year of writing 1-3

The Year I Write.
1/1/12

This year I've decided to make it my resolution to write every day for at least 10 minutes. Whatever that may look like. Writing has been slow coming to me for the last few years and I feel out of practice, sluggish, frustrated, and inadequate when I finally do attempt to put pen to paper – or in this case, fingers to keyboard. I may try and experiment with form, continue to write toward a novel, or simply rant here on this paper, in the hopes that it may spark something creative, something that I can feel proud of.

Oakland

I will be leaving you soon
you concrete bludgeon
you sad mother
I tried to hold our babies tight
against my chest
tried to calm the flutter

you whispered in my ear
when I arrived
green words, gold words
you were beautiful;
cracked, leaking,
holding your fingers
crossed behind your back

I will miss your calloused
fingertips – tracing lines
tight around your children
wrapping them in chalk
feeding them acorns
leeching the tannins

be good to your sons
teach them to hold
forefinger and thumb
curled in
teach them the language
of tree forts and charcoal
paint them in a color
less red
1/2/12

The second day of any type of activity one strives to make a habit is infinitely harder than the first. For me the writer, the blank screen is tortuous. It offers everything and nothing at once – the perfect conundrum – I have unbridled control over what is put down, but no idea to write about. I do give myself permission to continue this silly stream of conscious drivel then, for as long as it takes until something actually happens – but that's mostly because no one will see this.

White
the kind of bright
that hurts.
Just a little at first -
it needles at your skull
behind the eyes
gaining strength
as characters
on conveyor belts
move left to right
enter
shift
new line

Great. It’s day two and I’ve already started writing poems about not being able to write poems. Please, let this be a phase.

1/3/12

Movement and transition don’t always sync up the way I wish they would. I can’t wrap my mind around what I should be doing to facilitate this time of flux. It’s a strange feeling, I am filled with an energy, but no focus - I find myself packing and repacking the same box of books over and again - removing one or two, then replacing them. It’s a little disconcerting. hopefully by the time our move is a reality I’ll be more effective at moving through space.

I saw a cat yesterday on the sidewalk near the BART station. It had been hit, probably recently, and its eyes were open. It looked almost like it was a snapshot of a kitten in play, but it’s limbs were all wrong, stuck in improbable angles.

The wind tousles her fur
gently
like a tentative child
her twisted back
lies against pavement
and sky
her body is a contradiction
limbs splayed obtuse
a fly lands on one innocuous canine
an emboldened soldier
a last kiss

Sometimes these poems will be junior-high in nature - but I am a junior high school teacher and everything.