitude and
personal errands
not the monotonous
waiting
the disruption of
my schedule while
leftovers are
reheated back home

I am cranky, crampy, achy, hungry
and don’t want to be anymore

I write to fight
these feelings
or – more accurately –
relocate them
from my soul
to this page so that
this simmering rage
can be scratched here
rather than scar my heart

ltv

Eeek! A Mouse!

2010-11-15T22:08:00.000-05:00

I recently had an encounter with a mouse in my house. The short version is this: two days, food stolen from mousetrap (which was left broken and useless, presumably by the mouse), useless cats becoming very useful after all, mouse gets evicted (by me). If you really must know the full version (which I am guessing you really don't), feel free to email me. Here's at least one of the poems inspired by the event.

Suburban Cat

ears high and rotating

to find that sound

scouring the walls or cabinets

she stalks it unlike hunter

but – even when she

sees her subject she follows –
like paparazzi – starstruck

at catching a glimpse of

that which, until now, has

only been a distant dream

ltv

C.U.S.P.

2010-10-09T19:14:00.000-05:00

(Catching Up on Some Poetry). I've been writing for the last three and half weeks, and yet, somehow I think there should be more production than this. At least it is jump-starting my work on the novel. Something has cleared in my psyche allowing me to write again and whatever it is, I am grateful.

[untitled]

It tells me to awaken
But it doesn’t know the time
It makes me feel the punishment
Though it doesn’t fit the crime

It’s with me like a lover
As intimate as touch
So long we’ve been together
It’s become an awkward crutch.

ltv
10/1/10

[untitled]

the means of my isolation
are always out of reach
instead this slave of society
can’t practice what I preach

labor beckons in the morn
of five out of the seven
I suffer willingly through them all
for those two days of Heaven

ltv
9/20/10

Ever since I was a child I liked to make up new words to songs and poems. Each year on birthdays or Valentine's Day I would write a poem for my Mom bastardizing the "Roses are red" classic or "Mary had a Little Lamb". Everyone seems to do that as well, which makes it difficult to find new versions that are both entertaining and clever. Here is my latest attempt (followed by an homage to my little cancer-kitty).

Mary had no extra RAM
And her processor was slow
On every link that Mary clicked
Her browser wouldn’t go.

ltv
9/15/10

Kestra was a little cat
With needs as big as air
Every time I turned around
It seemed like she was there

She followed me upstairs one day
As I lay down to nap
She howled and meowed ‘til I sat up
Then jumped into my lap

ltv
9/15/10

E.A.P.

I look into the eyes
of the macabre master
the photo -- monochromatic
and grainy but still
detailed enough to show
the intensity of his suffering
I wonder whether
a demon was trapped
inside this human host
or whether his body
was just an ill-fitted disguise

ltv
10/5/10

Morning Meditation

The warmth of my coffee
Reaches my nose
Before I lift my
Colored mug to drink
Eyes closed more from calm
Than typical work day torpor
The awkward crunch of kibble
And the tinkling of the glass bowl
Alerts me to Willow’s presence
The lazy cat waits almost an hour
After I awake to make her way
Downstairs for breakfast
Kestra purrs dutifully on her chair
The one she howls at me to move
So that she is directly by my side
Or rather even closer to the meal
She is hoping to sample and never does
Weekdays aren’t as fun as those
Only-for-me days I relish – but
They have their own rewards
When viewed with my eyes closed

ltv
10/7/10

Eve of Man

When Man first was
Created from whatever
He might have been
Before – dust or ape –

The process of becoming
The existence first
Survival – negotiations
With other species
All lead up to that
Moment of self-realization
I am - you are

Oh! To be a Time Traveler
Going back thousands
Or millions of years
To when – absent of gods
Or science – Man’s first
Thought beyond hunger
Or reproduction
Formed in the brain
Would we be surprised
To learn the being
Who was first – might not
Have been a man at all

ltv
10/8/10

Florence Poets Society 2010 Fall Poetry Festival

2010-10-03T20:22:00.000-05:00

It's been a week since the FloPoSo Annual Fall Poetry Festival and I have finally had time to blog about it. What can I say about five hours of poetry on a beautiful day in Look Park? I stayed awake the entire time? No. Well, yes. I mean, I did. What I meant was, no, that's not nice to say. It was a beautiful day and there were many wonderful readers and some fascinating poetry. I must rave, though, about my poetry partner and I. We stole the show with our explosive poetry topic (a preview of which I gave in the last blog entry). There were some who turned up their nose at our choice of topic, but we won them over in the end with our clever verse. Due to copyright issues (and the fact that she is attempting to compile an entire book of her fart poems), I won't be including the poems read by Anita Gallers, my poet-in-crime on that day.

I started out with this one:

On Dad’s Passing

As kids, he led us to believe
he was above the rest.
   He always claimed he’d never.
He was a Renaissance Man, but nevertheless
   he was mortal.
As we grew, we experienced it in our lives;
   but still father stated he’d never.
Regardless of the euphemism,
   it’s not pleasant.
Something in the air
makes us aware of its reality.
   And still father vowed he’d never.
No age is immune: infants, children, teens, adults,
   and the elderly all pass.
And until then father hadn’t.
Now that Dad has passed, he seems
   more alive, more human.

He covered it up by saying,
“Well, even the Queen of England farted once!”

ltv
Anita read one and then I continued with "The Fart", which was included in the last blog post, as was "Belch, Before Loud Voice Resume". Anita and I continued switching off. Here are the rest of the poems I read:

I Shot a Belch Into the Air
(with apologies to H.W. Longfellow)

I shot a belch into the air
It fell on ears, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it came out,
I could not see who was about
I then released another wind
A smell of eggs I’ll not rescind
For who can stop so keen and strong,
The body gases held so long?
Shortly afterward, in the garden
My belch was known, I gave my pardon
As for the other, I did pretend
It was not I, but the fart of a friend.

ltv

Thanksgiving Haiku

from the swollen depths
a cacophonous release
aahh, room for more pie

ltv

[untitled limerick]

a lady is one who won’t burp full
that push is no match for her pull
    a woman in contrast
    will let out a loud blast
and continue until she turns purple

ltv

As I said, a fun time was had by all. and I would like to thank Carl Russo and Tom Clark (and their long-suffering wives) for their hard work in putting this event together each year.

Catching Up

2010-08-21T21:49:00.001-05:00

Yes, I know. It's Saturday night and I am writing a blog post. (Wait, readers probably won't realize that.) Uh, Happy Monday Everyone! I am goofing off at work, like all normal people on a Monday morning, and writing a blog entry. Yeah, that's the ticket.

I'm working on some poems for the Florence Poets Society Annual Fall Poetry Festival at Look Park, September 26th, noon- 5:00 pm. A friend of mine will be reading with me and we have tentatively (depending on whether I can write some decent works) planned to a complementary theme. (I'll let you ponder her theme after reading the two poems I have written so far.)

The Fart
(with apologies to Carl Sandburg)

The fart comes
on skittish rat feet.

Shit sits looking
over harbor and porcelain
on violent stenches
and then moves on.

ltv

Belch, Before Loud Voices Resume
(with apologies to Percy Bysshe Shelley)

Belch, before loud voices resume,
Vibrates in the room –
Odors, akin to General Tso’s chicken,
Live within the room they sicken.

Rose leaves, she is filled with dread,
Wishing she were rather dead
And so our thoughts, once she is gone,
Faux pas of ours we dwell upon.

ltv

I'm hoping to write some original poems on the topic as well as "amend" a few more famous poems.

Here's a couple of poems I've written in August.

Big Brother

from the center
the only one
and spending
three years struggling
to define his world

it changes

he must wait and sometimes
play time gets
interrupted when
she cries and they
tell him “no” or
“be patient” – he
pieces together the
world and rules
and what limited
causes and effects
he sees – then
visitors change
the rules again
he is third or fourth
in line for attention
no longer at the front
until he lashes out
at the interloper
somehow knowing
to kick the diaper
and not her head
or to hit her legs
and not her face – both
of course – get the attention
he wanted – but
quickly followed
by isolation again

time to re-think
the strategy

ltv

Strays

evil walks among us
not as radiant as
an angel’s smiling face
but just as potent
and welcoming

at what point
do beings realize
the outstretched hand
they willingly accepted
will soon strangle them

more amazingly are
the survivors of evil
who once again reach
for a stranger’s
questionable hand

some thinking
they can beat the odds
others refusing
to let evil change
their hearts too

ltv

preserves and other stuff (including an excerpt from my novel)

2010-07-28T22:15:00.000-05:00

preserves

there isn’t a day
when you are not with me
in my laugh at a clever line
or the clumsy stroke of my pen

twenty-three years is
a long time to keep
memories alive

they grow stale unless
I pack them away
and take them out
only when I need them

ltv

And now for something completely different.

I am a cynic. Well, really I like to think of myself as a realist; but since I fantasize a lot, I find that hard to reconcile with the definition of "realist". Perhaps I am an optimistic misanthrope. No, it's more like I am a misanthropic optimist. Trust me, there's a difference. Recently I was opening a bag of lettuce and saw a few tiny clumps of what appeared to be dirt. My first thought was this: "I wonder whether They manufacture bits of dirt to include with the lettuce to give consumers the appearance that the lettuce is "fresh from the ground?" Come on, now that I've said it, you're wondering too, aren't you? What a sad commentary on Capitalism is that? Or is it more a comment on what America's society has devolved to? Actually, it wouldn't make a difference to me whether the lettuce was grown in a lab or in soil, as long as it was safe to eat and nutritionally sound. Heck, I'll even eat THIS lettuce. :*)

And since a few people have asked, I am including part of my novel here. This is the beginning of Chapter 14. You probably don't need to know any of the back story, but if you have questions, email me. (Though I feel it important to note that my main character, Delancy, is not actually a mermaid. That's just a fantasy of my bad guy, Lord Cumberland.)

Tentatively Titled Pirates Dream

Chapter Fourteen

Delancy’s long brown hair glimmered in the sunlight. She ran her fingers over the array of seashells she had spread out beside her. The sun made the large, flat rock she was basking on pleasantly warm and Delancy dipped her fingers into the foam of the ocean below. She fished a handful of seaweed strands out of the wave that sprayed saltwater on the browning skin of her shoulders. She smoothed the seaweed out on the rock, squeezing the excess water out. Diligently, she braided each piece into her hair and lay back on the rock, letting her scaled tail slip into the water. She dreamed of her soul mate - a dashingly handsome and powerful man. She imagined him wearing black leather leggings with a thin suede belt adorned with shells dangling at his side. She could almost feel his long, black hair flowing loose in the cool breeze and his ruffled, white shirt fluttering open to reveal his…

“Sir, we’re having trouble contacting the submarine.”

Cumberland sloppily threw his bottle of rum at the intercom, but it crashed to the ground underneath his old metal desk. He slipped off his armchair to his knees, lamenting the remnants of rum that had spilled among the broken shards of glass.

“Sir? What should we do?”

“How should I bloody know? Why are you bothering me? I don’t want to be disturbed again.” Cumberland slapped the chrome display over his glass desk. He spun around, staring inquisitively at his roll top desk. He turned his head towards his metal desk and squinted intently at the industrial grey drawers. “Dammit!” He crossed over to the roll top, opened it and rummaged though the drawers until he found a bottle of rum. He took a long swig and brushed the hair out of his face. He let his fingers slide through the thick, black strands.

Delancy stroked Cumberland’s silky, raven hair. He tried to speak, but she placed her slender finger tenderly against his lips. The water waved onto the shore, covering them both in sand and foam.

“Sshh, my darling. Feel the pulse of the ocean - always moving. Stop worrying about that silly submarine. Think about me instead. Calm and stable. Beautiful and powerful.” Delancy splashed her tail in the surf. “I am everything and anything for you, my love.” She kissed his eyes closed.

“Why would he say he’s having trouble reaching Dmitri? Either he can or he can’t. There’s no middle ground there.”

“Perhaps he makes a connection, but there’s no sound or picture.”

“Maybe, but that’s still a connection. He wouldn’t have said what he said.”

“The lines could be out.”

Cumberland opened his eyes and looked quizzically at Delancy. “Sweetheart, you are far smarter than that. Mermaid or not, you know how the satellites work.”

“Cumby, my dear, I was being metaphorical. Obviously, I know there are no physical lines with the GSCS, but there have been no shortage of problems over the years with the global system. What with all the space junk up there, not to mention atmospheric interference – especially during heightened solar activity – any number of things could have caused a problem with the communication.”

“Of course, that’s what I needed. I shouldn’t worry about it.”

“Although, you do have a state-of-the-art telecommunications system and it doesn’t seem likely that your men would have trouble reaching the sub. And while there may be a myriad of problems, the chances of them occurring are improbably low.”

“That’s exactly what I thought!”

“Really. You’re brilliant.” Delancy’s fingers caught on a tangle in Cumberland’s hair.

“Ow. I know! So why can’t we reach them?”

“Where are they?”

“In the sub.”

“Obviously. After leaving the Swiss Confederacy, where were they headed?”

“Antarctica.”

“That narrows it down. Would they take the Pacific or Atlantic route?”

“Definitely the Atlantic. I asked Dmitri to make some inquiries in New Orleans prior to meeting up with Three and Five in Antarctica.”

“New Orleans? Well, that explains it.”

“It does?”

“Of course, my love. They had to have passed through the Bermuda Polyhedron!”

“But Dmitri is smart enough to avoid that.”

“But, he’s also stubborn enough to think he wouldn’t have any problems. He’s also very much like someone else, I know.”
“You don’t know Dmitri.”

“I know, Lordy-Lord, but you do, so I do. Has anyone checked in with Three or Five to see if they have heard from him?”

“Of course!” Cumberland jumped up from the floor and grabbed at his comm link, tapping haphazardly until someone answered. “Who’s this?”

“My name is Kevin, sir.”

“Kevin? I don’t like that. I’ll call you Ed. Have we had any contact with Three or Five, Ed?”

“No, sir. They’re due to check in directly with Dmitri, then with us.”

“Oh. I forgot about that. Well, try to reach them. I need to know if they can reach the sub.”

“Aye, sir.”

“And, Ed, where are they torturing Watende today?”

“Uh, Sir? I, uhm…”

“Spit it out boy! I’m on the move. I need to know which direction to go. I don’t want to stop and think about it.”

“Well, sir, he was in the courtyard…”

“Stockades. Perfect. It’s been grey for hours, maybe it’ll rain.”

“Uhm, okay.” Kevin shut off the comm link and looked around the control room. The other techs looked away quickly. “Well, I wasn’t going to tell him! I wasn’t the one who let him escape. Why should I get punished?”

Poetic Burst

2010-07-23T17:19:00.000-05:00

It turns out I guilted myself into finishing Chapter 16 (which is a good thing). Now only five or so chapters left until the really hard part begins. In the meantime, it seems the poetry dam has burst and I am writing those again as well. Here are the latest two.

if I could remember

would I understand
these fears - these hesitations

would I let them
fall away like a cloak
in the warm mudroom
of a winter cottage

would I select
another part to play

would I allow myself
a different life as
an actor chooses her roles
to show the world her talent.

ltv

Sister Ships

we are amazing
You and I
anomalies of
a broken home
or examples
depending on
whose side you’re on

we are sound vessels
skillfully patched together
so that one’s weakness
is strengthened by the other

navigating independently
knowing there is always
a safe port to return to

ltv

Summer Inspiration

2010-07-17T19:41:00.000-05:00

It's amazing what I will do to procrastinate something I know I should be doing. I have one page left to write on Chapter 16. I even know WHAT I want to write. It is simply a matter of how I want to say it. Therein lies the problem. In the meantime, I wrote these two delightful poems.

Atmospheric Meeting

as the clouds gather
my cat's ears twitch
and rotate sensing
something in the air
darkness passes with
each breeze then
light as the sun fights
to remain seen
soon, there will be
too many clouds
bumping into each other
rumbling, then rain and
a crack at imitating Sol

ltv

Renewable Energy

summer is standing
outside in the rain
finally some relief
from the heat wave
bare feet sizzling
as the front stoop
darkens drop by drop

kids laugh at the grown-ups --
running as if newspapers
and quick steps will
protect them from
what the earth craves

children know
the source of their power
comes from the sky

ltv

Kitchen Kapers (Canajoharie, NY 1952)

2010-07-11T14:32:00.000-05:00

I don't cook. It's a fact that everybody who knows me knows. Actually, the truth of the matter is that I CAN cook, I just HATE to cook. I am quite the inventive chef, who can make tasty treats and meals anytime she chooses. (Key phrase being: "she chooses".) I do not like waiting. I especially hate waiting for food. If I could read while waiting or somehow occupy my time, than great, it doesn't feel like waiting to me. But if I have to fill that waiting time with chopping, cutting, arranging, peeling, sauteing and other "work", then I am back to not liking it. That being said, I love cookbooks and have a stunning collection of bizarre cookbooks from the French cooking with Mayonnaise (put out by Hellman's, of course), to the pocket sandwich cookbook (all hot pockets all the time). Recently, while participating in one of my favorite pastimes (collecting free books), I found the following homemade cookbook:

This gem, from 1952 (or 1951, I'm not entirely certain) was compiled by the Canajoharie, NY Methodist Church . I can only assume it was a fundraising effort, but who knows. They solicited advertisers and had church members submit recipes such as "Lima Bean De Luxe" and "English Monkey". A few of my favorites are below:

There was also a recipe for molded luncheon salad which combined lemon jello, chicken or turkey, onions, garlic and broth. Most of that sounds okay, but the lemon jello threw me off. Other than the color, I can't see how those ingredients work together. Then again, I've never been a big fan of jello, regardless of the flavor. Perhaps It is my own skepticism that won't pair lemon jello with chicken. Please, if you've ever eaten such a concoction, let me know how it tastes.

In addition to the stunning recipes, there are cleaning tips and little poems scattered amongst the pages. It's clear to see that the book was put together by women; however the women all, strangely enough, have MAN's names such Mrs. John Abbott or Mrs. Manly White Guy. These are different times for sure! This one shows a "clever" little poem that I can't help thinking is a double entendre. (Again, that's probably my own biases here.)

Speaking of biases this next poetic example is inexplicable to me. How can a food item turn a person into a cook?

Though I certainly would like to see it happen, IMHO the chances are that trying to cook a full turkey with all the trimmings would turn cooks into non-cooks, more than it would turn non-cooks into cooks.

In addition to turning women into cooks, apparently, cleaning turned women into chemists. Look at the list of "on hand" supplies used in these cleaning tips!

Of course, you'd probably find these supplies at any number of stores operating in Canajoharie at the time. Take a look at these advertisers (whom readers are encouraged to patronize). Some are even air conditioned for your comfort!

It may seem lame to offer $1 off a new tire, but when the restriction applies to those tires that cost more than $10, then the savings seems more significant.

And what about the added perk that this advertiser offers? Ambulance service? At a funeral home? It seems a little late for that doesn't it?

The ad below hints (to me anyway) that there was a significant gay male population in Canajoharie in 1952. Plus, the name Dobber's Toggery sounds like a gay bar in Britain. Of course, a well-dressed man there, simply means "man"; and a British man here in the States, could also mean "gay man". But I digress. I suppose, it could also be a shop in the Harry Potter Universe, but then we are getting back to the whole "British = gay" thing that I was hoping to move away from.Let's just end with the simple statement at the end of this page:

"Let's go to church on Sunday" Remember, if you're not at church, going to church or coming back from church on a Sunday, then you're probably going to hell. Or are you? Happy Sunday everyone!

Update on Kestra (with photos)

2010-06-29T18:06:00.005-05:00

In January 2009, Kes had surgery to remove a cancerous tumor from the lymph node in her neck.

She was a bit self-conscious while her fur was growing back (plus New England is cold in January and February).

Things were looking up after the surgery even though the vet indicated that the lymphoma she had was a fast-progressing cancer.

Fifteen months later, in April of 2010 another lump was found on the other side of her neck. (Kes wasn't thrilled with the thought of more surgery, so we decided on a steroid treatment instead.)

The steroids had some side effects: Lethargy, weight gain, and green laser beams shooting from her eyes. (Okay, maybe not that last one.)

Ultimately, she is doing well, but still remains jealous of her sister, Willow, who is painfully cute!

Willow is jealous of the attention Kes gets and has threatened to run away several times. Since the lack of thumbs prevents her from actually opening doors, she randomly summons her supernatural power of cuteness and attacks Kes instead.

Same to you Netflix!

2010-06-13T16:13:00.001-05:00

The other day I opened my email and saw the following subject line:

How was the Picture Quality of "Rescue Me: Season 2: "Bitch"?"

My first reaction was, not too bad A**Hole! My second reaction was to forward it to my friends with a witty comment (or something that might pass for one, anyway). I often wonder about the thought process that goes into forwarding emails to friends, family, and other people you hardly know. It's one thing to have a bit of useful information (such as avoid this scam, or vote on Tuesday), but most of what gets forwarded these days is some form of humor.

Humor is subjective. That it is, is fact. People don't even find the same things funny in the same way. A pratfall to one person is funny because the person fell and to another because of the way the actor reacted to it. Perhaps it is even funny because the first person liked to see people fall and the second person was feeling the humor of the embarrassing situation that the actor was in. So this makes me curious as to why people forward items to other people. True, they may be thinking "I thought this was funny and I think you will as well."; but most people simply don't think that much about it. I do.

I don't have one group list that I send funny emails to. Every time I forward an email I hand-pick the recipients based on whether I think they would appreciate it and whether I think they have the time to deal with my email in the midst of all the others they might be getting. Sometimes, I think the funny bit is worth it. Other times, it only gets sent to a couple of my die-hard forward-loving friends.

I want to clear up what may be a developing notion right now - that is, that I am somehow better or should be praised for the method I use. Actually, the opposite may be true; in that, I am making a judgment every time about what I think my friends and family would appreciate. It's one thing to brush aside an email from someone you know forwards everything to everyone. C'mon, we ALL have one of those on our friends/family list. You know the one, he or she warns you about the gang who drives around with their headlights off so that they can kill you after you flash your lights at them. Yeah, you know who it is immediately, don't you? Anyway, we can easily flag those emails and not read them if we don't have time or skim through them to see how lame they truly are. But, when someone who only carefully sends forwarded emails to you shows up in your inbox, you tend to take the time to read it (unless, unbeknownst to them, THEY are that forwarding monster on your friends/family list -- a fact I sheepishly admit may apply to me). So, does that mean you are wasting their time EVEN MORE? Perhaps it does.

The bottom line, in a post that I'm sure no one will read, is that no matter how careful you think you are in sending your emails, someone may take it the wrong way. Isn't that right Netflix?

Miscellany

2010-06-10T19:12:00.000-05:00

I'm having a Summer writer's block party. Chapter 16 is lazily meandering to the festivities and my poetry is still inside playing video games. I resolved to at least get a blog entry in with the scant poems I have. Perhaps I will get inspired and write something new. (I would settle for finishing up Chapter 16, which is now going on several months of being "in progress".)

mechanical hums
the awakening of birds
Spring in my kitchen

ltv

the day of the dead -
woke up late for work again
still with the living

ltv

through the shifting
black -- a long coat and
short skirt -- the woman's legs
moved like a frightened fawn
suddenly realizing this
well-manicured lawn was not
her home -- in fact -- she
was lost and also running
late for work

ltv

Here's the Deal...

2010-05-13T21:29:00.000-05:00

It's been a while since I've blogged, and even longer since I blogged about my adorable nephew (who will be three this June). The latest thing he does, presumably learned from his parents, is that he makes deals. The bedtime ritual goes something like this:

parent: Time for bed
kid: Okay, here's the deal, Mom. I play for 10 more minutes then go to bed.
parent: No, I don't like that deal.
kid: Okay, I play for 5 more minutes then go to bed.
parent: That's a fair deal. Shake on it? Remember, if you shake on it, it means you have to do it. That's a promise.
kid: (kid shakes hand)
parent: do you see the big hand? it's on 7, when the big hand is on 8 that means it's time for bed. Do you understand?
kid: (actually goes to bed without a fuss after 5 minutes!)

If my sister could describe how she has been able to produce such a savvy and well-behaved kid, it could earn her millions in book royalties!

The best part was the next night when his father was putting him to bed. He didn't know about the whole "big hand on the eight" five minute deal and was shocked when James said: Okay, here's the deal, Dad. When the big hand is on the 8, then I go to bed. I'm sure he was even more shocked when his son dutifully trotted off to bed five minutes later.

I don't want readers to mistake my awe at the logical mind of my three-year-old nephew as some sort of maternal yearning on my part. My biological clock is still a sundial at night. I enjoy being able to play the cool auntie who teaches him neat stuff. I get to enjoy the funny anecdotes and can commiserate with the frustrating and bad stories via the phone many miles away. It's the best of both worlds!

And next week, he will have a little brother or sister! I am excited to finally find out whether I have a niece or nephew. I'm probably more excited that I will be spending time with my sister and family next week. It's one of the things I cherish most about my family. We (for the most part) enjoy each other's company and celebrate our family during events like this or even just routine holidays.

I'm not sure how to end this post without sounding like a complete sap or Hallmark card, so I will end with a link with some jokes.

Silkworm 4 now out!

2010-04-25T18:49:00.000-05:00

The Florence Poets Society has released Silkworm 4, their annual review. Below are the poems I have included in it.

suitcase full of crazy

we’ve all grown weary travellin’
on these gritty different streets
some of us have fancy shoes
but most are on bare feet
we think our destination
is the only place to be
but we’re always where we are
if we’d only look and see
in our quest we drive along
every should or could have been
the what-ifs or the maybes
and the dreams we don’t go in
we pick up bits of crazy
at convenient local stops
or wander down a detour
to find special crazy shops
and when our journey’s slowing
if we’re lucky, towards the end
we stow away our suitcase
and share crazy with our friends

ltv

[untitled]

in the fog of pain
killers pumping
through my veins
I choke -- cough
up this tube

memories of college
drinking aftermaths
spew through my mind
but that was decades ago
and though my aged body
feels just as bad
aspirin won't fix this

I struggle without
the aid of pure oxygen

my father and I
when I was ten
watched fish that we caught
flop and gasp on the floor
of the rowboat he rented

I watched him die too
like my family
is watching me now
how can they do it -- well

it won't be long at least
already their voices and songs
are getting far away

and it feels better
not to breathe

ltv

Kestra's Cancer (my kitty) is back

2010-04-07T17:59:00.000-05:00

Kestra's lymphoma is back. After 15 months of watching and worrying that her Lymphoma would kill her (as the doctor indicated it would do rather quickly after the surgery that confirmed the diagnosis), another tumor has developed. I had hoped the surgery to remove the cancer-ridden node in January of 2009 would rid her of it completely, but that is not the case. The vet treating her is thorough, though. He spoke with the Tufts Veterinary Oncology Department to determine the best course of treatment for her. There were three options. 1) surgically remove the second lymph node from the neck; 2) treat with steroids to shrink the tumor; 3) do nothing. The bottom line is that she has Lymphoma, which is systemic, and will not go away. It is incurable. Surgically removing the tumor will only put the cat through that trauma and another tumor may develop somewhere else. Treating with the steroids might shrink the lymph node or it might do nothing (or it might cause her to have bad side effects even though the majority of cats tolerate it well). Doing nothing would only allow the tumor to continue growing and possibly spread to the other lymph nodes faster.

I decided on the steroids. The least invasive option that may produce favorable results. Can cats get six-pack abs ? Should I worry if she starts moving the furniture around while I'm at work? But seriously, I'm hoping she doesn't have any bad side effects and that it really does shrink the lymph node. At least the cancer is a slow-moving one. The doctor called it indolent nodal lymphoma . I don't know what this means for life expectancy, and she is going to be 11 in August. Maybe she'll be with me another three or four years. (A girl can dream.)

On a side note, a few weeks before I discovered the enlarged lymph node I was talking with my co-workers and made the following comment: I would gladly accept my cat's cancer back if my friend's cancer would be completely gone. She's currently going through radiation, after going through chemotherapy, after (a while ago) undergoing a complete hysterectomy (she has endometrial cancer). She won't know for a few weeks if her tumor is gone, but at least the chemo stopped the spread of it (it was found in her lungs); hopefully the radiation will knock out the initial tumor.

So, did I make a deal with the Universe? And, if so, can I use the loophole of "gladly accept" as justification for treating my cat rather than letting her just get cancer-ridden and die?

a bevy of death poems (or would that be a murder?)

2010-02-22T23:10:00.000-05:00

Death has been on my mind lately, given the recent events at my condominium complex. Then again, as a brooding poet, I have always been enamored with Death as a subject for poetic speculation. Here is a mix of new and old poems on the subject.

in the presence of death

the certain reaffirms life
they fuck or climb mountains
in defiance of the unfeeling body
that awaits them – they tingle
in the knowledge of their place
in this realm – they know
they are meant to be here
and fight to remain as long as possible

the questioning retreat to the bunker
they are most comfortable with
their books or electronic databases
of information – some even consult
the mysterious forces they believe
give a damn about the
corporal beings on this plane
they’re not looking for answers
since those would make them certain
instead they walk on the illusion
of a never-ending path

there is another group – uncertain, yet
unquestioning – who stops when Death arrives
and politely yields the way as they would
for the rushing ambulance or busy busboy

ltv
2/16/10

On the Death of a Catholic Friend

"I'm not afraid," she said despite
the monitors beeping in the night

The Universe -- blasé -- waited
as mortality dissipated
from the sterile human room

Consciousness lingered stately, stoic
as if dying, somehow, were heroic

Silently, her eyes fell closed
from habit as though in repose

lights and echoes down the hall
but, no -- no angels gently called
her home

ltv
9/9/96

Response from a Catholic Friend on Her Death

"I'm not afraid," I said
despite the monitors
beeping in the night

God is present
by my side
waiting for me
to finally decide

Humanity lingers
stubborn, defensive
as if dying, somehow,
were offensive

Silently, I chose to go
to a Universe
I didn't know

Angels came with
my release, but friends
couldn't see
how I found peace

ltv
10/12/06

A Dirge for the Living

At the point of my death
don’t cover my head
Don’t calmly recite:
“I’m sorry, she’s dead.”
Don’t stand in the morgue
for a teary good-bye
Don’t color my face
with lip and cheek dye

When my time has come
don’t bury me deep
Don’t pray to the Lord
my soul to keep
Don’t limit your wardrobe
don’t wear the veil
Don’t accessorize your anguish
with a heart-wrenching wail

When this body is broken
the life slipped away
when words go unspoken
at the end of my day

Don’t order me cut flowers
like lilies in white
Don’t hold vigil for hours
in votive candlelight

Don’t mourn future memories
Don’t weep for this shell
Don’t belittle my life
with “at least she died well.”

Don’t ask God for answers
‘cause he doesn’t know
why -- if you believe in Heaven
you’re sad when I go.

ltv
8/28/96

we accept
death as a job
similar to the ones
we suffer through
a necessity
to make ends meet

we fight death –
a nemesis to conquer
as it stalks victims
we try to stay
one step ahead

but it is neither
apathetic nor malicious
nor the wind that comes
ravaging in a storm

it is the Sun that rises
every day – not because
of some internal motion

but because of our
journey around it

Death itself is static

ltv
9/19/09

For Emily

Sir, please Kindly pass me by
For we have met before
I’ve seen you walking with my friends
or lingering -- at their door

We’ve sat together side-by-side
‘til one of us went home --
to tend to mundane tasks -- put-off
or to inhabit the Unknown

Now this -- Great Hall is bathed in light
the decorations stunning
music teases through the night
Your humble offer -- cunning

But, I’ll not be responding -- s’il vous plait
to your bold invite
you see, my card -- alas -- is full
I cannot dance tonight

ltv
6/27/96
7/26/96(R)

reaching into death
the living must be certain
about coming back

ltv
11/2/09

[untitled]

in the fog of pain
killers pumping
through my veins
I choke -- cough
up this tube

memories of college
drinking aftermaths
spew through my mind
but that was decades ago
and though my aged body
feels just as bad
aspirin won't fix this

I struggle without
the aid of pure oxygen

my father and I
when I was ten
watched fish that we caught
flop and gasp on the floor
of the rowboat he rented

I watched him die too
like my family
is watching me now
how can they do it -- well

it won't be long at least
already their voices and songs
are getting far away

and it feels better
not to breathe

ltv
8/14/08

after the moment

when machines
are turned off
family in a daze
makes their way
past the nurses’ station
an orderly
gently pulls IVs
from sluggish veins
then squeezes a soapy
sponge one last time
before caressing
each part of the body

ltv
5/24/09

The limerick’s no medium for dying
but that won’t stop me from trying
for while it’s grim compose
about the final repose
it’s certainly more fun than crying.

ltv
5/3/00

Death and the Poet

2010-02-15T12:49:00.000-05:00

Forgive me, I am a little sleep deprived (but not overly so). I got to bed late last night (1.00 am, which is late for me now that I am 40). At about 2.00 am I was awakened by the loud rumbling of the fire engine and the ambulance. I looked out my window and saw two police vehicles as well, respectfully NOT flashing their lights within my condominium complex. I knew immediately why they were here. My next door neighbor has had a myriad of health issues ever since I have known her. Diabetes, dialysis, on oxygen, a catheter in her leg to better facilitate the dialysis three times per week. She was also deaf in one ear (prompting an ongoing, though cordial, feud between us when her TV got so loud I couldn't concentrate on watching my own TV.) Every time I called her to turn down her TV (which wasn't all that often, since I empathized with her situation) she was pleasant and immediately complied. She would sometimes call me to fix her TV or if she was having strange medical symptoms and just wanted someone else to be with her. She got confused a lot. Sometimes, I would come over simply to remind her to call her doctor or her PCA. I have no medical training. There was nothing I could do to help other than be there and let her know that everything was going to be okay.

Last summer her leg cath bled out so badly, the carpet in her living room had to be replaced. She spent many weeks in a nursing home and I cared for her cat, Twinkie, while she was away. It always bothered me that her doctors or family or the health insurance conglomerate couldn't see that she needed to be in a watched situation. A nursing home, living with family, something. She forgot to eat sometimes (which for a diabetic can be fatal). Apparently she was too sick to be home alone, yet not sick enough to be permanently assigned to a nursing home. I can't help but wonder what role the health insurance companies played in this ridiculous situation she was in.

Last night, her leg cath bled out again. The EMS techs believe she had a heart attack prior to bleeding out and was dead on the scene. Is it odd that my first concern, while up at 2.30 am in the freezing cold talking to the police was "what will happen to her cat?" She loved that cat. That poor thing (skittish as she is) was hiding somewhere in the condo, but I wasn't allowed to go in to try and find her because there was too much blood and it wasn't safe. Far be it from me, to WANT to walk into what essentially seemed like a scene from one of the CSI or Law and Order shows, but I also had visions of this long-haired cat traipsing through her owner's blood-soaked sheets trying to find her. Fortunately, my neighbor's daughter was able to retrieve the cat this morning.

My dark side tried to cheer me up by reassuring me that at least I won't have to deal with the overly loud TV anymore. My good side immediately felt the need to do many forms of penance for that thought. Here is a poem in her honor.

On the Death of an Infirm yet Cheerful Neighbor

when late at night the alarm sounded
she touched her troubled leg
confounded by the blood

memories of summer’s infirmary
struck her brain first like lightening
frightening her into panic

her heart was shocked
too much to handle
it stopped to let the blood flow out

the relief of her life fading fast
perhaps she briefly raged against
the dying of the light - if only

for her beloved feline companion --
resigned by her owner’s waning energy
she hid when the trucks arrived for the body

ltv
2/15/2010

a couple of bitter winter poems

2010-02-10T23:06:00.000-05:00

storm heart

wind-chilled
biting the flesh
desperate to get away
or protect itself

the sun – so far away –
offers no assistance
only the image
remains in the sky

breezes chop at
confidence – shavings
of self-esteem fall
clumping to the ground

this force is unseen
but powerful
gravity without
the certainty

unable to lift up
against it – plowing
through life
hitting obstacle

after obstacle
realizing the ice
has kept you
spinning in stagnation

ltv
2/5/10

wandering hermit

selfishly nomadic
wanting something
new -- different
better than a haircut
bigger than a car
a change of locus
foolishly believing
the mind is a roommate
of my body

forgetting about
different planes
of existence -- perhaps
a defense mechanism
so that its true home
won’t be discovered

if the consciousness of the flesh
gets too close
we move – shift again
to spend our waking thoughts
on boxes and forms
instead of the anomalous pain
so well-protected in this
make-believe fortress

ltv
2/10/10

Thoughts on my sister

2010-02-07T17:46:00.000-05:00

My baby sister turns 33 this week. I visited her this weekend for a family birthday dinner at her house. Her husband's parents and siblings were there along with our mother and step-father. No major family dramas (in fact one past drama was actually made better by something that happened -- no need to go further into that). I was looking forward to hanging out with her after everyone left. It seems, now that we are both adults, we rarely have time for that anymore. I think she also feels the same and when it was discovered that someone needed to run to the store to pick up something before everyone arrived, her husband (one of my favorite people in the world, a very good husband to my sister) suggested that the two of us go out while he stayed home with their son.

We drove the short distance to the store and gave brief updates on our lives. The shopping list was small: birthday candles, cake-writing icing, and firewood. We knew our time was limited and quickly retrieved the first two items on the list. The last item remained elusive, however. What happened next is exactly why I miss hanging out with my sister.

She dared me to ask a male cashier if he had wood. She didn't just suggest it would be funny, she reveled in the idea of it (which I admit, was contagious). It took a while for this 40 year old to stop giggling at the prospect of the question before we got into line. And, as a birthday gift to her, I looked the 17 year old male cashier in the eye and we had the following exchange:

me: "Excuse me. Do you have wood?"

male cashier (with a deer-in-the-headlights look on his face): "What?"

me: "Do you have wood?" (at which point my sister interjected with "firewood")

cashier: "Oh, yes. I think it's over there."

After I procured the firewood and went through the checkout process, the cashier said: "So, what are you two doing this weekend?"

Perhaps he was trying to be polite. Clearly he didn't see my sister's six-months' pregnant belly. I also like to think he didn't realize I was 40, but I certainly know I didn't look young enough to be the subject of a come-on from a 17 year old. I revealed it was my sister's birthday and we wished him a fun weekend.

My sister and I stifled laughter all the way out of the store and guffawed when we reached her car. "Totally worth it!" we both agreed.

Later that night, after my nephew was in bed and the relatives were long gone, my sister, her husband and I played a favorite board game and continued our goofing around. Cracking jokes, blocking each others' moves and doing the things that sisters and friends enjoy. I only live just over two hours away, but that seems too far. And, as is always the case when I visit them, I am reconsidering my decision to remain here in the Happy Valley.

Side note on my nephew: I just received a phone call from my brother-in-law. James woke up from his afternoon nap and asked his Dad to take him downstairs so he could play with Auntie. Of course, after Ben broke the bad news to James, he quickly said "I want to play with cars." It's good to know that he wasn't completely broken up by my absence.

A Handful of Forgotten Poems

2009-12-30T20:56:00.000-05:00

Well, not completely forgotten; but two of them were birthday poems that I neglected to include in my birthday poem post.

time for order
for lines and rules
set forth neatly
guiding me
keeping me safe
even when I
choose to
disregard them

ltv
12/10/09

butterflies in space
can’t float like they do on Earth
their rules have vanished

ltv
12/10/09

if suffering ceased
would I as well?
is being Human
going through Hell
this Being of Light
feels trapped inside
afraid to come out
nowhere to hide
everything tingling
emotions and nerves
no chance for direction
with so many curves
I reach out my hand
through a slot in the door
a glimpse of the freedom
I don’t have anymore
the flesh can’t escape
through such a small hole
my only hope is
to liberate my soul

ltv
12/18/09

Tiger Shark

so fierce in vitro
unlike us who require
time to develop

ltv
12/30/09

Small Crop of Birthday Poems

2009-12-12T12:33:00.000-05:00

This year wasn't as fruitful as other years in terms of poetry on (or around) my birthday. Perhaps because I turned 40 (although, logically, one might think that would create MORE opportunities to pour one's soul into poetry) or maybe because I wrote 33 poems in November and am simply tapped out. Of course, I can't stop writing completely (any more than I can stop breathing for very long). So, here are a couple of poems that I couldn't help writing while at the monthly FloPoSo meeting

...wait a minute

there was no dripping of
icicles from the eaves
the first snow still lay
fresh on the ground
as night fell and the
temperatures rose
New England countered
this winter event with
lightning and a low
rumbling thunder
no fireflies during this storm
just the flashing lights
of the eager plows

ltv

…ask your doctor

that Love is a drug
is not in dispute
that feeling is strong
the addiction acute

but is it a medicine
to cure all one’s ills
or is it illicit
like opiate pills

something to crave
to steal and to lie for
can we live without it
or is it something to die for

ltv

Dream Interpretations

2009-12-06T17:55:00.000-05:00

Hello All you Denizens of the Interwebs!

Since my poetry outburst appears to be all dried up, I have actually finished writing chapter 14 of my novel. Of course, that just means I have to figure out what to write in chapter 15! Ah, the fun never ends. This weekend was a busy one for my sleeping brain. I don't know about you, but I seem to frequently dream in full-length, full-color movies/tv shows. (In fact, it was one such dream that got me started on writing this novel.) I usually can figure out what the dreams mean (dream interpretation is a bit of a hobby for me), but these last two have me stumped (actually there was one other from a few weeks ago that also has me stumped, but due to the individuals involved in it, I am not at liberty to share it on the web.) (How's that for intriguing?) So, back to this weekend. Here is what I remembered from my two dreams. I am looking for what other people think it means (and don't say that I watch too much TV -- I already know that!)

Dream Number 1 -- Looking for Stephen
Friday, December 4, 2009 – December 5, 2009

I was looking for Stephen (in my dream I understood it to be Stephen [redacted] although there is a perennial personals ad in the Advocate with the heading “Looking for Stephen”). I believe he was in trouble – either mentally or involving drugs. I made it to a sort of rave and found a woman who might have information. She was wearing a tight, satiny blue dress that gathered in bunches around the waist, but was smooth at her behind. I gave her a drug that she wanted and was leading me to another building that was connected to the rave. It was as if the rave was an underground room that people from this other building sneaked into.

We were heading up a large open staircase that overlooked the party below, when we passed someone who tried to stop us. I hugged the woman in the dress close to me and caressed her behind as if to indicate that we were simply looking for some place private and the other person gave us a knowing look and continued down the stairs.

When we arrived at the other building, it was bathed in light, even though the rave would indicate that it was nighttime. Large fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling and there were books everywhere. At various places in the large, open, main room there were what appeared to be check-in desks – security desks – staffed with women and men in white and off-white uniforms. We were in some sort of medical facility – a locked-down building – in which people were recovering from addictions or other ailments. Some of the people didn’t seem like they were sick at all, they may have been political prisoners held as “mental patients”. The woman I was with claimed she knew where Stephen was.

As we were walking through the room, we passed several bookcases – metal, built into the floor and filled with books. On one of the shelves was a book with red on the cover, the title was “Necropolis” [side note: I've done a search and it wasn't any of these titles.] We saw a uniformed woman approaching us, so we quickly sat down on one of the various couches. The one we were one had metal arms and legs and a burnt-orange rectangular cushion that sat about four people. There was another couch across from us and a smaller one at the left of us that completed a U-formation sitting area amongst the bookshelves. The uniformed woman approached us and asked us what we were doing. I explained that I was telling the woman I was with about a great book I read called “Necropolis” in which the citizens are kept safe inside a protected city and fed popcorn as they focused on becoming productive members of the society. (That was not exactly the plot of the book. I was “spinning the plot” to conform to what I perceived was the prevailing attitude in this facility.) The uniformed woman seemed pleased with my answer and left us alone.

It was then that I awoke.

Dream Number 2 -- My Episode of House (guest starring Marion Ross)
December 5, 2009 to December 6, 2009.

It seemed like an episode from the TV show House. I was one of House’s team members. At some point in the dream I had to go to an outside doctor’s office. I found House there and discovered he had a heart condition. He didn’t see me there.

At another point in the dream, I had to get into a building through a door that was blocked with some sort of vise-grip contraption on a base of concrete. I found a penny, unscrewed a screw that connected the grip handle to the vise, and removed the parts of the vise enough to unblock the entrance and go inside. I do not recall what was inside. But later in the dream, others were trying to get inside as well and I was bragging that I was clever enough to find a way (since it was now locked again). I tried to take apart the concrete base and someone else suggested I simply unscrew the handle from the grip and take apart the vise rigging. I was embarrassed that I had forgotten that’s what I had done before.

At another point in the dream we were at a counter of some kind, almost retail. I was on one side and House was on the other. It may have been a pharmacy counter. I started playing mind games with him indicating that I knew something was wrong with him. He appeared to see that I wasn’t bluffing, but he played it off like I was an idiot -- that didn’t know what I was talking about.

At another point in the dream, I was in my home (it wasn’t the condo I now own, but it was a condo.) It had a foyer which connected several units and there were mailboxes on a wall and buzzers for each unit. Someone buzzed my unit, and I realized that my door was open a bit. I slammed my door shut and didn’t answer the buzzer. The call was patched through to my phone and went to voicemail. It was a woman’s voice, authoritative – like from a government agency investigating something. I ignored it. After a while, I left my condo and went around the block. Connected to the condos was a shopping center. There was a brick pathway through the covered center and several boutique-like shops. At the main entrance was a book shop and two other shops. As you entered the covered shopping area, you could descend into a large underground gathering area. The shopping center was actually built from an old fire station [side note: It's something like this]. The gathering area seemed like the place where the fire trucks were parked, but there was a ramp that descended into the area, as if the building had been sunk into the ground. (Imagine the fire truck bays. The garage doors are at ground level, but they entrance slopes downward until the main bay is completely underground.) The underground portion had the base of the fire pole, but it was blocked by the floor that was built above it. The pole ascended into concrete. Turning around on the slope that led to the blocked fire pole, led me back to the underground portion of the centre. There was a small bar with stone walls and neon above the bar itself. Underneath the actual bar was stone with pictures painted on it like cave drawings, but they were pictures from the storybook “Where the Wild Things Are”. That was the name of the bar: “Where the Wild Things Are”. In the large open concrete gathering place, there was a crowd of people listening to music and taking drugs. It seemed to be a “hippie love fest” that is typically associated with the “Summer of Love” in the sixties. House was there. A woman stood up from the sitting crowd and began speaking. It was Marion Ross (Mrs. Cunningham, from “Happy Days”). She was the age she is today and was referring to House as going through an important transition. It was then that I realized that House had OD’d on LSD and possibly something else. I tried to reach him, but the music was swelling and the crowd all stood up singing and dancing in celebration of the “transformation” that was taking place. I caught House’s eye and he winked at me then fell to the ground. By the time I reached him, his heart wasn’t beating and he had stopped breathing. I started CPR but Marion Ross told me to stop. She said he wanted this. I pushed her back and told her that he didn’t, that he wanted me to save him. An ambulance was called and Wilson arrived with it. By the time we loaded House into it, I had restarted his heart and got him breathing again. He was still unconscious though.

Back at the hospital, the test results from what had happened were back and Wilson explained that the LSD and whatever else he took “rebooted” his heart fixing the damage that had earlier been found. House woke up and feebly told Wilson that he knew his plan would work. Wilson chastised him by saying that there must have been a better treatment plan than death. House responded that he knew I would understand and that there was very little risk, other than the death thing.

It was then that I awoke from the dream.

So, any insight would be appreciated. If anyone knows of a book called Necropolis with red on the cover and has a plot similar to the one I mentioned, let me know. Perhaps that should be the title of the next book I write? Also, I really should be watching less TV. peace, ltv

"Don't get it right, just get it written"*

2009-12-05T21:48:00.002-05:00

I recently watched Gran Torino and was moved to write /blog/rant about the following.

What is right? Is it something you feel? Like pleasure or satisfaction. Is it something that is hard, something that must be sacrificed? Or is it easy, innate, naturally occurring within some minds, some souls? We talk about doing the right thing. The right way. Being right. And having the right stuff. In America we have an entire political party that is referred to as “the Right”, but are they? We make quips about those who aren’t right are those who are left. And that is true, if you consider how we presently misuse the term. Right is simply a direction, and is different, depending on your point of view. Sometimes, all it takes to decide what isn’t right, is to look in the mirror. And sometimes, what’s left – in that same mirror – can also seem right.

ltv

*"Don't get it right, just get it written" - James Thurber

33 Poems in 30 Days

2009-11-30T20:17:00.003-05:00

It's official! (Unless I write some more tonight.) I managed to write more than 30 poems in 30 days. Now, let's see if I can continue this streak into December or whether it stops at my birthday. (A normally prolific time for me.)

Thanksgiving Crapulence

the excess came
from sharing too much
not stopping at
one sweet morsel
but dipping into
the succulent parts
savory and extravagant
and we both consumed
even knowing we couldn’t
digest it all in one night

ltv
11/27/09

[untitled i]

if I look into
the glass and see
a monster -- am I
to blame for not
keeping the window
clean enough to see
whether the image
is a distortion
of reality or
a reflection

ltv
11/30/09

[untitled ii]

I wear ogre glasses
an angel gave to me
I sat through many classes
on how I’m meant to be
the angel showed me beauty
and how it can’t be trusted
she also taught me duty
which never can be busted
as I grew the glasses fused
onto my trusting face
until lessons were well-used
though locked within this place
deep inside without a key
I’m safe but far apart
wondering who will rescue me
the blind princess with no heart

ltv
11/30/09

[untitled iii]

emotion is a two-edged sword
both cleansing and corrupt
which leaves me feeling empty
and often times filled up
it can be wielded skillfully
not solely in defense
I’ll find my life less painful
when I finally learn to fence

ltv
11/30/09

Happy Thanksgiving!

2009-11-26T09:55:00.002-05:00

Turkey Day, Tofurky Day, Turducken Day, or Sit On The Couch, Watch the Macy's Parade and Avoid the Relatives Day -- whatever you call it, however you celebrate the day off from work -- ENJOY!

And, of course, the daily poems from November (which, regrettably, are not so much "daily" as much as they are "whenever I get to it").

[untitled]

no poems on the weekends
as if they were a chore
an errand to complete
a dull and arduous bore
yet the time that I write
is before my morning drive
a few lines with my coffee
helps me feel alive
so it can’t be a burden
(though rhyming can get tough)
it’s a little stress relief
(though probably not enough)

ltv
11/23/09

[untitled]

what stops in my brain
the novelty – the challenge
to let the mundane worries
of forty hours conquer
the rest of my time
to keep me from crafting
drafting poems in some form
is it chemical -- like depression
emotional – like stress
or physical – like pain
or does it go back
to Schrodinger’s cat
the answer is unknown
until I look inside

ltv
11/25/09

Onion Slaw

the shredding is the easy part
sometimes someone’s
already done that for you
the trick is
keeping it from getting soggy
soaking in the acrid juices
and ruining what is
essentially healthy
when properly prepared

ltv
11/26/09

More of a Rant than a Poem

2009-11-21T13:16:00.002-05:00

selective understanding

what chemical in our brains
causes emotion to shut down reason
is emotion simply too powerful
to subdue in our fragile human state
or is it ignorance
that causes logic to falter
when confronted with an idea
our brains focus on what we know
cling to it – violently –
there – what causes some minds
to snap shut in that instance
and others to open wide
to let in more information

ltv
11/20/09

24 (oops, I mean 25) and Counting....

2009-11-19T18:21:00.002-05:00

In my unofficial stab at the 30 poems in 30 days, I am making beautiful progress. If I could only get focused on finishing chapter 14 of my novel, I would be as happy as can be!

Semantics

is peace the absence of war
or is war the absence of peace

perhaps they are, in fact, two completely
separate and unrelated things

war is political -- greedy, bloody politics
infringing on each soldier’s, each civilian’s
inner sense of calm – the peace –
the freedom – of living as one chooses

ltv
11/17/09

[untitled]

peace is warranted
as war tears a country
its soldiers, its people
into pieces

ltv
11/17/09

Unique Opportunity

dreams can be torture
a Sisyphean nightmare
of futile desires
reminding me of
the things I’ll never have
and the choices I made
that left me here
alone looking at McMansions
with no capital and
nothing to fill them

ltv
11/19/09

I don't like the poem above, it seems far too depressing (and for me that's saying something!) So I tried to write a response poem, but ended up beating myself up while trying to point out the fallacy of the sentiment above. Oh well, I promised the denizens of the Interwebs (like THAT would hold up in court!) that I would post EVERY poem I wrote in November, so here is my response:

Response to Unique Opportunity

if homes were made
from the impressions
we leave on others
yours would contain
so many beautiful rooms
that you never would see
since you insist on
living in the basement

ltv
11/19/09

Three with Titles!

2009-11-16T20:48:00.001-05:00

Observation

it’s scary
or just a little
superstitious maybe
that with all the poetry
flowing each day
I should stop
on Friday the 13th
or rather just short of it
as if to say my words
refused to acknowledge
connection for fear of
being mangled badly
or worse – misarranged
into a throw-away poem
destined to be locked
in a folder for years
Schrodinger’s poem
does it exist if
no one ever reads it

ltv
11/14/09

ashes to ashes

that morning
after prayers
and the special service
she left the church
still bearing the sooty mark
of faith on her face
that last smudge she felt
she couldn’t remove
it being the only reminder
that, at least once, she believed

ltv
11/16/09

not so far away

in the morning
with her coffee
and the kids still sleeping
she dreams of places
far away and free
she hopes for a time
perhaps when her sisters
are old enough to take over
the family duties
she can fly away
from these buildings falling down
this neighborhood of terror
muted pops of gunfire fill the air
like the birds she imagines must exist
somewhere in this country
this land of the free

ltv
11/16/09

A Quantum Leap

2009-11-14T20:32:00.003-05:00

One of the concepts I am thinking about now in relation to quantum physics is how it is related to human consciousness and spirituality. There are some theories out there, but one, rather poetic, theory I concocted was the notion that the Universe is structurally equivalent to the atom, which is a homonym with Adam, which, of course, is the first Human "God" created (if you believe that particular myth) in His image. My theory is that the Universe is what many different religions refer to as "God" and is only "alive" in the sense that the cells of the human body are alive. In fact, humans, and all living creatures, are integral parts of the Universe in much the same way as the cells of the body are integral to us. But the interesting thing to think about is this: are we and all that we know of (the earth, all its flora and fauna, and, of course humans) part of the universal brain or merely part of a “lesser” (though not unimportant) system such as the digestive system or skin? And, if we are not part of the brain (though, I secretly hope we are), does that mean there are more “evolved” life-forms out there that are? And, if there are more ”evolved” life-forms, could that mean they are evolved in a way that does not appear as evolved to us lowly humans? Perhaps some virus is part of the Universe’s brain, a more “evolved” life-form designed to eradicate that which is harming the whole. But, like most internal processes, or with outside interference, it is not as precise as the Universal whole would want it to be.

That’s my answer, by the way, for why good people die and bad people live. Life isn’t perfect. Nature, the Universe, the human body, while remarkable in their own ways, do not have complete control over the system they are in, nor the systems they contain. Could it be true that staying in balance is the overriding law of Nature and the Universe? And when things get out of balance, the system tries, with all it has available to it, to regain that balance. The mythological battle of good and evil then becomes nothing more than a Universe suffering from OCD. Cleanliness really is next to godliness!

Healing Spell for MAS

2009-11-12T19:49:00.001-05:00

I summon the Universe
channel healing energy
redirect it towards my friend
then release my desires

I summon the Universe
reach far into its ends
make plans and then rehearse
the task we have at hand

channel healing energy
let the power flow and pool
one human in perfect synergy
always mindful of the rules

redirect it towards my friend
with body marred by cancer
bring the illness to an end
we have no other answers

then release my desires
my will is not my own
go to work my new hires
let her feel it in her bones

I summon the Universe
channel healing energy
redirect it towards my friend
then release my desires

ltv
11/12/09

missing you

2009-11-11T20:55:00.002-05:00

sometimes I listen
over tea in the afternoon
at my kitchen table
to the advice you
would have given me
but I was so young
back then when you left
I couldn’t see the pain
of a broken marriage
or your courage when faced
with a failing plane
over enemy territory
all I saw was the disease
that shook your body
and mind away from us
rattling the foundation of our family

I miss the memories we never made
the fights when I asserted
my independence as an adult
the talks we could have shared
about my own failed marriage
over tea like we used to
when I complained about
my homework and unfair teachers

ltv
11/11/09

I'm up to two a day...this is becoming a habit!

2009-11-10T21:47:00.002-05:00

the physics of failure

how far we’ve come
becomes that much
more impressive as
we drag the weight
of our missteps and failures
grudgingly behind us

how far could we go
if we push them out in front
buffering the onslaught
of new mistakes with
the understanding that
more mass yields greater velocity

ltv
11/9/09

oh, if I could only be
as happy as my cats are free
with wild abandon
they chase their play
and with equal power
they sleep all day
their stomachs tell them
when to eat
and they take pride
in keeping neat
if they don’t like you
it’s no surprise
as is the love seen
in their eyes
oh, if I had a strength like that
I’d live carefree
just like my cat

ltv
11/9/09

that moment of doubt
when letting go of the pain
can last a lifetime

ltv
11/10/09

phantom limb
(dedicated to V.S. Ramachandran)

in the absence of
new memories
the brain remains
fixed on the last
experience
the violent separation
which left only
pain and raw nerves
a seemingly permanent
affliction – the cure
is deceptively simple
trick the brain
into rewiring itself
flex that missing part
and let go of the pain

ltv
11/10/09

Daily Poetry -- This isn't pretty

2009-11-08T16:06:00.002-05:00

I am compelled to share with the denizens of web, those of you surfing at 1 am because you just can't help yourself, every poem I am creating during these 30 days of November. If you are following these posts (and god help you if you are), you will know I am not officially participating in the 30 poems in 30 days challenge thrown down by Leslea Newman . But that is only because I have an irrational fear of commitment and NOT because I have Ergophobia or Mertophobia . (Although I will admit to not completely mastering my Arachnophobia.)

So, don't be afraid to read the less than stellar daily poems below.

these happy moments
oases in a desert
that doesn’t exist

ltv
11/4/09

for a moment
I belonged
I was known
and understood
appreciated
and made fun of
for the quirks
that make me special
and more importantly
I enjoyed it.

ltv
11/4/09

Connoisseur of Chaos

I’m a connoisseur of chaos
selecting just the perfect strife
one that is uncomplicated
for a troubled intricate life

the flavor of the turmoil
can be enhanced by other things
like a young arthritic hand
having difficulty with rings

it’s all in how you wear it
with a flourish and some pride
instead of trapped and rotting
like a prisoner inside

so choose your trouble wisely
whether money, love or fame
for underneath the swirling mess
each human soul’s the same

ltv
11/5/09

again we start
to face the insecurities
or new beginnings
of another day
what at first glance
appears to be the last
leg of a mundane journey
towards the forty-eight
hour reprieve is
really that same old
cliché of the first day
of the rest of your life
why we continue to let
our minds drag the
baggage of the past
into this exciting
opportunity of discovery
isn’t really a mystery at all
who doesn’t feel safer
travelling with a friend?

ltv
11/6/09

Gallery Show

we paint with hidden colors
for everyone to see
the image we imagine
the Selves we try to be
but palettes are unique
regardless of what we choose
one individual’s rainbow
can be nothing more than blues
a study in monotony
or the simply subtlety of change
once the composition leaves us
we no longer can arrange
aesthetically we try to guess
our paramour’s delight
but succeed in merely showing
our best work on opening night

ltv
11/8/09

[untitled]

who do we pretend to be
when we pretend to be ourselves
that glossy, brilliant image
of the best we think we are

is it merely a façade
a pretty shell – like Fabergé
or is it something more in depth
that we can access any time
only using it when needed
like a hunter in a blind

ltv
11/8/09

Happy Election Day!

2009-11-03T19:45:00.002-05:00

In my subversive attempt to join something without actually joining it, I wrote another poem today. (Not that I am committing to writing 30 poems in 30 days, I just happened to have written two days in a row.)

I voted to stay in bed

I tried my best to weigh
the issues of earning an income
or snuggling under the heavy quilt
without guilt of faking illness
still, the candidates made promises
of continued paid employment or
enjoyment of the purring lump of fur beside me
I did my civic duty, as I should
chose according to my heart
and mind the kind of future I thought I wanted
but, sadly, the alarm clock won

ltv

A Flurry of Activity Today

2009-11-02T23:50:00.002-05:00

I'm not sure whether it was Leslea Newman's November poetry challenge 30 Poems in 30 Days that got me started or my migraine yesterday or the weird dream involving me dying and seeing a bunch of dead people I know in a waiting room with a long line. (Yes, I know I'm weird; but if you knew me, you would already know that.) Well, what can I say, 'tis the season for that sort of morbid stuff. Whatever the reason, I wrote five poems before work this morning. Don't get too impressed, three of them are haikus (and I don't really think the five are all that great). Self-deprecating intros aside, here are the poems in the order I wrote them.

Migraine Haiku

first the hint of pain
then nauseating migraine
lingers ‘til evening

ltv

an unwelcomed guest
bringing offerings of pain
won’t leave when I ask

ltv

[untitled Haiku]

reaching into death
the living must be certain
about coming back

ltv

travel plans

In my dreams
I reach towards death
to visit those I failed
to say goodbye to
or those I stubbornly
refuse to accept as gone
but these long adventures
of my subconscious
risks the same as any other
selfish vacation -
collections of images
reminders of something
I can never have
or worse –
the opportunity
to give in completely
and return to that place forever

ltv

the very best

every morning is Halloween
I raise the dead in my bedroom
then give thanks to the bounty
of soothing hot water in my shower
my eyes are opened to the gifts
of the day, even if they are left
under foot on the living room carpet
I clean them and start anew
with the aromatic coffee I love
be mine caffeine every day
how lucky I am to find
this pot of gold already brewed
or am I being fooled
into mothering myself with
memories of what I observed
in my youth – is this a red flag
of my daddy issues
rejecting tea for coffee
asserting my independence
with a beverage
I labor through these thoughts
the rest of my day
exhausted by the hallmarks
of my existence

ltv

Florence Poets Society Fall Festival - Oct 4th, 2009

2009-10-11T19:47:00.002-05:00

The Annual Fall Poetry Festival of the Florence Poets Society went swimmingly well this year. And I say that because it rained in the middle of it (though that didn't spoil the mood). Tommy Twilight serenaded us through the rain with his guitar and the poetry continued once the crisp blueness of the autumn sky returned. As is usually the case at these events, I get inspired to write. The following five poems are the result of that rendezvous with my muse. (I have also included a couple of poems I found that I hadn't recorded elsewhere.)

Florence Poets Society Fall Poetry Poems
Written on 10/4/09

I

the ground still smells of Spring
freshly tossed earth begging
for life amidst rotting leaves
the air is still – recovering
in a healing calm
from the violent storm last night
Poets politely sit in discomfort
listening to poems some
hope will make them think
and others wish to forget
either way they think it better
to be here than still at home alone

ltv

II – Ladybug Lost

She couldn’t have known
from so far away
how soft the giant
flower would be
no petals - just vibrant
succulent orange calling

the others didn’t see
limited to looking with their smell
so this exquisite treat is hers alone
she alit on the wrinkled surface
tried to taste but found
something not unlike nothing
a taste of cotton, but not really
no nectar – just a multitude of fibers
sticking to her feet – so this is why
the others stayed away
from the human’s neon fleece jacket

ltv

III

after the rain
when the Poets
reassembled
nobody noticed the daily
commute of the chipmunks
and chickadees
perpendicular to the mossy pine
the tiny bird walks to the
needle-covered forest floor
to snap up those who came
for the afternoon drink
I think they must enjoy
their work routine
especially the chipmunks
scurrying amidst the rocks
finding grubs occasionally
noticing the odd group of
humans waxing poetic
about Nature and their
neighborhoods

ltv

IV

Poets are easily amused
by nervous banter
from first time readers
is it the familiar appreciation
that you are finally being heard
or are Poets really that clever?

ltv

V – Banishing the Insecurities of Poets
(for Jim DuBois’ “Poem for Robert Frost”)

in one line he took
the doubts – the negativity
the critical judging
we hear from both ourselves
and other Poets not like us
“I slapped some words
upon a page/ and called it a poem
you wouldn’t like it/ but you’re dead/
and I’m not.”

ltv

Some found poems:

Care Center Poetry

hard faces
defiant
unsure of opening
themselves up
through poetry
or watercolors
what started as
a school project
pushed boundaries
showed potential
more frightening
than changing diapers
before home room

ltv
7/9/09

[untitled]

we accept
death as a job
similar to the ones
we suffer through
a necessity
to make ends meet

we fight death –
a nemesis to conquer
as it stalks victims
we try to stay
one step ahead

but it is neither
apathetic nor malicious
nor the wind that comes
ravaging in a storm

it is the Sun that rises
every day – not because
of some internal motion

but because of our
journey around it

Death itself is static

ltv
9/19/09

The Rape of Mary

2009-09-15T19:47:00.002-05:00

I was reading this month's issue of Mental Floss, in particular an article entitled "Great Christian art by really lousy Christians", and felt inspired to write the following poem.

The Rape of Mary

that night when God came
to Mary in the form of
the Holy Spirit or a
dream she couldn't shake
did she revel in the conception
of her famous son
or did she recoil
out of fear that first time

was God gentle - the loving God
of the New Testament - or
did he resemble
His younger, mercurial self
and demand of her what He wanted
taking it when she demurely refused

ltv

Justin Hamilton Poems

2009-09-05T18:32:00.003-05:00

I wrote these poems on Friday, August 28, 2009; the day 35-year-old Justin Hamilton jumped off Northampton's E. John Gare III Parking Garage around 12.30 pm. The man, who had battled Schizophrenia, died at the scene. Click here for the story. Also, read the comments of the story. There is a letter addressed to Mr. Contrada towards the end of the page, which is from the man's father.

Perspective

ripples gently lap the shore
the happy picnickers look up
see the beautiful day
the sparkling water
the majestic bridge
the lights of the police cars
and the crowd of people
staring into the water below

ltv

Jumping to Conclusions

is depression cliché
the idea of tortured voices
troubled minds silenced
by the violent calm of suicide
transformed into a surreal
picture so unlike ourselves
we cannot imagine ever
feeling anything similar
to the man crumpled
on the pavement

ltv

I hope he is free of his demons and that his family can understand that the best of him lives on in their memory more peacefully than the whole of him did on Earth.

Lingering Love and other poems

2009-08-16T15:31:00.002-05:00

I've been reading the Smithsonian magazine lately, which is not really my style but I get them free from my Mother and they pass the time in the morning before work. I read an article about the son of General George S. Patton (who was, himself, an accomplished General) and was inspired to write the following:

General George S. Patton, JR

famous son – famous father
graduated with a handshake
from the famous institution
his mentor – his father’s teacher
gifted him these words

you’ll never be the man your father was
an insult – a compliment
under the familiar shadow
only his family can say for sure

as he spends his time – not with troops
or Generals but – by his family’s side
sailing on the weekends when
real men prove their strength

ltv

Mostly this Summer I have been avoiding working on the novel. I've had incredible vivid, action-packed dreams, which take me to some far-out places, but do not offer much in the way of a futuristic pirate story. (But, if I ever want to write about Siberian tigers on ice with Great White sharks swimming below and Olympic skaters performing for a dictator -- I have just the thing!) Recently, I started an email communication with a female police officer (sounds way more exciting than it is -- or maybe not) and a story she told me lead me to write the following poem. The poem itself doesn't actually reflect the story she told me -- one thing just lead to another.

Lingering Love

my arm was cradled under
his sweating neck
not wanting to disturb
his already troubled sleep
I reached with my left hand
as far as I could towards the
chrome and wood veneer bedside table

the bleach-white washcloth lay crumpled
where it had been dropped last
I managed to snag it with the nail
of my middle finger and drag it --
grudgingly – towards us

the cup of ice water was always close
I dipped the corner of the cloth
into the goldenrod heavy plastic cup,
squeeze it back into itself to spread the chill,
and dab it gently on his pale forehead

a fitful sigh is my reward – proof of life
I continue to caress his unwrinkled face
looking for signs of pink returning
casually checking the monitor’s rhythmic beeping

every few hours the numbers slowly decrease
just enough to go unnoticed by the nursing staff
until rounds – when the doctors crowd into the room
rattling off vitals, lab results, diagnoses and
a myriad of teaching moments only
a terminal middle-aged patient can offer

ltv

Perhaps the Universe just wanted me to write a few poems before continuing on the novel. Maybe editing chapters 1-12 (based on my friend -- A -- giving some awesome feedback) and reprinting the 86 pages I have so far (thank you, OCD) was the reason. Maybe it was something else entirely. In any case, I am typing up Chapter 13 today and will hopefully finish it up this week. Here's hoping I have this book finished before I turn 50!

Turkish Game Show Tries to Convert Atheists

2009-07-03T10:52:00.003-05:00

As the article indicates, it really was "only a matter of time" before something like this cropped up on television. Had I bet on it, I would have chosen the good old US of A to host the first version of this, but the Turks beat us to it.

What makes this even funnier are the comments below the article. I was hoping for a lot more arguing, but I think there is a good "conversation" going about whether or not Atheism is a "religion in its own right". For the record, it's not. And yes, it is because it is like calling "bald" a hair color. Atheism is a belief, which is different from a religion (which is a system of beliefs) in that religion requires both faith and ritual. There are no atheist rituals (that I know of) unless you count trying to educate mono- & poly-theists that atheism isn't about satan-worshipping. (Well, it's the mono-theists, I think, that believe that. Most of the polytheists I know are more accepting of the different viewpoint of atheism.) And as for faith, that's a tricky one. Some atheists claim they don't have faith or that they prefer logic and proof to faith; but I like to say that I have faith that there is no sentient being watching over us who has a plan and interest in our well-being. I have about the same "proof" in my belief that the mono-or poly-theists have in theirs (unless you count lack of evidence on one side as proof of the opposite side, in which case, I believe--pun intended--I have the edge as an atheist.)

Roses are red, Violets are blue

2009-06-30T20:20:00.002-05:00

Ever since I was a child I have been writing "roses are red" poems for my mother's birthday, which is today. Her favorite one is from when I was about four or five years old:

violets are blue
roses are red
my mommy has nice hair
on her head

(I was messing with conventional forms even then.)

Here are this year's crop along with an additional one I wrote that wasn't birthday-appropriate. (Of course, it doesn't seem too appropriate to reference a baboon's butt in a poem, either, but that was her favorite one.)

Roses are red
like a male baboon's butt
you're the best mommy
'cause you're a loving nut

Violets are blue
the Roses have said
since the Asters and Mums
have been plucked from the bed

Violets are blue
since the Roses have read
the unfortunate news
that the Lilies are dead

ltv

suitcase full of crazy

2009-06-16T19:28:00.004-05:00

A shout out to my friend Bob who impressed upon me the need to write down poetry that comes in the hypnagogic state. Last night as I was falling asleep the title of this poem came to me and I loved it so much I got up and crafted the poem. I polished it up a little bit before posting it here, but mostly this is how it was written last night.

suitcase full of crazy

we’ve all grown weary travellin’
on these gritty different streets
some of us have fancy shoes
but most are on bare feet
we think our destination
is the only place to be
but we’re always where we are
if we’d only look and see
in our quest we drive along
every should or could have been
the what-ifs or the maybes
and the dreams we don’t go in
we pick up bits of crazy
at convenient local stops
or wander down a detour
to find special crazy shops
and when our journey’s slowing
if we’re lucky, towards the end
we stow away our suitcase
and share crazy with our friends

ltv

Quotes and Poetry

2009-06-14T16:38:00.002-05:00

There is nothing more demoralizing than a small but adequate income.
- Edmund Wilson

This one I wrote a few weeks ago after watching an episode of House. A TV show I am as addicted to as the main character is to Vicodin.

after the moment

when machines
are turned off
family in a daze
makes their way
past the nurses’ station
an orderly
gently pulls IVs
from sluggish veins
then squeezes a soapy
sponge one last time
before caressing
each part of the body

ltv

I wrote this one during my FloPoSo meeting last Thursday.

Non-Conformist

white plastic picket
lines the myriad
flags and gnomes
the growing collection
of garden paraphernalia
a glaring contrast
to the neatly
kept bushes and annuals
sanctioned by the
condo association

ltv

My Sunday Visitor

2009-06-14T13:09:00.001-05:00

This morning as I was succumbing to horrifically bad Hallmark channel movies about single women dating, I noticed that Willow was avidly watching some activity outside my living room window. I was further intrigued by the excited bird noises outside (as opposed to the excited bird-like noises Willow was making). Apparently, a baby bird left the nest a little too soon; as it didn’t seem eager to try flying (although it did relatively well with hopping). The mom kept flying around (bringing it food since it obviously wasn’t going anywhere) and making a fuss whenever anyone walked past it on the ground. I ended up shooing the bird into my neighbor’s protected garden where the likelihood of it getting accidentally stepped on dropped markedly (as compared to the porch steps where it started out).

Here are some photos I snapped:

Lonegoddess' Flickr page

Mother's Day Weekend

2009-05-11T21:42:00.004-05:00

As usual, I spent this Mother's Day with my Mom and the rest of my family, which includes my nephew James (with whom I am enamored). Check out my flickr page to see the photos. I also included some old photos that my sister and I found in the attic. The one above was taken before I was born (NOTE: after talking with my Mom, it turns out I was inside sleeping. I was just an infant. That explains a lot!). It includes two of my Dad's sons from a previous marriage (another son and daughter stayed with their mother in Scotland) From left to right: my Maternal Uncle Vinny, my half-brother Brian (whereabouts unknown), my Mom, my Dad (deceased), my half-brother Douglas (whereabouts unknown), my Maternal Grandmother Louise (deceased), and my Maternal Grandfather Vincent (deceased). The only question I have about this photo, which I didn't even think to ask my Mother when we were looking at them was this: who is taking the photo? Unless they had one of those new-fangled "auto-shoot" cameras! That sounds like something my Dad would have gotten.

Quite the trip down memory lane leading to the weirdest and most disturbing dream Saturday night. It's still too fresh for me to go into here, but I can mention that it included time travel, Doctor Who, and me trapped in a stone dungeon. (I get out at the end, though). Maybe this will lead to me writing some poetry this week. If it does, I'll be sure to post it here. Otherwise, I should get working on my novel. I haven't written a thing in weeks!

Some New Ones from the Writing Group

2009-03-21T19:24:00.003-05:00

The FloPoSo Writing Group continues be a wonderful source of creativity for me. Whether I am working on my novel or using the prompt from the group to write poetry, I connect to something bigger than just me. Plus, the members are -- I want to say nice and beautiful, but that seems so trite, however true -- real. Genuine people with helpful intentions. I am honored that they have accepted me as a writer into their group. Okay, enough of the mushy stuff. On to the poetry. The prompt was "being in the way" or "in the way" poetry. An interesting concept.

In The Way

toe to bed leg
hand to mouth
so as not to
wake the kids
nine of them
on two pull-outs,
three sleeping bags,
and an air mattress
in the living room
secretly, you want
to wake them because
you're leaving and
somewhere in that pile
of teen-aged girls
is your sister but
that would make it worse
her anger at your
drunken interruption
just another reminder
that you don't belong
you move the trash barrels
away from the garage door
it's your father's car
so you adjust the mirrors
before you quietly pull away

ltv

While writing the above poem, a shocking thought came to me when I considered the number of kids to specify in the poem. The first draft had eight kids and I as re-wrote the poem, this other fact and poem came to me.

How Octo-Mom Ruined the Number Eight for Everyone

Eight used to be enough
crazy with cards
and pivotal in billiards
Oh, sure - octagons
will still stop you
but Octopussy isn't
nearly as shocking
as it once was
before her
the ruiner of
all things eight
I hate to even use
the concept anywhere
lest it be construed
as a subtle reference
to her brood

ltv

This last poem is in response to something the group facilitator said at the beginning of the session. He commented that living is sometimes considered being in the way.

[untitled]

I disrupt the molecules of air
as I exhale and then suck them back
into this bio-machine bustling
with cellular energy with
every pulse of blood or
electrical connections amongst
the neurons -- I come into a room
and displace an equal amount
of mass -- is that crass
or since it is sub-atomic
doesn't it matter

ltv

Kids Say the Darnedest Things

2009-03-14T23:17:00.002-05:00

I know I am obsessed with two things: my cats and my nephew. Since I am at my Mom's this weekend I will spare you a cute cat story and move straight to the annoyingly adorable nephew anecdote.

James was up way past his bedtime and relatively calm about it -- happily playing and conversing (such as it is for a kid who is not quite two). The adults were all sitting around the dining room table and his mother (my sister, Heather) was showing off the words that James can say. These were the typical words a young man of his age was familar with. "What does a dog say?" "Woof." "What color is your toy?" "Blue." "How old are you going to be?" "Two." That sort of thing. Always, looking to challenge him, I asked him to say "Obama" to which he responded "Oh Mama", which got quite the laugh. We kept trying to get him to say "Obama" until Heather asked him to say "Bush". His response? "NO!" (Does he take after his Auntie Lala or what?)

Poetry on the Fly

2009-03-14T11:16:00.003-05:00

Lately, I've been focusing on writing (or, more accurately, procrastinating writing) my sci-fi/fantasy novel. This means that there is less energy I have to write poetry. Granted, I will pen a poem that just doesn't want to stay in my head or go quietly away - and that happens more often than I like to admit; but even those are infrequent of late. So it was with reluctance that I attended the monthly FloPoSo meeting empty-handed. While I enjoy listening to other people's poetry and can offer my own opinions as easily as I can break wind (and sometimes with the same effect), there is a sense of false modesty when someone attends and claims they "do not want to" or "have nothing to" read of there own. This is partly because most poets ALWAYS have SOMETHING to read of their own; and, I haven't met a poet yet (myself included) who doesn't appreciate the positive feedback on their work (and, let's face it, a homespun poetry group like ours is not about tearing poems apart, it is about supporting us non-pro poets).

The group was a good size - 17 attendees -- and more than one person claimed to not have anything. A few of those were cajoled into reading with a "oh, I suppose I could read this one poem I brought with me, that I don't really like." I enjoy this group a lot. Really, I do. Even when I don't prepare a poem beforehand. I tend to get inspired by the poets and personalities that attend. Thursday's meeting was no exception. In addition to the half a dozen little "journal entries" I wrote, I composed four poems. All of which were in response to a poem or person in the group. Where possible I included the reference or inspiration.

Harry Azmitia is a regular in the group. He is a wonderful person who writes in verse and addresses sentimental topics. He is an optimist. I am not. When he reads his poems, my sick nature tends to want to refute them (even though they are beautiful and often true). Here is the poem that his poem about a soldier's sacrifice inspired.

(1)

did he think of the children
or the other soldiers' wives
did he consider the dangers
when he chose to save their lives
did his training simply kick in
when he dove on the grenade
and will anyone consider this
when they laud the choice he made

ltv

Nancy Denig writes clever, poignant poems in haiku and other closely related forms. Some of them make you laugh out loud, others make you go to a far away sad place that you thought you'd never visit again. I enjoy hearing them and her delivery of and commentary on them is just as enjoyable. She commented while reading her poems that she couldn't seem to stop writing them. This is what I wrote in response.

(2)

like potato chips
my fondness for writing poems
doesn't stop at one

ltv

Oh, one quick blurb about religion. Another attendee read a poem that contained some Christian imagery and (as is often the case) a side conversation began about some of the weirder tenets of the religion. A friend of mine (whose name is being withheld since she doesn't care much for publicity) is Jewish and leaned over to me and said: "Just when I thought my religion is the craziest." I commented back "That's like saying my water is the wettest."

We had some new attendees this past week who were a little gun-shy about sharing, but who, with encouragement shared not only their poetry but a little about their backgrounds. This is always the more fascinating part of the poetry group: Why people write poetry. One man was a Vietnam vet who had heard a poet for the first time last Fall and as he put it "began to feel a full-range of emotions again", which inspired him to begin writing poems himself. He had quite the collection judging by his three-ring binder (which is a familiar favorite among amateur poets trying to make a go of it -- I have several myself). Here is the poem that he inspired.

(3)

Shell-shocked

the moment after the mine exploded
and my ears rung - buzzed so that
sounds were muted - my CO whispered
shouts at me to get down
we lost half our platoon that day

happiness since then
like love and anger and everything else
is muffled like the voices of
my doctors assuring me that
everything is going to be alright now

ltv

Another phenomenon that occurs in the group (and especially happens in the following week's writing group), is that common themes will be evident in the poems of the evening. Aside from the fact that a lot of people write about a few topics, it seems that the mood of the groups brings out things from poems even when the poet did not intend them to be there. This month's theme was sex. To the point where we began joking that "there's sex in this one too". Here is my last attempt at poetry that night.

(4)

there's sex in this one

each poem whether focused
on pain or flowers or
hours of nostalgic days
displays more in the reader
or listener as the case may be
occasions such as these
pleases us in ways we choose
to comment playfully on instead

ltv

Okay, so it's not my best work, but it's poetry. It should inspire even the least confident among you to get out and watch, listen and write, write, write! Poetry is not just fixed words on the page - a one-way picture to be displayed and left alone. Poetry can be a conversation - with the reader, with the poet and with yourself. Spring is almost here. Get inspired. Think about sex, question the status quo and tell me about it in verse.

The post to alleviate my guilt

2009-02-16T19:25:00.003-05:00

I know I haven't posted in a while and I also know that no one but me really cares; but to assuage my own feelings I am posting a few poems I wrote this year.

Unexpected

"You'll have to do the box --
for at least eighteen months."
Finally, she thought, something
good has come of this;
but, she wasn't prepared
for his response:
"We could get rid of it."
A cold proposition --
she considered it
until she realized
he was referring
to the cat.

ltv

(I need some feedback on the poem above to make sure people know what's going on. I cut a final line that, to me, bonked the reader over the head.)

temporary amnesia

even now
with our perfect
hindsight
and happy new lives
related to each other
over coffee on my sofa
i wonder if maybe
some day
we could make it work

ltv

a winter waiting

for three months
the snow and cold
covered my heart
so much that only
a woeful longing
kept me warm
until the ice melted
the muddy path
to the barn
would not deter me
I anxiously whistled
straining my ears
dreading the silence
when finally
mew, mew, mew, mew
she remembered me

ltv

Another update on Kestra

2009-01-23T20:09:00.002-05:00

I saw the vet today who told me that what I found on Kestra's abdomen were burns. He said he reviewed the surgery log but couldn't see how she could have gotten burned. Since I haven't been setting her on fire and I'm pretty sure she doesn't smoke (although that poor scratchy meow she has now makes it sound like she's been lighting up for forty years), I'm still fairly certain this happened during the surgery and no one noticed it. (Plus the vet didn't charge me for the visit, which makes me even more suspicious.) Anyway, that's actually remarkably awesome news. First, because the burns are healing very well. Second, because that means it is quite possible that the surgery removed all the cancer. Since all her blood tests came back fine and the chest x-ray showed that it hadn't metastasized to that area, I am thinking that they removed the malignant tumor (along with the lymph node itself) and probably got it all. Hopefully, that is the case. I will still be checking her frequently for other growths, but it is within the realm of possibility that she will live symptom-free for many, many years to come. (Of course, just to add a dose of reality here, it could also mean that she will keep developing tumors and there will come a day that I will have to make a very hard decision about her on-going treatment.) But, luckily, I don't have to think about that right now.

It's funny, since I had been giving her her antibiotics twice a day she grew to really dislike that time of day. I thought I was being clever when I gave her her medicine right after I got home since this is when she is her most clingy - rubbing my ankles, tripping me up, generally quite annoying. Wednesday was her last dosage. I came home from work and she was nowhere to be found. Well, that's not true, I found her hiding behind the futon in a very hard to reach place. But it occurred to me, as I was frantically searching my house and all her favorite hiding places (the futon not being one of her usual spots to go), I realized how much I missed her greeting me when I came home, even when it annoyed me. I'm sure I will be loving many things about her in the months and years to come that have previously annoyed me. Well, okay, not the chronic puking, that still doesn't make me happy -- but, "some cats are just pukers" -- to quote my regular vet.

Update on Kestra

2009-01-21T18:15:00.002-05:00

The test results came back and it is definitely Lymphoma (cancer). Some of you already know that I found another mass on her abdomen last night. It was different from the other one as it was on the skin, not subcutaneous. Tonight after work, I found a smaller one next to the one I found last night. I am hoping I just missed it last night and they are not growing this fast. I sent a picture of it to the vet and I am waiting to hear back from him. I already turned down chemotherapy since it cost over $3000, would take two years (or however long the cat has to live) and didn't have a high percentage of working. I'm in wait-and-see mode right now. (oh joy.) I have no idea how much time she has left. The good news is that she doesn't appear to be in any pain.

Why do we do this to ourselves? We open our hearts and let them in knowing we will outlive them and hoping we don't have to see them waste away before they go. She 9 years old - not terribly old, but certainly not a kitten. Hopefully, she will live a lot longer and not require much medical intervention. I would hate to have to put her through surgery after surgery to remove tumors. I will continue to update as I know more, mostly because it's good for me to focus my attention on writing a blog than on losing a third cat within six months.

The Year of the Cat?

2009-01-15T20:58:00.004-05:00

If you've read my blog in the past six months, you are probably aware of the heart-wrenching saga of Mackenzie and the unfortunate passing of Sappho at the end of August. Well, just before Christmas I discovered a lump on Kestra's neck. Not a tiny little "hey could that be a pimple" lump, but a huge, honking "WTF!" subcutaneous lump. After a visit to the vet (ca-ching) and an unsuccessful run of antibiotics, it was determined that it was a growth and she needed to see a specialist. This past Monday I saw the specialist (ca-ching)who theorized that it was lymphoma (cancer of the lymph nodes, for those lucky enough not to be familiar with the term) and it needed to be removed. I agreed with the "needed to be removed" part, however, I am still skeptical about the lymphoma part. My skepticism doesn't come from all my years of veterinary training and practice, as one might suspect a dissenting opinion against a respected and experienced veterinarian might come from; but instead from a higher authority: my mother's intuition. Let me clarify. I don't think MY mother has anything to do with my belief here. First, let me explain: Lymphoma is a systemic cancer that would most likely require chemotherapy and all sorts of follow-up (ca-ching) that would make Kes even more sick while probably only extending her life by a few months--maybe more. And that's the best case scenario for a diagnosis of Lymphoma. However, I just know in my gut that it's not some raging cancer spreading through my cat. Here is why I believe this. First, the only symptom she has had so far is the lump. All blood work has come back normal, chest x-rays came back normal (no spreading, no other lumps), her behavior (including eating and litterbox habits) are all normal. She hasn't lost weight (and, in fact, gained an ounce in the week between her two initial vet visits). There is no unusual vomiting (which is to say that the usual amount of vomiting/hairballs hasn't changed). Of course, I knew that this tumor (round cell tumor according to the aspirate they took from it) had to be removed (ca-ching) and that was done today. She came through with flying colors and we will find out next week whether the experienced and very personable veterinarian was right about the tumor or whether the Universe is playing some mean trick on me and I have called its bluff.

One quick note. I had to include a photo of the post-op Kes since my sister and mom have been teasing me mercilessly about how ugly Kestra is and how, if she has to go through chemotherapy, she will look even uglier without hair. I must yield that she is not about to win any beauty contests with her current hair cut, but she is alive and seemingly well and that is good enough for me.

One more note. I have added some really gross pictures to my flickr page if anyone is interested in seeing more surgery pics of Kes (and even two from when I had my hand surgery in 2002). Enjoy!

There are a Million Things to Be

2009-01-11T20:04:00.002-05:00

Last November, just before all the holidays kicked in, I made the reluctant decision to get cable TV (which then expanded into the internet/phone/tv bundle -- you know, to save money). I must admit that having been without cable TV for two years (as a conscious decision, rather than out of necessity), I had completely forgotten what I was missing. In fact, I didn't realize I was missing anything since I was able to watch my favorite television programs online at a variety of sites including cable and network websites. I still catch missed episodes on sites such as surfthechannel.com and alluc.org. And, of course, I HAVE to watch the new episodes of Doctor Who when they air in the UK rather than wait a whole year for them to cross the pond. (I think my nerdiness in that area is well-established.)

One of the things that I missed the most about having access to a wide range of useless programming was the comfort it brings me when I am home sick. Sadly, just after Thanksgiving, I was able to realize this benefit. I'm not exactly sure where the comfort lies. It could be the sheer distraction of a Comedy Central movie that doesn't require much (if any) thought. Perhaps it is the engrossment in the National Geographic channel programming about the solar system or our own planet (not to mention Cesar Millan, The Dog Whisperer -- my new obsession even though I will probably never own a dog). It may be the nostalgia of watching Match Game or M*A*S*H. Whatever it is, I am glad to have it back. Of course, this has lead me into some very bad habits even when I am NOT recovering from a nasty gastrointestinal bug. Take today for instance. It snowed. A lot. Not so much that the world (or even my county) came to a screeching halt, but enough that once I saw it I decided to hibernate. Yes, all day in front of the TV. To be fair, this plays out in reality as the TV being on and me running up and down the stairs through the house doing chores or small projects. (One benefit of having arthritis is the physical inability to sit in one place for any length of time.) Still, I managed to watch two movies that got me both nostalgic and hopeful in regards to my love life. (Yes, I know. WHAT love life?)

The first movie I watched was Marty with Ernest Borgnine. If you've never seen this movie, add it to your Netflix queue straight away. It's the story of a thirty-five year old unmarried Italian butcher living in New York City with his mother. Everyone (especially his mother) is nagging him about finding a girl and, after a particularly disappointing brush-off from a woman, he figures he'll just be a bachelor his whole life (remind you of anyone?--Thank you Craig Ferguson). I won't spoil the movie for anyone. I'm not one of those types of people who will say "Hey, is this the movie where the father dies in the end?" However, I am also not naive enough to think that my readers can't figure out the classic Hollywood formula all on your own. (And there is one reader in particular who I am certain knows the ending.) Suffice it to say, the best line in the movie is "You know, us dogs aren't really so much of the dogs that we think we are."

The other movie I watched today is one of my all-time favorite movies: Harold & Maude. I think that there are movies and characters that I (and probably most people) internalize and keep as part of what makes me who I am to the world. This movie is one of those for me (as is "Philadelphia Story" with Katherine Hepburn, Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart). I haven't decided whether this trait makes me less of myself or more; but I suppose, like with anything else, it is simply just another part of who I am. The fact that the part comes from somewhere outside of me, rather than some internal revelation, shouldn't make a difference. If you're reading this and you know me very well, you may think I identify with Bud Cort's character who is all doom and gloom and turning away from life (and I wouldn't blame you); but, in fact, it's Ruth Gordon's character I keep inside of me. She will be turning 80 years old and meets Harold who is just a young man of twenty. They develop a deep friendship in which she imparts her unique perspective on life to him. That perspective includes (among so many other things) her stealing cars in part to remind people not to get so attached to things. She enjoys living life and wants Harold to enjoy it as well. I can't give you my favorite quote from the movie since it will spoil the ending. But, I can end with the song from the movie written by the former Cat Stevens: If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out.

A few forgotten poems

2008-12-27T12:00:00.002-05:00

Merry, Happy Chrismahanukwaanzica to all! I hope everyone had a festive winter solstice feast with family and friends. (There, I think that covers everyone!) As I usually do, I brought home one of my various notebooks to write in while escaping the hilarious fun that is the holidays. (Or to avoid having to help clean the house before the company arrives.--Hey, I do my share, but sometimes, I need my quiet time!) Since I have multiple writing notebooks, I tend to forget when I write something in one of them. (Well, not so much forget, as decide that it is crap and not worth sharing with the world.) So, since I promised I would update this blog more frequently, and forewarned you that quantity would override quality, here are some poems I found from earlier in the month (and one I wrote on Christmas Day).

[untitled]

we all feel alone
it seems so real
quickly, quietly
passing these days
giving in to the guilty
pleasure of self-pity
before slipping on
the icy facade
of normalcy

ltv

Unblinded

Hope is to be avoided
if there is any chance
of reality setting in
letting in light
is painful when
you first regain
your eyesight

ltv

[untitled]

happiness sneaks in
amongst the nausea
the pain of headaches
backaches and
stomachaches -- drugs
doubts clouding reality
until the only thing
left to do is mundane
chores or simple tasks
playing with the cats
or a video game
just to trick the brain
into believing in something
other than what hurts

ltv

Remembering Dad

his birthday slips
between reindeer
hoof-prints on
the snowy roof
and memories so
far gone only the
emotion remains
yet the cost of
his grave marker
is anchored there
with the coffee
bought every morning
and the number of
days before Christmas

ltv

Lessons from Auntie Lala

2008-12-23T22:44:00.003-05:00

I've been working on this poem for a few weeks trying to keep it from sounding too Hallmark-ish. (Or would that be hallmark-y?) However, I have resigned myself to the fact that this poem has a certain hoke-factor I can't control as of yet.

Needing some words for the blog instead of just showing off the photo to the left, which is my sister's holiday card of my nephew in his dashing tux (which I got for him last year), I revised this poem yet again. I welcome any comments and suggestions. I am not too happy with the title, so suggestions are welcome on that as well.

Lessons from Auntie Lala

never forget that everything is new
and should be explored
even if you already
think you know what it is

sing songs when your favorite
relatives come to visit
or when your Mom makes
that special casserole after Thanksgiving

take apart the toaster when it’s broken
just to see how it used to work
do your best to fix it – but
for your parents’ sake – unplug it first

discover who you are
reading every book written
by authors you like
and some from those you don’t

talk to strangers at family picnics
they’ll tell you stories
about when your parents
did embarrassing things at your age

practice making funny faces
in the bathroom mirror
then step back to see your own
beautiful natural face

don’t argue with your mother
about your clothes
unless you can explain
how they make you feel unique

goof off for hours every summer
until you see the fireflies
then lie on your back and
create new names for the stars

ponder alien life
find life forms
alien to you under rocks
in your backyard

cry when your ice cream
falls on the ground
laugh when it happens
to someone else

experience all
your emotions
but don’t let them
control your behaviors

believe in the power of God
but don’t confuse
the power with the idea
ideas change over time

never forget that everything is new
even when it seems to be
exactly the same
as something else

ltv

Testing the New President

2008-12-13T13:19:00.002-05:00

If I see one more headline like this Foes warned off testing Obama I think I'll scream. I am sick of the fear-mongering of how all of America's enemies (both foreign and domestic) will attempt to test Obama soon after he is inaugurated in January. Really? A president will get tested after he takes office? You mean something horrific might take place, say, nine months after a president takes office? Hmmm, where have I heard of something like that happening before? The news media hasn't specifically pointed to such a thing before (unless you count them talking about Kennedy and the Bay of Pigs). Nope, where would they get the idea that terrorists might take advantage of a new president by doing something, hmm, what, what might they do? Oh, I don't know, fly planes into buildings or something? Nah, that couldn't happen. And, if it did, it certainly wouldn't be evidence that the nation's enemies are TESTING the new president months after taking office. Or is my math wrong? Let's see, the presidential elections are held every four years with the inauguration taking place the following January. We just had an election in 2008 which means we had one in 2004 and in 2000. Okay, that means inaugurations were held in 2005 and 2001. What major events happened in 2005 & 2001? Well, let's just list them out (just the ones that affect the US directly, we won't bother about car bombs in Madrid or political assassinations in other countries, we're Americans we don't care about that crap).

Oh, and I've decided to include natural disasters in this list based on the Religious Right's belief that God is punishing us for our bad behavior. (NOTE to the RR: Once you make a point, you have to deal with the fact that it can be used on both sides.)

2001

January 20 - George W. Bush succeeds Bill Clinton; becoming the 43rd President of the United States.

February 16 - Iraq disarmament crisis: British and U.S. forces carry out bombing raids, attempting to disable Iraq's air defense network.

April 1 - U.S.-China Spy Plane Incident: A Chinese fighter jet bumps into a U.S. EP-3E surveillance aircraft which is forced to make an emergency landing in Hainan, China. The U.S. crew is detained for 10 days and the F-8 Chinese pilot, Wang Wei, goes missing and is presumed dead.

July 16 - The People's Republic of China and the Russian Federation sign the Treaty of Good-Neighborliness and Friendly Cooperation. (I included this because it's just creepy to think about.)

September 11 - Almost 3,000 are killed in the September 11, 2001 attacks at the World Trade Center in New York City, The Pentagon in Arlington, Virginia, and in rural Shanksville, Pennsylvania after American Airlines Flight 11 and United Airlines Flight 175 crash into the World Trade Center's Twin Towers in New York City, American Airlines Flight 77 crashes into the Pentagon, and United Airlines Flight 93 crashes into a grassland in Pennsylvania.

September 18 - The 2001 anthrax attacks commence as letters containing anthrax spores are mailed from Princeton, New Jersey to ABC News, CBS News, NBC News, the New York Post, and the National Enquirer.

October 4 - Federal officials announce the first anthrax attack in the U.S.

October 7 - The United States invades Afghanistan, with participation from other nations participating in Operation Enduring Freedom.

October 9 - The 2001 anthrax attacks continue as contaminated letters are mailed from Princeton, New Jersey, to U.S. Senators Tom Daschle of South Dakota and Patrick Leahy of Vermont.

October 26 - U.S. president George W. Bush signs the USA PATRIOT Act into law.

November 13 - In the first such act since World War II, U.S. President George W. Bush signs an executive order allowing military tribunals against any foreigners suspected of having connections to terrorist acts or planned acts against the United States.

December 13 - U.S. President George W. Bush announces the United States' withdrawal from the 1972 Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty.

December 22 - A Paris-Miami, Florida flight is diverted to Boston, Massachusetts after passenger Richard Reid attempts to set his shoe, filled with explosives, on fire.

2005

January 20 - George W. Bush is inaugurated in Washington, D.C. for his second term as the 43rd President of the United States.

February 16 - The Kyoto Protocol goes into effect, without the support of the United States and Australia.

May 10 - A hand grenade ostensibly thrown by Vladimir Arutinian lands about 100 feet (30 m) from United States President George W. Bush while he is giving a speech to a crowd in Tbilisi, Georgia, but malfunctions and does not detonate.

August 29 - At least 1,836 are killed, and severe damage is caused along the U.S. Gulf Coast, as Hurricane Katrina strikes coastal areas from Louisiana to Alabama, and travels up the entire state of Mississippi (flooding coast 31 feet/10 m), affecting most of eastern North America.

September 1 - Oil prices rise sharply following the economic effects of Hurricane Katrina.

September 24 - Hurricane Rita hits the U.S. Gulf Coast, devastating areas near Beaumont, TX and Lake Charles, LA. The New Orleans's 9th Ward re-floods since Katrina, and Mississippi and Alabama are also affected.

September 24 - Worldwide protests occur against the Iraq War, with over 150,000 protestors in Washington DC. See Opposition to the Iraq War.

October 26 - The U.S. death toll in Iraq reaches 2,000.

December 1 - South Africa becomes the 5th country in the world where same-sex marriages are recognized. (I've included this since it seems ridiculous to me that South Africa, once the worst of the worst in terms of human rights, is now more progressive than the US in this regard.)

In this list I've also included Bush's response to the events as well as the world (and economic) responses to the events. I figure it's only fair to see the results of the "tests" as well as the tests themselves.

How'd our last President do? In response to major crises Bush effectively reduced our civil liberties, failed to properly protect the citizens under his charge, broke away from other nations who were previously our allies, caused our former enemies (and potential future enemies) to team up together, and maybe even caused nations who were once thought "beneath" the status of the US to rise up a few notches in the eyes of the world (the result, of course, being that the US has gone down quite a few notches.)

And how will Obama be tested? That remains to be seen. I can assure you, however, that assuming he doesn't decide to declare himself messiah and enslave the US population, Obama can only improve the situation that Bush has either created or allowed to fester over the last eight years. I have only one request of the media and the politicians: Please stop peddling fear to the sheeple of this once great nation. Yes, Obama will be tested, but you know what? So will you. The American People are getting a little tired of hearing doom and gloom every day. We are feeling the downturn of the economy sharply enough without having to also worry about terrorist attacks that might happen. And shame on you defense secretary Gates for issuing what appears to be a challenge to terrorists to 'just see what will happen if you try something'. Did Bush put you up to that? (And by Bush, of course, I mean Cheney.)

It will be an interesting 2009. Of that I am certain. Let's all start building our bomb shelters now, to avoid the post-inaugural rush. Even if no terrorist attack occurs, we can always live in the bomb shelters when the bank forecloses on our houses. (See, there's always a silver lining. Or is that the lead-lined sheetrock of our new bomb shelters? It's difficult to tell.)

FloPoSo Meeting Poetry

2008-12-11T21:53:00.002-05:00

So once again it's time for the Florence Poets Society monthly meeting and a few days ago I summoned up the willpower to write a poem (which really wasn't all that hard for me to do, but it sounds more dramatic that way). I've included it here along with the poems I wrote DURING the FloPoSo meeting tonight. Enjoy.

if i stop
the noise around me
i realize how loud
it really is
inside my head
why in bed i lie
awake waiting for
exhaustion to pull
me under the cover
of night--but dreaming
often wakes me
hour after hour
i cling to the stark
red digital certainty
as long as i can
before falling back
into that surreal place
struggling to make sense
of the images and emotions
that linger in my consciousness

ltv

a depressive's heart
opens to fellow poets
letting kindness in

ltv

satisfaction

a delicacy
to a depressive
a fitting gift
from fellow poets
appreciation
accepted

ltv

randy candy poetry

sweet purple words
swelling neatly
peachy keen
the meaning
unseen yet
known to all
as syllables
fall from each
poet's lips
interspersed with
quips and comments
fellowship felt
upstanding
uplifting
demanding
our return
each month
coming for
the villanelles
and bells of rhyming
stanzas--we sit on
torturous chairs
in the cold
air because poets
and poetry satisfy
our cravings

ltv

Happy Birthday Emily (almost belated)

2008-12-10T23:24:00.002-05:00

Today is Emily Dickinson's Birthday. It pleased me to think of her poetry today and selfishly it pleased me more to think of mine. Does that make me narcissistic? Self-centered? Uh, hello, I am writing a blog, I would think the answer is obvious. I believe the majority of blog-writers are in some way narcissistic (if not just self-centered, like me). I toyed with the idea of writing another blog which gives advice to people who would send me questions about problems with relationships, money, or work. Somehow it seemed a service rather than yet another way to promote myself and my ideas. Who knows? Maybe I will still do that. But I have so many other projects on my plate right now, that that one doesn't seem like it has a shot of starting (let alone flourishing). Whatever happens, that's something fun to consider in any case.

Here's something else. These are the poems of Emily's and of mine that I had in my head today. Since it is Emily's birthday, I will print her poem first (and, as mine follows hers, mine will follow hers)(If you know me, you understand what that last sentence means).

A CLOCK stopped—not the mantel’s;
Geneva’s farthest skill
Can’t put the puppet bowing
That just now dangled still.

An awe came on the trinket!
The figures hunched with pain,
Then quivered out of decimals
Into degreeless noon.

It will not stir for doctors,
This pendulum of snow;
The shopman importunes it,
While cool, concernless No

Nods from the gilded pointers,
Nods from the seconds slim,
Decades of arrogance between
The dial life and him.

ED

For Emily

Sir, please Kindly pass me by
For we have met before
I’ve seen you walking with my friends
or lingering--at their door

We’ve sat together side-by-side
‘til one of us went home--
to tend to mundane tasks--put-off
or to inhabit the Unknown

Now this Great House is bathed in light
the decorations stunning
music teases through the night
Your humble offer--cunning

But, I’ll not be responding as those before
to your bold invite
you see, my card--alas--is full
I cannot dance tonight

ltv

Vikram Seth

2008-11-25T22:53:00.002-05:00

For anyone not using Mozilla Firefox as a web browser, let me just take a moment to point you to where you can download it for free: Firefox. Once you have installed Firefox you can then download add-ons like Stumble Upon which will randomly take you to web pages based on the preferences you set up. I have wasted more time "Stumbling" on the web than I care to admit. The reason I enjoy doing it so much is because of the very many opportunities to run into things that are awesome. Maybe it's just me. If I find something I like, I learn more about it and often find I like it even more. Here is a very good example of this: Vikram Seth

I stumbled here and found this poem that spoke to me in a way that those of you who know me understand.

All You who Sleep Tonight

All you who sleep tonight
Far from the ones you love,
No hand to left or right
And emptiness above -

Know that you aren't alone
The whole world shares your tears,
Some for two nights or one,
And some for all their years.

~Vikram Seth

The poem lead me to learn more about Vikram Seth and, on the Wikipedia page about him, I found this gem. How can I NOT love him?!

Some men like Jack and some like Jill
I'm glad I like them both but still
I wonder if this freewheeling
Really is an enlightened thing,
Or is its greater scope a sign
Of deviance from some party line?
In the strict ranks of Gay and Straight
What is my status: Stray? Or Great?

My vote? GREAT!

Seriously, ya'll need to upgrade to Mozilla Firefox, add Stumble Upon and see where the serendipitous binary Fates lead you.

Steven Tyler & Carly Simon

2008-11-24T21:35:00.004-05:00

No one can accuse me of being a snob about music. The sad truth is I don't think about music very much at all. Don't get me wrong, I love music. It stirs the emotions. It's meaningful, playful, inspiring, all that crap. What's not to love? Well, I can think of one thing: music award shows. I normally don't watch music award shows, but having accidentally taped The American Music Awards Show Sunday night when 'Desperate Housewives' and 'Brothers & Sisters' were preempted (and having only three channels), I decided to see what was happening in American Music. I was not impressed. I'll spare everyone the rant about the stupid (dare I say ludicrous?) rap star names. I'll even forgo dissing on the pop women in barely-there clothes ('cause seriously, who doesn't love looking at hot, leggy women?) What shocked me the most was Steven Tyler. Yes, the frontman for Aerosmith, father to Liv, THAT Steven Tyler. Now, I like Aerosmith as much as the next person who grew up in the eighties, but when did he turn into Carly Simon? Did I miss something? Am I so out of touch with the music scene that I never saw this happening? Did everybody know about this but me?

Oh, and I noticed that Carly Simon wasn't at the show. Coincidence?

The Lame Quotes Blog

2008-11-23T22:12:00.002-05:00

I know this is a bit like cheating, like your favorite TV show claiming to air a new episode after a bunch of re-runs only to find that it is a clip show; but I am a huge fan of quotes whether they are funny, make you think, or (if they are really good) do both. Some of these quotes I pulled from this site, but most of them are ones I have collected over the years. So, in no particular order, here they are:

Beware the lollipop of mediocrity. Lick it once and you suck forever.
-unknown

A layman knows he has to kick it. An amateur knows where to kick it. A professional knows how hard.
-unknown

I do not feel obliged to believe that the same God who has endowed us with sense, reason, and intellect has intended us to forgo their use.
-Galileo Galilei

I read somewhere that 77 percent of all the mentally ill live in poverty. Actually, I'm more intrigued by the 23 percent who are apparently doing quite well for themselves.
-Jerry Garcia

Ever notice how they have to distinguish between Truth, Justice, and *then* the American Way?
-Richard Darwin

Either the United States will destroy ignorance or ignorance will destroy the United States.
-W. E. B. Dubois

The Buddha, the Godhead, resides quite as comfortably in the circuits of a digital computer or the gears of a cycle transmission as he does at the top of a mountain or in the petals of a flower. To think otherwise is to demean the Buddha -- which is to demean oneself.
-Robert Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Technology will definitely solve all our problems, but in the process it will create brand-new ones. But that's OK because the most you can expect from life is to get to solve better and better problems.
-Scott Adams

Once you make a decision the Universe conspires to make it happen.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

I try to take one day at a time, but sometimes several days attack me at once.
-Ashleigh Brilliant

Not one shred of evidence supports the notion that life is serious.
-unknown

If you're going through hell, keep going.
-Winston Churchill

I've had a perfectly wonderful evening, but this wasn't it.
-Groucho Marx

Life is a continual process of getting used to things we never expected.
-unknown

If Homosexuality is a disease, let's all call in queer to work. "Hello, can't work today. Still queer.'"
-Robin Tyler

Some people stay longer in an hour than others can in a week.
-William Howells

I'd love to stay but that would prevent me from leaving.
-Hawkeye Pierce, M*A*S*H

There is nothing so frightful as ignorance in action.
-Goethe

Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able? Then he is not omnipotent. Is he able, but not willing? Then he is malevolent. Is he both able and willing? Then whence cometh evil? Is he neither able nor willing? Then why call him God?
-Epicurus

I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.
-Edgar Allan Poe

Long after they forget the words, people will remember how you made them feel.
-unknown

FloPoSo Writing Group

2008-11-21T21:47:00.002-05:00

According to our moderator, Rich Pulchalsky, Leslea Newman once commented that the Florence Poets Society had a penchant for raunchy poems. I do not doubt the comment (which I am paraphrasing) since I have heard quite a lot of poems from the members of the FloPoSo (as we affectionately call ourselves). That being said, our prompt for this month's writing group was "raunchy poetry". Due to a scheduling conflict we were ousted from our normally spacious room with real tables and chairs and instead relegated to what I think was referred to as a staff room that contained kid-sized chairs and a bookshelf of books for children (among other things). Anyway, in this very UNRAUNCHY room we were challenged to write either about raunchy poetry or to write a raunchy poem. I wrote the first poem in a lame attempt at humour, and while in context it seems funny, it is sort of creepy. I then worked on part three of chapter nine (which is going quite well). I got to a good stopping point with the novel, but others in the group were still writing and, since I hate waiting, I wrote the second poem.

Raunchy Poem Writing Prompt

I Googled raunchy poems
and found nothing more than slams
I went to face my writing group
to face that I'm a sham
I cannot write a dirty poem
with those come hither looks
instead I'll write some titles down
from all these children's books

Tickle Tickle
Wee Willie Winkie
Brown Bear, Brown Bear What Do You See?
Each Peach Pear Plum
Rusty's Bone
Touch and Feel clothes
Find the Duck
Goose on the Loose
The Princess and the Pig
The Going to Bed Book

ltv

PS If you really need to check the authenticity of the children's book titles, click here. And yes, I probably am going to hell.

how not to write an erotic poem

a sensuous poem
doesn't need to be hot
to allude to the beautiful
features one's got
mentioning parts whether
alone or in pairs
should neither be raunchy
nor take on false airs
a curve, a caress
or that moment that causes
neck hairs to tingle
and intimate pauses
moisture within the
confines of the body
can be glistening or musky
but need not be bawdy
words to your partner
in whispers or screams
are only as filthy
as the other one deems
so don't write a poem
filled with words that are cheap
write one your lover
will recognize and keep

ltv

Succumbing to Lamentations

2008-11-18T20:52:00.003-05:00

A friend of mine expressed his disappointment in my not posting on a regular basis. And while I can't ever promise to do anything on a regular basis, I will attempt to post more frequently. Of course, this means my readers will have to suffer through the poetry or rants that slough off the top of my head in response to me watching emotional TV programs, reading the news, or whatever else happens to annoy or bring joy to me. Consider yourselves warned.

in the moment

there is no why
for abuse only
when and how
blows will come
regardless of past
traumas suffered
by either person
don't tell me
why you hit
tell me when
you will stop

ltv

Northampton Poet Laureate Leslea Newman has announced a new poetry prize and issued a challenge to poets (or anyone) to write poems on the topic of joy. Last night I attempted to write a threnody on joy, thinking of both the irony of the subject matter and possibly a play on the woman's name; however, this is what came out instead.

lamentation of a broken heart

in matters of
the mind or heart
it's better to
keep both apart

feelings held
within the chest
without a thought
are felt best

ideals thought
to be the way
will only lead
you to dismay

the one true path
to conscious love
is either felt
or not thought of

ltv

Word-a-Day Language Poem

2008-11-15T20:28:00.002-05:00

A co-worker of mine has a word-a-day calendar that she complained she routinely forget to update. When I suggested I would make a poem with the words she tore off to bring the calendar up-to-date, I should have made note of the date it was on. It turns out it hadn't been updated in several days, well, okay weeks. Still, the poetic gauntlet had been thrown down (even if I was the one who threw it) and to preserve my poetic honor I had to make good on the poem. So, without further apologies for the content here is my word-a-day language poem.

Threnody with Flageolet*

though one may glower
at the controvertible
symposiums on
laissez-faire lycanthropy
there is a fealty
to finding a theriac
to this occasionally
lethargic condition
(which is not to be
confused, as some louts
do, with brain freeze)

one may consider it
a prehensile farce
with the gumption
to ideate vicariously
through uncouth
pariahs while ingratiating
itself with its audience
without jeopardy
of a sub rosa philippic
by condoning sentient
pleonasm from a
carceral redoubt

ltv

*I swear on my poetic license that I did not omit any words she gave me as being "too difficult to include" (as I'm sure you may have guessed from the words in the poem).

FloPoSo Tonight

2008-11-13T20:20:00.002-05:00

Howdy Folks, Sorry I had to bail on the FloPoSo meeting tonight. As some of you know I was recently diagnosed with degenerative joint disease which is primarily presenting as pain in the low back and neck. I have good days and bad days and, unfortunately, today was a bad day. So, enough of all of that. On to the poetry...

Though I have been working on my novel (such as it is), I do still write poetry because, as I have mentioned before, it is like breathing to me. I simply can't stop doing it. I was inspired to write tonight (Poetry Whores) and have also included a poem I wrote earlier this week (the Hope of the Lost). Feel free to check out the links to the right. I have added Rich Puchalsky's blog . Rich is a fellow FloPoSo member and has also started a writing group (of which I am a member). (Also, ask him about adding your chapbook to the UMass Western MA Poetry Chapbook collection.)

the Hope of the Lost

in that place
where the other
dryer sock goes
where echoes
start and end
like identities
where matter
succumbs
to the over-powering
gravity of a
collapsing star
Nothing comes
from Nothing
except once
when Something did.

ltv

Poetry Whores

unassuming they
listen loudly
to poet johns
linger on a phrase
moaning appreciatively
with dulcet eyes
only a cynic
wouldn't believe
their lies of emotion
which they believe
are true responses
as do you when
its your turn to read

ltv

I am Kitteh! Hear me MEOW!

2008-11-01T19:52:00.003-05:00

Here's an update on Mackenzie:
It's been two months since I dropped her off at the farm, a place I thought would be perfect for her. And it's been two months since anyone has seen her anywhere on the farm (although the farmer's father helpfully told me on one visit that they also hadn't found a body). It's been two months of me driving by the road that the farm is on and sometimes crying because I feel guilty at her apparent and immediate demise at the hands of the cold harsh reality of outdoor life. It's been two months and I am still trying to make peace within myself that I may never know for sure what happened to her.

Last night, I was card shopping for my uncle who turned 49 this year (ten years older than me). On the front cover of a card was an adorably cute grey kitten that reminded me of Mackenzie (and, yes, my heart panged a little). Inside the card read: "See, the more grey hair you have the cuter you look!" I had to buy it. Last night was also Samhain, the end of the Wiccan Year. I spent it, as I usually do, meditating at Emily Dickinson's gravesite in Amherst. Without going into too much detail into my reflections of the past year, the salient point is that the issue of Mackenzie came up. I reconciled the notion that she had probably succumbed to something in the wild but I also tried to believe that she is happy somewhere living off the land and just not wanting to be seen by all those scary people that aren't "Mom".

Jump forward eighteen hours to Saturday (today). I am with a friend checking out all the new stores in Thornes Marketplace when my cell phone rings. "It's R***." (No, not my boss. No, not my ex-husband. The farmer who just happened to have the same name!) He had spotted Mackenzie and it seems she is living around the hay barn. I was ecstatic! I drove to the farm later in the day and called to her. I think she spent the entire time I was there meowing. She was still very skittish, but she came to me. I checked her out, made sure eyes, ears, nose, paws and the rest were all okay. And, except for her thinness, she was looking great. The farmer gave me some cat food for her, which she ate right out of my hand. I got her to come out of her hiding space and sit in the open so that the farmer's niece could take a look at her. (Of course, the minute the girl turned her head to look, Little Big Mack took off to hide again.) I feel so much better knowing that she has made a home for herself at the farm. And, now that the farmer knows she's around he'll resume putting food and water out near where she is hanging out and hopefully she'll flesh out a little bit for winter. I expect I will be visiting from time to time since it was very clear that Mack wanted and needed some loving from her Mom.

What a wonderful way to start my new year! I can't express (without sounding like a Hallmark card that is) how relieved I am that she is alive and well. It validates my decision to bring her there. (I really did do a good thing for her and not sentence her to a horribly painful death.) It is times like these, when my heart is filled with hope and contentment and all is right in my world, that I am exceedingly grateful that I do not have children.

Language Poetry and my favorite subject

2008-10-18T08:01:00.003-05:00

The prompt in this month's writing group was a heck of a lot more fun than last month's. Language Poetry refers to a genre of poetry that is quite controversial, it seems. I compare it to abstract painting. Language Poets use words, images, language together in ways that may make sense to them or may just sound good; but which leaves it up to the reader to take away from the poem what they will. I'll admit that most language poetry seems like crap to me, but then, I like a good narrative poem.

Speaking of narrative poems, I've included two (maybe three) which could be described as such. The last one I wrote this morning about my favorite subject: my cats. Or wait, I mean the mundane moments of one's everyday life which show some sort of poignant insight into the Universe. Oh, who am I kidding? I like to write about my cats.

The poem about the fire alarm also has a visual component to it. Check out my Myspace pics here: ALARMING!

Language Poem Exercise

pleases crepes oregano
laughing juice
avocado cockroach
filleted!
meritoriously obscure
jungle stop signs
pequot
measles
philandering
junkie spelunking
eleemosynary --
freshmints
of bat tax
backtracking
somnambulant filing cabinets
squawking underhand
righteous!
abstract?

ltv

Symbols: A Sign of the Times

red on wall
with white
strobe light
flashing
alternately
with blaring
buzz, buzz, buzz
thank goodness
the picture shows
a stick man
running away
from what I can
only guess are flames

ltv

fragment

Twilight looms
a tapestry of clouds
leaves the door a jar
staples on the shelf

ltv

October morning

steam from my breakfast
-- lazy Saturday omelet --
fogs my back door storm windows
which were reluctantly
closed over the screens
just this morning
when I let the cats out

Willow sits -- white fur
stark against the browning
of Nature -- watching
investigating the leaves
falling one after another
all around her
she seems very concerned
about the instability
of the sky

Kes has been out
twice already
the second time to prove
that it wasn’t too cold
for her dainty frame
she proudly sits on the
harsh corner slate
of the garden wall
under the bird feeder
she fidgets -- adjusting
her tail beneath her --
lifting the tender
smooth pads of her paws
off the cold stone
again and again because
however cold it is
she is still outside
and it is worth it

ltv

Writing Group & Emily Dickinson Poetry

2008-09-28T09:59:00.002-05:00

Hi Folks,

In keeping with my tradition of posting (almost) everything I write without censure, even at the risk of my friends trying to do an intervention when one really isn't needed, I am posting three poems I wrote at the Florence Poets Society Writing Group two weeks ago. I wasn't debating posting it, I've just been too lazy to do it before now. (Plus, now I have a fairly positive piece I wrote from the Emily Dickinson Poetry Marathon on Saturday to balance out the grimness of the first three poems.) In my defense, the prompt for the writing group was the suicide of writer David Foster Wallace .

What Can't you Understand?

the unwillingness to suffer
the daily psychological pains
tormenting a soul already
struggling to exist within society
the selfishness of leaving behind
people believed not to really care
seeing the outward success
does nothing to ease the nagging
doubt of one who feels a fraud
the pressure of the impending crash
the belief in events
which makes them come true
all weigh so heavily
it is easier to fall with gravity
than continue fighting against it

ltv

Suicide Haiku

one only decides
when the loneliest moment
is confirmed again

ltv

[untitled]

when the path is too hard
to walk alone
and comrades are in
short supply
it may be easier
to find the edge
and convince yourself
you can fly

ltv

And now for something completely different !

On Saturday, September 27th the Emily Dickinson Museum held it's annual Emily Dickinson poetry marathon in which all of Emily Dickinson's poems (all 1,789 of them) are read by volunteers (like me). There are other things happening too: cake/ice cream, tours, movies, discussions. Despite the rain it seemed there was a fairly good turn out. I only stayed for a little bit but I was inspired to write the following:

The Homestead

I have my hand upon a brick
that yours was on before
I let my booted feet
tiptoe -- upon your wooden floor
I watch the rain -- come nourish
the gardens in your care
I write down lines of poetry
and know that you are there

ltv

Some depressing new poems

2008-09-14T19:00:00.002-05:00

I'm going back to my poetry angst roots here. You may want to have a Rodgers & Hammerstein musical on hand to cheer you up after reading these. (I am going with a Pixar film to cheer me up. That always works!)

a new home for Mackenzie

i cut a piece
of my heart out
gave it away
to where I thought
she would be happiest
i was hoping
she would let me know
how grateful she was
or how miserable
but silence gives me
no clues about
her well-being
and I am only left
with a bleeding heart

ltv

[untitled]

when on the ledge
sometimes it feels
that stepping down
is how you heal
since climbing up
has yet to gain
anything more
than further pain

but letting go
is not to quit
if leaps of faith
are requisite
unless one step
is too far out
decisions hang
on crags of doubt

the comfort of
a stable ledge
with rocks to hold
along the edge
makes us rather
take shelter here
than leap or climb
and face our fear

ltv

how not to drown

stop
breathing
long enough
to stop the water
from flooding
your lungs
weighing
you down
don’t
search
for the
bottom
with
your
toe
just
let
go
of
the
fear

ltv

Kitty Saga Continued

2008-08-31T14:46:00.002-05:00

Friday I was still feeling down about Sappho (15 years is the longest relationship I've maintained with an individual not related by blood). I was also missing Mackenzie who had taken up residence at a local hippie stray cat cult (though, admittedly I hadn't seen any other cats when I went to visit her there). Doing what any good mother would do if her daughter had run off with a hippie cult, I marched down and brought her back kicking and screaming (and scratching and tearing my shirt). After the initial shock of being brought back home (though not inside, I wasn't ready for that drama yet), she settled quite nicely into my lap (after eating her supper) and let me pet her. Maybe she just forgot the way home. Maybe she was glad to be back since the male stray wasn't around. Whatever it was, I was deliriously happy to see her all curled up on the back porch Saturday morning when I woke up. She still refused to come inside and when I tricked her inside with some food (then shut the door), she panicked and frantically scratched at the door to get out. Even when I brought her to familiar places in the house, she made a beeline for the back door and mewed to get out.

Of course, this presented me with the same problem I had originally: what will she do for shelter when the cold weather comes? I still had to find another home for her rather than leave her in the woods to fend for herself. So, I drove around Easthampton and Florence looking for farms. The first one I stopped at already had an established barn cat community (this was going to be the primary obstacle to overcome); however, she recommended the farm down the road since the man had just lost his cat and was cat-free at the moment. (She even said to use her name since he was a "typical grumpy farmer".) Well, I don't know if I actually spoke to the man she was referring to because the gentleman was absolutely sweet as can be. He said he would take her after quizzing me a bit about her mousing skills (I was honest and said I had never seen her chase a mouse) and her health. I drove back home and was easily able to snatch Mackenzie (as she was still curled up on the back porch and very eager for attention when I opened the door). She was less welcoming of the cat carrier I wrangled her into. I brought her to the farm and let her stay in the cage while the man spoke to her and I reassured her. We put some food and water out, then opened the carrier to let her out. She slunk around the garage, which was open to the driveway, sniffing at everything. Then, to my horror, she started heading towards the busy street. Thankfully I caught her before she got close and steered her in the other direction towards the other buildings, the fields and the greenhouses. She was meowing up a storm as she seems to do now that she's been living outdoors full-time. She hid under my car and for a moment I thought she had crawled into the wheel well. Then, she was gone. The man asked if I would come back to visit. I replied "absolutely!" He said I was welcome anytime I wanted. He even gave me two pieces of the best tasting corn I've ever eaten. They must have just been picked.

So, although it seems as if I sold my cat to a farmer for two ears of corn, I think this is the best situation for Mackenzie. She's got plenty of places to hide (as evidenced by the fact that I couldn't find her this morning when I visited) and certainly many options for warmth in winter. I only hope she grows to like it and doesn't freak out and do something stupid. I, of course, am still a nervous wreck even though I know it will take a few days (if not weeks) for her to be acclimated to her new home. I'll keep checking back and whistling for her. So far, she has not responded, but hopefully that will change. If anyone wants some delicious corn (among other vegetables), stop by Ravenwold Greenhouses on Florence Road in Florence (close to the Easthampton line). And tell your friends, too!

I think my family is completely sick of hearing about my cat issues. In fact, I think my Mom wishes I would just get a life already. Maybe some of you readers think that as well. So what. I want what's best for the cat since it really isn't putting me out that much. I wasn't about to take the advice I got from several professionals and friends which was to euthanize her for her "peeing" behavior. I know most people would have put her outside and then let her fend for herself. I just couldn't do that. She's not a feral bad-ass cat. She is a sweet little skittish cat who just wants her freedom. She'll probably learn fast in the "outside world" to become a bad-ass cat; but, at least for humans, that is part of growing up.

As for me, I'm still learning how to become bad-ass in the outside world. I don't think it's likely that I will ever really be a bad-ass though. I like that I am sensitive and go above and beyond to tend to the welfare of those in my care. (And I know my Mom appreciates that as well; and if not now, she will when she starts having issues with her bladder!)

Kitty Saga

2008-08-27T18:41:00.004-05:00

As some of you out there know, I have been dealing with some kitty issues in August. To recap, Mackenzie started peeing in my house (resulting in the loss of my couch, a chair and a futon pillow) and demanding to go outside. So, I made sure all her vaccines were up to date and gave her some AdvantageMulti to protect against the creepy crawlies and let her outside. Here's where the saga continues:

Mackenzie has been living outdoors for two weeks now. She comes the back door in the mornings and evenings for food, love and attention (she still loves to have me pet her). Her outdoor personality is WAY braver than her indoor one. She seems truly happy. That's the good news. The bad news is she stopped coming home for food last Friday morning. I left food for her Friday and Saturday, but then stopped doing so figuring she found another outdoor home (hopefully) that she preferred. Monday night, I let Kes and Willow out for a romp and when it was time to call them in, Kes refused to come. Instead she was across the bike path meowing up a storm. I went down to see what was going on and heard the pathetic little cry of Mackenzie but couldn't see her (of course, Mack always had a pathetic little cry so that shouldn't have worried me as much as it did). I kept calling her and she would meow but not move. I, of course, pictured an emaciated and bleeding cat since I still couldn't get a visual on her. I tramped through the woods (which I hate doing), got eaten alive by mosquitoes and finally tracked her down to where she had run to--a trailer in an open field where a lot of stray cats hang out (a stray bar?). She stared at me from under the trailer, looking bright eyed and healthy and seemed to say "I just wanted to say hi and let you know where I was living now". So, I guess that's where she's living now. Which means I officially have three cats. Which brings me to the other saga: Sappho.

Sappho spent last Monday (the 18th) at the vets to find out why there was bright red blood in her stool and why she was crying for what seemed to be "no reason". After $300 of tests, the doctor sent her home with antibiotics saying "she might have a urinary tract infection." She seemed to be doing better, but since she pretty much sleeps in one place most of the day anyway it was difficult to tell. Though she did come upstairs once or twice (once to have a fecal "accident" in my bathtub). [Side note: it's hard to get mad at a cat who has "accidents" in the bathtub. I mean, there are WAY worse places to have to clean up that sort of a mess.]

I had gotten a 2 x3' kennel crate which I had hoped to use to confine Mackenzie during the winter months, but thought that if I needed to keep a better eye on what Sappho was doing (litter box and eating-wise that is) I could let her stay there. It is big enough for a small litter pan, food dish, water dish and space for the cat to lie down in a couple of places and turn around to change positions if she wants to. It's not a palace, but it's not a cat carrier either. Well, Sappho left another fecal surprise in my tub on Tuesday and I found some fecal accidents on the carpets in the basement. So, I decided it was time for her to hang out full-time in the kennel. She wasn't too happy at first, but seemed to get used it. Like I said, she spends most of her day sleeping anyway (she's 15 1/2). Well, she spent a night and day in the kennel. I let her out while I cleaned the litter pan this morning and planned to do the same when I cleaned it out this evening. In fact, I figured since I would be downstairs she could hang outside the kennel so I could watch her. Well, she came out of the kennel, but kept falling down. Her left leg wasn't supporting her weight. She had vomited (just a little bit) in three different areas in the kennel (including the litter pan which was otherwise empty from "deposits" from her) -- it seemed like typical kitty puke though. She seemed to get better when she tried walking around but she was clearly not doing well with her left leg. She made it to another spot in the basement and lay down. She otherwise seems fine. I can only conclude that staying in the kennel aggravated something. She has ample room to walk around in there, so I can't understand why her leg would cramp up (if that is infact what is going on). It's been about an hour of her "walking around" outside the kennel (well, sleeping in her favorite spot really) and her left leg still won't support her weight. I checked and she can move her left leg and even push against my hand with it. She doesn't like me to touch it, but she doesn't cry out in pain either. Maybe the incontinence and the leg thing are related? Maybe it also has something to do with the bright, red blood in her stool? I feel so stuck since I really can't afford hundreds of dollars of tests for the vet to tell me he doesn't know what's wrong. (He did a full blood work up and all sorts of things last Monday--there was one result that was elevated which is why he thought it was the kidneys, but it didn’t seem like much since the other tests which "verify" kidney disease were all fine.) I can't keep her in the kennel tonight. It may simply be a causal relationship between the kennel and her leg issue, but I can't risk that it was the one that caused the other. Hopefully she will be better in the morning and I won't have to clean up any more surprises. I am going to do some research online and hope that things are better in the morning (or, I hate to say it, if it is her time to go, that it happens peacefully in her sleep).

This has been a crappy few weeks as far as kitty issues go. I really, really do not want to lose two kitties in August. I am still hoping that Sappho rallies and will continue to live a decent life with me for years to come. I can assure you though, if she does go gently into that good night, I am not getting another cat. I still have two more (Kes and Willow); and that will be it.

UPDATE: Sappho's right and left legs are now not fully supporting her weight, but she lets me touch both of them with no complaint. After doing some research online, I am guessing that dehydration may be playing a part in the leg weakness. For some reason she didn't drink much of her water today. I gave her some wet food and two new bowls of water downstairs (one plastic bowl and one glass bowl--maybe she has a preference). She snarfed down the gravy from the wet food along with some of the chunky bits. She still didn't touch the water though. Aside from not wanting to move much (and obviously having trouble doing so) she seems fine. She's responsive to me and lets me pet her. She's purring and I am hoping that is because I am down there with her rather than from her being in pain.

Update: Today at 12.15 pm the vet had to put Sappho to sleep. She had lost functionality in both her hind legs, lost bladder control and was generally not happy. The vet said it might have been a tumor or a bad disc that was causing the neurological symptoms and that even with a ton of expensive tests, the end result would be that she probably would never regain full bladder or motor control. It was a hard decision to make, but I think it was the right one. She had 15 happy years with me. I will miss her dearly. As I miss her sister Mackenzie, who, thankfully, is at least alive and well and just refusing to come home. So now I am down to two cats: Willow and Kes. They may not be happy with me in the next few days since I will be keeping them indoors "just in case" and to keep them close to their Mum who needs some extra TLC right now.

outdoor indoor cat

2008-08-17T11:30:00.002-05:00

Another in a series of poems about Mackenzie who has decided she doesn't want to live indoors anymore. (BTW, does anyone have a barn for an outdoor-only cat? Winter is coming and I don't have a place for her to keep warm outdoors.)

outdoor indoor cat

in the tree line
amidst the slate
which marks where
a garden once was
she sits camouflaged
paws tucked underneath
eyes closed contentedly
nose high sniffing
the air for danger
each breeze that
ruffles her whiskers
brings a status report
from her new home

ltv
8/17/08

Note from the Poet's Cat & other poems

2008-08-16T11:32:00.002-05:00

As always, Thursday was the Florence Poets Society Meeting and I quickly jotted down a poem so as not to have to recycle any of my older stuff. I wrote these two little bits which reflect the current issue in my life. The third poem was written in response to a poem that was read at the poetry meeting. It felt as if I was channeling the poem, I simply had to write it right then and there. I don't have a title for it now (well, at least not one that isn't trite).

Note from the Poet's Cat

Communication
when done right
brings awareness
shows all the light

but if it's stunted
not complete
all my tactics
I must repeat

and if it breaks down
no hope there
all that's left --
pee on the chair

ltv

Kitty doesn't care
that Mom had to clean a mess
now Kitty goes out

ltv

[untitled]

in the fog of pain
killers pumping
through my veins
I choke -- cough
up this tube
memories of college
suddenly evoked
drinking aftermaths
but that was decades ago
and though my aged body
feels just as bad
aspirin won't fix this
I struggle without
the aid of pure oxygen
my father and I
when I was ten
watched fish that we caught
flop and gasp on the floor
of the rowboat he rented
I watched him die too
like my family
is watching me now
how they can do it -- well
it won't be long at least
already their voices and songs
are getting far away
and it feels better
not to breathe

ltv

The Garden Wedding

2008-07-18T18:01:00.003-05:00

This is a short something I wrote during a writing group last night. I am procrastinating my novel and the prompt last night was "name dropping". If anyone has suggestions, I would welcome them. My dream is to eventually write well enough to hawk my works to magazines and other literary outlets (though I have a ways to go yet before that happens!) PS I changed the title to just "The Garden Wedding" as I really didn't like "What's in a Name".

The Garden Wedding
by Laura T. Varney

I studied my feet and the surrounding area a while hoping to find both the names the young debutante had just dropped as well as the one I let slip from my mind as she left my company. Somewhere in the back of my head my inner hippie was fighting the constraints of the tuxedo I had strapped on for the occasion.

“Dude, at least lose the shoes! I mean really, man, look at this grass. Don’t you just want to swim in it?”

I realized I was intently studying the imprints left in the lush greenery instead of mingling with the other wedding guests. The wedding had been a spectacular affair. Everything perfectly choreographed. The sun had witnessed the joining of the prominent young couple and was now saying its goodbyes to the clouds and tree line as the guests meandered throughout the grounds.

Perhaps I, too, should exchange pleasantries with a few guests before we were all ushered under the great tents for dinner. My publicist insisted I attend tonight. “The biggest event of the season” she called it. “Everybody who’s anybody will be there.” I hated these things. Having come alone I was at a disadvantage and I'm sure my social awkwardness didn’t help either. I was still pondering why I was invited when the bride approached with her mother.

“I’m so pleased you could attend this evening. Truly, it is an honor.”

The bride was silent. I was not entirely confused, but I was certainly perplexed.

“Yes, well. Lovely ceremony. Congratulations, Lydia?” I tried not making that last comment sound like a question but the truth was I didn’t know these people. I had struggled to recall the name from the lavish wedding invitation and now suddenly realized that the mother’s name must have also appeared on it and prayed to a god I actually knew didn’t exist that I hadn’t just congratulated the daughter with her mother’s name.

The young woman smiled with a fake demureness and uttered something that could have been “thank you” or “fuck you,” though I’m reasonably sure it was the former. Her mother continued to engage me in conversation.

“So, tell me sir, how did you come up with your crazy ideas?”

“Oh, well, I, what?”

“All those miniature worlds and bizarre rules that make them up. So different from how we all know the real world actually works. And what was that part I read about outside observers? I didn’t really understand how that worked.”

“You read my book?”

“Oh yes. You sound surprised.” The woman looked at me oddly. I got the sense that at certain times she wore bifocal reading glasses, though at the moment she wore none.

“Oh, no ma’am. I mean no offense.”

“I may look like just another pretty face or wealthy socialite, but I do have other redeeming qualities you know.”

“MOTHER!”

“I’m sorry. You’re right, dear, I’m being rude to our guest.”

“No, not at all. I just. It’s just that only a handful of people have ever actually read my book. Mostly everyone else just reads the reviews or the opinion pieces in the newspapers.”

“Well, when I saw I had the opportunity to talk directly to the Quantum Physicist who disproved the existence of a Sentient Creator, I thought it in my best interest to go directly to the source before inviting him to my daughter’s wedding. Obviously, you were on the A-list of invitees; however, I’m not about to invite a famous person to such an important event just because he’s famous. No matter how well known he is. And I must say, there probably isn’t a person on the whole planet that doesn’t know your name.”

“Yes, well, I find that often puts me at a terrible disadvantage, especially given my shortcoming of a bad memory for names. I don’t suppose you’ve written a book, Mrs.…?”

“Davenport. Eve Davenport. And it’s Ms again. We’re only together until after this wedding nonsense is over, no offense darling.” She patted her daughter on the shoulder then fixed her eyes on me and continued, “Please call me Eve.”

“Yes, well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms., sorry, Eve.”

“Would it be presumptuous of me, Dr. Abraham, if I called you Adam? After all, this is a garden party.” She winked as she said this and I honestly couldn’t tell if she was flirting.

ltv

A few new ones

2008-06-25T16:55:00.002-05:00

I am still working on the novel, but with insomnia comes poetry (at least for me).

Irony of Pain

nothing is stronger
than a beaten woman's
image of her own
weakness

ltv

Summer Insomnia I

in the dark
of the back yard
green flashes
like tiny stars
coming for a visit

ltv

Summer Insomnia II

rustling brush
unseen paws
foraging first
at the far end
of the trail
then steadily
(as I listen
to the night pass)
it makes its way
down the buffet line

ltv

Haiku for You

2008-06-15T19:00:00.003-05:00

Here are some haiku I've written recently.

in the room's stillness
only purring can be heard
together we nap

tormented creatures
moth blocked from reaching the light
screen stops cat's paw too

late night summer storm
a percussive serenade
rumbles me to sleep

the moment you know
that your heart belongs to her
beautiful sadness

as I get closer
anticipating your taste
my tongue parts my lips

ltv

Have you got the Time?

2008-06-08T10:41:00.002-05:00

Hi Freaks and Geeks (you know I say that with love)!

Sorry I haven't written in a while. There's no excuse really, just some variation of "I haven't the time" or "I haven't the energy". Speaking of time, I wrote a bit about my favorite topic this morning and thought the denizens of the net might be interested in picking apart my thoughts on time travel. Keep in mind that all I know about time travel I learned by watching sci-fi programs, so keep the biting criticisms to a gentle minimum. I know this all may be rubbish, but it amuses me and that's what blogging is really all about. Enjoy!

Why am I obsessed with Time? I suppose one reason is that I tend to be obsessed by a lot of things, but that is an insufficient reason. I know, I mean, I understand, that linear time is an illusion. 6/8/08 10.16am EST only has meaning because in this society we have chosen those symbols to parcel out the moments of our existence in a consistent manner so we can "communicate" effectively with each other. Or some such reasoning like that. We all need to be "on the same page" as it were. The symbols are mile markers, points in space-time to refer back to. But are they really? If Time Travel--Past Time Travel, that is--can be accomplished, would it be as easy as dialing up the date and time - or maybe just the year and month? Or would it be tied to something more universal? Life forms throughout the Universe (even many who reside on this planet) do not mark time the way Americans do -- or even as humans do (or should I say "civilized" humans). Do tribesmen in the Amazon (some who have had the benefit of not having contact with "civilized humans") know what June 8th 2008 is? Or do they see it as the 160th day of the year -- even that is contrived. Perhaps it is simply another day in a certain season -- planting, harvesting -- another way of marking the passing of time. A communal understanding of "WHEN".

So back to Past Time Travel. How would our minds or our technology be able to navigate back in time? We would need to discover the mechanism of manipulating space-time. I think the wormhole theory may apply, but without any major headway into how they can form (especially in light of the fact that none that we know of have ever been found). So the first step is finding a naturally occurring wormhole. Question One: Do wormholes form naturally or by their very nature are they anomalies caused by something else? It is analogous to the difference between a corridor in a building leading from room to room and the destruction of a wall to "shorten" the trip. Would creating a wormhole destroy a section of space-time. And, more importantly, would the destruction be irreparable? To attempt to create a wormhole without understanding their nature and relation to space-time would be irresponsible (although, it would also be distinctly human to do so).

The task of ripping the fabric of space-time seems to rely on figuring out, if not what it is made of, at least what can cause it to unravel. If we know that an acid can dissolve a structure, does it matter if the structure is made of steel or wood or something other substance? I think the answer is "yes". Knowing how to destroy something is only one side of the equation. A side humans generally prefer to be on if you look at our stance on other things such as the Environment. We are exceedingly skilled at destroying, yet we fail at the much more difficult task of creating or re-creating. It's not enough for our survival to focus only on how to destroy -- the better we get at that, the more likely we are to destroy ourselves. So what does this have to do with Past Time Travel? Perhaps everything. What happens if we do discover how to tear into space-time and go back to the past? With our current skill set all we will accomplish is bringing about our own destruction faster. Look what happened when we figured out how to split atoms. Did we create a power source that enabled us to safely, cleanly and inexpensively provide power to our planet (thus ending our reliance on primitive fossil fuels)? Not quite. First we built a bomb. Then we have mismanaged power plants so that they are doing, in some cases, more harm than good.

I think the bottom line is that humans cannot be trusted with our own cleverness. I am obsessed with time (as is, perhaps, the bulk of the "civilized" world) because I know there isn't much of it left -largely because of our own actions. Perhaps we want to find a way to go back and undo the damage we know we have done. Instead we should focus on creative, new solutions to the problems we face. Seriously, if someone can imagine the concept and mechanisms of Past Time Travel, why can't we also imagine a more peaceful, balanced way of living on this planet? Oh wait, people already have. I guess putting those ideals into practice is not as fun as destroying things.

Northampton Pride

2008-05-04T11:36:00.001-05:00

Hi Folks, Northampton started the Pride season on the first Saturday of May as it always does. Click here for some photos from the event. Also, if I have done this right you will see a video in two parts of an awesome performer.

Queen Elvis (part 1):

Queen Elvis (part 2):

Spider Haiku

2008-04-17T20:06:00.002-05:00

I tried to work on my novel tonight at my writing group, however, there was a spider on the wall above my head and, well, I got distracted.

spider on the wall
moves gingerly away from me
I am still afraid

its stillness scares me
when sighted it starts to move
a whole new terror!

I know I am safe
from this tiny predator
someone tell my heart

his eight are no match
for any of my four limbs
still, I can't kill him

ltv

Invisible Fountain: Middle-Aged Freaks of The Spoken Word

2008-04-13T12:51:00.002-05:00

Last night I participated in a poetry reading event at the Invisible Fountain Art Gallery in the Eastworks Building in Easthampton. It was entitled "Middle-Aged Freaks of the Spoken Word: Poetry from the Gut". And while I may still be a couple of years shy of middle-age, I was welcomed to read and was well-received by the crowd. I'm not going to repost every poem I read but I will list them and include the two new ones I wrote yesterday.

I started with this short piece:

are you hungry
for me
for all of me
will I satisfy
your desire
will you spit out
the bitter parts
the parts that
are unexpected
do you have a taste
for me
for all of me
not just
when I am sweet
or hungry for you

ltv

Next I read "Getaway" which I think I posted elsewhere some time around the end of February.

Next I read these two new ones:

Rickrolled

the radio dial
cannot be switched
fast enough away
from the electronic
pulses alternating
with synthetic drums
before the melody creeps
seeps into the brain
and you know you are doomed

after the fourteenth time
it repeats in your head
"I'm never gonna give you up"
mocks you with a cheery upbeat
and you just can't help
screaming silently
as you feel your body sway
to the inane lyrics still
traipsing through your synapses
you give in to the inevitability
of a lip-synching Rick Astley
theme song accompanying you
through life unless you are lucky
enough to stumble upon that
"Baby Back Ribs" commercial

ltv

Sexy Bitch

even at work
on a Wednesday
her hair is loose and wild
around her made-up face
her hand finds a place
smack on the back
pocket of her jeans
which are delightfully tight
because she doesn't say no
to potato chips or M&M's since
my ass doesn't get this big on its own
she quips with a wink
she thinks everyone's lucky
to be amused by her wit
and she has that "IT" that makes
everyone forgiving
of inappropriate innuendos
which go straight to a place
nowhere near our brains
she reigns over sexuality
as if it's a formality to brush aside
playfully along with an errant
touch as she passes too closely
by you in the doorway

ltv

I ended with "Whoa, Whoa, Whoa, Feelings" which I had previously retired from public readings since I had gotten sick of doing it. But, I did it a little differently this time (which apparently was well-liked) and all was good. I am kicking myself for not recording it, especially since I bought a digital recorder with some Christmas money last year specifically for the purpose of recording my readings to post in blogs. The event was recorded for Northampton Community Television. So, if any of you have Northampton local access cable channels, then look for the broadcast of the event. Everyone who read was wonderful. I don't think there was a bad poem in the bunch. My friend Anita read an absolutely haunting poem about Hitler (I will try to get her permission to post it, but she is shy about such things.) The last line just stops you dead.

My thanks go out to Tommy Twilite and Carl Russo co-founders of the Florence Poets Society and to Luke Cavagnac of The Invisible Fountain for hosting this wonderful event as part of Easthampton's Art Walk.

Acceptance

2008-04-05T22:52:00.003-05:00

Finally a new poem! Just in time for the Invisible Fountain Poetry Reading on April 12th at 7-9pm in the Eastworks Building (tell your friends). Here is the official blurb about it:

The Middle Aged Freaks Of The Spoken Word, Poetry From The Gut
7-9 pm, Saturday, April 12, 2008 at Invisible Fountain, Eastworks Building, Easthampton.
come early if you want to (6-6:30 ish) for art gazing, food, fun, fellowship and set-up.
and tell all your freaky friends!

I'm not sure this is the right type of poem for that venue so I am hoping to write some freakier ones for the occasion.

Acceptance

she will never again
wear these clothes
carefully folded
with the wrinkles
smoothed flat
finally being donated
to some cause
she held dear
to her heart
these weren't the outfits
she bought hoping
she would lose
those extra thirty pounds
these were her favorites
the ones she wore regularly
Monday's pink sweater set
which made her happy
to start each week
the comfy grey flannels
she wore even in the Summer
but with a T-shirt instead
of the plaid button-down top
her dressy dress
with the fancy stitching
around the swoop neck
these were the ones
that still carried
not just the scent
of her perfume
but the memories
he would always cherish

ltv
4/5/08

people of corn

2008-03-14T17:44:00.002-05:00

I wrote this for my FloPoSo (poetry group) meeting, then ended up reading "Lovers Quarrel" instead. Oh well, enjoy.

people of corn

from similar seed
lined up to grow
becoming
sweet corn hiding
behind a pliable husk
are we the corn
or the cob inside
the empty core
useful only when
adorned by kernels
beautiful, sweet, full
temporary until
we are consumed
or dried up and left
to reinvent ourselves
by popping out of our shells

ltv

Edith the Company Recordkeeper

2008-03-06T19:06:00.003-05:00

Here's another little piece in what is becoming a collection of "Pro Corporation" inspired writings. This one I wrote this morning as I read the obituaries and thought of the times that I saw "worked for x # of years at Pro Brush in Florence" listed among the other notable moments in the deceased person's life. While cleaning out the old Pro building I did find about a dozen or so scrapbooks with various articles spanning decades. (I donated them to the Northampton Historical Society, they have a whole Pro Brush collection.) I'm not sure whether I should be embarrassed by the fact that after I wrote this (and re-read it), it made me teary-eyed.

EDITH

In the days when it was her job, Edith may have complained about her domineering boss or the poor selection of lunch items in the cafeteria, but never did she feel anything but pleasure at scouring the newspapers for wedding announcement, baby births, news stories and even obituaries relating the company she worked for. She enjoyed that task so much that forty years later, no longer working, but still complaining about the inadequate lunch menu at her current residence; she still takes time to search the papers -- mostly the obituaries these days -- for any mention of her former employer and the hundreds of employees who worked there. The company itself had been sold off two or three times since she retired. Today, the impressive old brick mill sits abandoned with hardly anyone giving it much thought. But Edith still remembers, alone at the Nursing Home where her family never visits and all of her friends have already passed. She sits in the atrium with her stack of papers, running her finger down each line to keep her place with the magnifying glass. It's a good week when she can ask the staff to help her clip an article and then carefully glue it into her scrapbooks.

Day of Terror

2008-02-23T18:31:00.002-05:00

Last night I dreamed about a plane tumbling out of the sky. In my dream it turned out to be an elaborate hot air balloon (one of two by the way), but the feelings of seeing this 747 dropping out of the sky in my dream caused a profound disturbance in my day today. I did a quick Google search on plane crashes and of course 9-11 topped the lists. During my Saturday meditation this poem came so strongly to me I stopped my meditation to write it down.

Day of Terror

some died screaming
not understanding
what was happening
until they heard
the Arabic proclamation
Allah is the greatest

some died instantly
coffee in hand
sneaking a peek
at one last personal email
before the boss arrived

some died blinded
choking on smoke
trying desperately
to reach more fresh air

some died later
weeks, months, years
succumbing to diseases
caused by hazards
never meant to be inhaled

some didn't die
their bodies continued
something less than whole
without a sole understanding
how they persevere

ltv