Year of Writing 120. 30/30.

4/30/12

Today is the last day of my 30 poems in 30 days month of April.  Also, it is the last day for my family in the Bay Area.  The movers come tomorrow morning.  I have a lot to say about leaving, but not a whole lot of time to filter it.  So, I leave with one last poem.  (My internet will be off as of ten this morning, so while I will still write tomorrow and this week, it may be spotty as to when I can get it up on the blog).

30/30

(a found poem, images from 622 43rd St.  Richmond, CA. as I woke this morning)


The floorboard nearest the bedroom door
creaks like a grandmother's admonition.

The daddy long-legs in the corner of the bathroom ceiling
by the window, here so long he's become part of the family.
My daughter greets him when she wakes: "good morning
long legs, good morning."

The morning sun illuminates the rumples in her bedcovers,
pillows look more like they were wrestled than slept on.

It is too dark in this living room, blinds forever drawn
for lack of trust in the neighborhood.

The yard is overgrown now, behind an eight foot fence
but in the morning light, with the sound of Richmond
behind: interstate 80, an ambulance siren, a car alarm,
it is a harborage.  It is spring, the birds all sing their farewells
at once, this is how I will remember.

Year of writing 119. 29/30

4/29/12

29/30

Oakland 1

I breathe slowly through clenched teeth
bullets have no place here, I think.
I ask with shallow voice, scream into
my elbow when no one can hear.
I walk the shore of a dirty lake,
exotic birds, local shame.
I watch the fog from this side of the bay,
wonder why its treasure is hidden.
I hold my children tight today,
tell them all to dream of acorns and sun.
I leave tomorrow with clenched teeth,
a bullet between; a memento from you.

Year of writing 118. 28/30

4/28/30

28/30

Voices sound different in rooms
devoid of that which we collect.
There is nothing to absorb the echo,
to soften the edges of words. When
this house is finally empty of everything,
when it is just me and the walls, I will
tell myself this is for the best.  I will say
this one last time, and I will listen for
the echo, for the sincerity on that razor's edge.

Year of writing 117. 27/30

4/27/12

Tonight the sky split like
pomegranates, each star
spilling from the pithy dark.

I held two in my palms,
we spoke of dust and precious
stones; the things we keep.

I left them by the curb
in the soupy darkness, walked
backwards until I only saw night.

Year of Writing 116. 26/30

4/26/30

26/30


"One man's trash..." she said throatily,
like an excuse, her hand a dry leaf
fluttering near her face. She was small,
her head barely reached the lip of
our rented dumpster, tiptoes on rusty
steel.  She poked around with a broken
curtain rod like a sad avocet, turning over
trashed shelving and dirty diapers.
"Is that a nail file?"  I heard her croak
from my back yard. "I can never
understand why people spend so much
money on their nails."
I opened the gate and called out.
"Are you talking to me?"
"Sweetheart, I'm talking to anyone
who will listen. Is that a bag of flour?"
"Yeah, it's no good.  I found it in the
back of our cupboard, it's been there forever."
"That's what they say about me, guy."

Year of Writing 115. 25/30

4/25/12

The kind of tired that sneaks
into your house through the vents.

It hides in your vertebrae, behind your eyelids,
in the third joint of your little finger.

It whispers to you in the voice of your mother,
your sisters.  It asks for soft things.

It shushes you when you speak, slides
thin fingers over your shoulders.

It smells like old books and rain, it's breath
scratches down your neck. Soft, it says.  Soft.

Year of writing 114. 24/30

4/24/12

24/30

It was a red night when he came down from the tree.
No one knew how long he had been up there, we'd just
catch glimpses on balmy evenings while fireflies drowned
their lights against the pale yellow glow emanating from
cracked plastic covering on the porchlight. A bristle-twitched
tail, a tufted ear, nothing more. Interest waned, people went

on about their business: filling bottles with sand, chewing
leather, brushing the down from their shoulders.  His
entrance was uneventful, a chattering lost amongst the
howling from the changeling in the bedroom.  Ma saw him
first, scooped him up in one hand and didn't let go for the
entire night. She's still there now, cooing and feeding him hazelnuts.

Year of writing 113. 23/30

4/23/12

23/30

I've never slept well.
As a boy I'd wait for all
the house sounds to stop,
one by one as my family
eased themselves down.
When the last creak
of the last bedspring
and the last guttural,
rumbling throat cleared,
the dripping could be heard.

It was a slow leak in the
kitchen faucet. Barely noticeable
by day, the droplets hung suspended
almost cruelly long before
splashing down onto the stainless
steel.  I'd begin by counting.



1



2



3




4



The space in between drips
never varied, but seemed to increase
in length nonetheless. I began
to create stories in those spaces,
tales sprouting up like Oxalis in the
winter, only to be cut short by
the next drip. I never finished a story
between those liquid splashes.
I suppose if I had, sleep would
have come easy and soft.
These days in the dark, when the
breathing around me slows,
these days I sing songs of rivers
and oceans; I sing songs of deluge
and cascade.  These days there
is no space for stories.

Year of writing 112. 22/30

4/22/12

22/30

"Medusa"  by Isla.


Things were different for her then,
before the sword and the mirrored shield.
She was all smiles and garden ornaments,
serpentine tea parties on the veranda.
She thought he may have been a suitor,
the day he came, proud and bouncing
on his toes. Didn't notice the winking steel.
She'd realize it wouldn't matter much
if her head had the capability
in that sack, none of her lovers ever
could look her in the eye anyway.

Year of writing 111. 21/30

4/21/12

21/30

In those sad hours,
when time seems to
spin like rotary phones,
look up to the ceiling
and trace the cracks there
with your eyes. These are
not times to unravel,
not times for bluster and lurching.

Do you feel your hands?
They are attached to your body,
remember this.  Follow
the crack in the ceiling
to a corner cobweb.
Let your gaze linger there
awhile. They are not just
accumulations, they hold this
room up.  Fill your lungs to the
point of panic. Now relax,
feel the embrace of your chest,
the expansion inside has limits,
there are rules to this.  Trust them.

There is a window on the wall.
 It is large and contains no glass.
Open it anyway, it is your heart.
Outside is a menagerie.
The animals are not making a sound.
No matter, listen to their silence, they are your teeth.
You still own your tongue, you always have.
Tilt your face upward, feel the sun on your cheek.
Where it was wet, it is no more.

Brush the salt from your face
onto your palm.  Save this
for bland days when your teeth
lie sleeping. Save this for days
when the sun hides ashamed.
Save this for days when you have
security-barred your heart, and
your lungs can't be contained
in your chest.  Save this for days
when your hands float carelessly away.

Remember the cobwebs.
Remember the salt.
Remember your eyes.
Remember your hands.

Year of writing 110. 20/30

4/20/12

I want to let go
of all these balloon
strings, fall into your
breakwater arms and
breathe like sleep.

I want to be a rag doll;
you to be six years old.
Velveteen Rabbit me,
love me threadbare and
missing stuffing.

I want to be the pause
in your speech, the involuntary
catch in your throat when you
see something beautiful
in the corner of your eye.

I want to be the grass
at your feet, evening shaded
blue.  Sink your toes here,
it's been a long day and it's
fixing to be a beautiful night.

Year of Writing 109. 19/30

4/19/12

I fall in and out of love with rigid form poetry.  Right now I love it, and the freedom that it allows within the constraints.  Here is a Welsh form of poetry called an englyn cyrch.  Look here: http://www.thepoetsgarret.com/celtic2.html#eng.  In short, it has four seven-syllable lines with lines 1,2, and 4 rhyming.  Line 3 rhymes with an internal segment of line 4.

Englyn Cyrch for E. 14th.

Concrete and metal abide
plants and trees are pushed aside
smelted chain link at the core
where the poor people reside

Year of writing 108. 18/30

4/18/12

18/30

The vinyl spins.
There is an empty glass
near the turntable -
this is what it sounds like
inside the headphones
before the needle drops.

The needle drops.
The warm crackle of
empty space before the
song is a familiar bed.
I'd like to rest in this sound
awhile. It is home.

Year of writing 107. 17/30

4/17/12

On Fridays the team wore ties.  Most
were handed down from me, same
with the oversized, ill-fitting button-ups.
Delvon said he'd only worn one twice
before, two funerals.  The funerals didn't
stop, he remarked, just the desire to dress up
for something that happens all the time.
I never thought I'd smile with a tie on,
never thought it would look right.

Year of writing 106. 16/30

4/16/12


16/30

Sandbox Isla Villanelle

Shoes off, hair wild in the sand
She sinks her toes down to the cool
makes granules bend to her demand

Castles sprout across her land
She smashes those who doubt her rule
Shoes off, hair wild in the sand

A three layer cake, watch it stand!
A broken branch her only tool
Makes granules bend to her demand

A battle waged, evil rats have her outmanned
The leader spies her, eyes glow cruel
Shoes off, hair wild in the sand

The rodent onslaught she withstands
Just one left, she calls a duel
Makes granules bend to her demand

A tiger trap, a hole! She had it planned
She shakes her head at the ratty fool
Shoes off, hair wild in the sand
Makes granules bend to her demand

Year of writing 105. 15/30

4/15/12

15/30

Packing

Uprooting takes time.
The consolidation, the
culling - I've packed
and unpacked the same
box of fifteen books
too many times.

There's something soothing
in the uniformity of the boxes,
in knowing exactly what lies
inside that cardboard shell.
The stretching of tape,
the crisp lines - ease me
into the severance.

I will pack the pictures next,
hold each face up to the light.
You will come with me,
I will say, all of you will come.

Year of writing 104. 14/30

4/14/12

14/30

The freedom of it,

polyurethane against pavement

repetitive clicks as 

each control joint on the sidewalk

passes beneath me

and the board.  The way 

wind feels against my face, 

how the world blurs through 

saline veils down the hills.

I picked up my skateboard 

today.  It's rusty, missing 

bolts.  The wheels still turn, 

though - the familiar hum 

of bearings spinning.  I oiled, 

tightened, cleaned - muscles 

moving from memory.  I turned it 

in my hands, placed it on 

the garage floor - heard the pop

of maple against concrete.  It 

sounded a little like a promise, 

a little like a secret. When I ride 

again, on ruined knees and 

achy back, it wont be for thrill

or sport, or even nostalgia.  It will be

for the wind, for freedom and the wind.

Year of writing 103. 13/30

4/13/12

13/30

After my first emergergency as a stay at home dad.

Your child falling
Sounds too loud,
The accompanying wail
Too long in coming.
The blood in her hair
Too red, too bright.
Your movements too slow -
A cold compress, a
Towel for tears.
Her dress has blood
On the shoulder, the collar,
The hem - it seems so
Small now, this dress.
You press the cloth to her
Scalp; press like you're
Holding the ocean back. You
Hold her against your chest
Tight enough to share your
Pulse. You watch her head
Rise with your breaths; a buoy,
A lifeboat, the moon.

Year of writing 102. 12/30

4/12/12


Haiku for coming home


Upon returning,

His bright-eyed laugh and gurgle

Make up for the miles.


I promised myself I'd only do one haiku this time. I have now exhausted my quota. Coming home was strange, I expected to have Isla jump into my arms. However, in true 4 year old fashion, she fell asleep on the car ride over, slept through dinner, then when she finally did wake up, she screamed for an hour or so and told me to leave her alone. I believe she is part grizzly, if she is woken before she is ready, she's all claws, roars, and teeth.

Year of writing 101. 11/30

4/11/12



Sometimes I drive 
to the place where I will be buried.
It is a small plot, 
a postage stamp, really. 
But, it does 
have grass, 
green grass. 
Green like a 
sculptures' patina.
Green like a mantis heart. 
Green like a lone bead, 
which settled behind the vent, 
lost from a bracelet.
Green like lost.
Sometimes I'm lost 
and driving 
to the place where I will be buried.


*credit for the first line goes to Linda DelNegro
http://lindadelnegro.blogspot.com/2012/04/skagit-county-line.html

Year of writing 100. 10/30

4/10/12

100!

10/30

On the carousel that day,
she could not decide between
the unicorn or the frog.
One, standing stiff-necked,
left leg cocked in a false march.
Its saddle festooned with red beads,
mane full of ribbons and glitter.
The other, oblate and knotty -
paint chipped and peeling.
One sad eye the only handle.
She hesitated at the proud beast,
stroked its bright flank,
then slid onto the back of
its squat neighbor, like an easeful
coat.  She whispered low words,
her cheek pressed against its
faded green head. It must have sounded
like music, for they danced and spun,
those two, like mythical creatures.

Year of writing 99. 9/30

4/9/12


There is a place where sunlight
falls heavy through leaves like oil.
A place where grasses etch themselves
across the backs of your hands. Here your
head is cumbrous and inconvenient -
leave it behind.  Here your heart is
shopworn and cloying - leave it behind.
Be all skin and nerve, fingers and guts.
Stuff your fists with earth and hold
them where your head once was.
Pack your chest with moss and twigs,
bury your feet where the roots
surface like whales.  Catch the breeze in
your pockets, you are a wished-upon dandelion. 
You are a scarecrow.

Year of writing 98. 8/30

4/8/12

8/30  William Burr, Sr.

He was not gentle with me,
didn't need to be.  His arms steel
lassos, drawing me into his chest
to say "listen, this heart is
your heart, this is a man's rhythm.
Listen, you will be a man."

I was a boy with no ritual,
all soft hands and elbows on the table.
He'd make the silverware jump
with his fist, the following silence
a lesson in civility, of manful
decorum. He filled my hands with tools:
a wheelbarrow, a rifle, a pocketknife;
the components of regimen.

The mettle of his embrace,
the love, unveiled and raw,
the rigidity of custom;
these align my posture on days
when the world slumps,
testosterone not enough
to define identity.  When the
blood in my ears sounds like a man.

Year of writing 97 7/30

4/7/12   

7/30  Upper Lake Tahoe, June 2011.




The snow fell sudden and strange
that June, we bundled up
in whatever could be found; wore
socks on hands, wrapped
t - shirts around our heads.


City children with grins like
springtime, we wrestled and
dug with numb fingers, our
impressions in the fallen white
some new kind of magic.


Later, around a fire,
cheeks and lips raw, we told 
stories of things that can't be 
and won't be. Our throats 
alembics,  distilling rime
from razorwire and concrete.

Year of writing 96 6/30

4/6/12

 

A Troublesome Reminder

Five years ago

I had a barcode

tattooed on my shoulder,

right above the scapula.

It was an anti-

establishment

statement

plus this girl said

“it’ll look really cool.”

And I did want her

to touch it.

“I’m just another

product of society,”

I would tell people

at the beach.

And they’d say

“dude that’s so punk rock.”

But the truth is,

it hurt

when the needle

repeatedly stuck my back.

And the tattoo

wasn’t as cool

as the girl thought,

after she saw the lines

from Nietzsche

wrapped around Brad’s bicep.

It was no consolation

that they stretched grotesquely

when laughing,

he flexed,

and threw her into the water.

Year of writing 95a 5/30

4/5/12

instructions for leaving

walk slowly,
listen to the walls.
Drop pieces of yourself like bread crumbs,
push them into cobwebs.
Touch every page of every book.
When your arms are empty
find someone to fill them.
walk slowly.
listen to your footsteps ,
become a story that ends here .

Year of writing 95. Justin Beaver

4/5/12

All the way to daycare today in the car, Isla wanted to play Peter Pan.  She insisted that we were going to fly to "Never Say Never Land," to which I replied: "You mean Never Never Land?"

"NO!  It's Never SAY Never Land, Daddy." 
"So is James Bond there?"
"Who's Jane Bombs?"
"Never mind, is Justin Bieber there?"
"Daddy there's no beavers in Never Say Never Land."
"OK, this conversation just got way too ridiculous for me. I'm just gonna sprinkle you with pixie dust so you can fly."
"That's good, but you accidentally sprinkled dust on the shark too, now he's flying with us."
"What?  Why is there a shark in this Peter Pan game now?"
"He wants to bite that justin beaver."
"This game is officially over, I quit."
"ok, ok there is not a shark, it's just a spaceship that looks like a shark."
"OK, I'm in."

Year of writing 94. 4/30

4/4/12

Sometimes I forget
kids don't stop aging at 14,
that middle school isn't the endpoint.
Sometimes the kids come back,
wearing mansuits and womanmasks,
speaking with too much reason.

Then I remember that all these words
tumbling out of my mouth
over the heads of children
are more than dead weight,
sloughed off like dry skin.
They are firefly tattoos,
they are the piece of lead
broken off in the crease of your palm.

year of writing 93b. 3/30

4/3/12

3/30

Quickstep inside
footfalls echoing damply.
These walls drip and breathe;
these floors sink.
Fall with them, it's safe here
in the underneath places
the dark wraps itself unceremoniously
around your shoulders,
against your cheek. It's brusque
but warm; a fathers stubble,
a woolen blanket.
Rest here, this is your home
on days like this, when the light
outside overwhelms, when the
birds are too loud in the forks of trees.
This is your home when you
close your eyes to old Polaroids,
when the edges wont hold.

Year of writing 93. On your permanent record 5.

3/3/12

2 posts this fine day.  The first, I will keep brief - in my fifth installment of the "middle school kids do the darndest things" category.  As always, these entries are written verbatim from the student's discipline screen.  Anonymously of course.


Student 1 - Only one student today - this is probably the best one I have seen.

1/10  Disrespecting a girl in PE¦ following her shadow around and talking to it like a dog.

That is so disrespectful.  That girl's shadow deserved to be talked to like the fully sentient being that it is.

I was going to post others, but they're all fighting and cursing and stuff, nothing even close to the genius of this January tenth fabulousness.  Remember, these kids get REFERRALS for this stuff.

Year of writing 92. 2/30

4/2/12

I will write poems every day, but I promise to keep letting people know about the awesomeness that is Isla & Miles as I go. Today's Isla quote, after reading our story -
"Daddy, this is a crazy story. Would you ride on a cockroach?  I would not ride on a cockroach.  Not even if it had a cockroach carseat."


Back to the poetry. It was my last day teaching in the classroom today.  I wrote everybody letters, as I realize now, it was mostly to make myself feel better.  Most kids were very stoic and understanding.  That wasn't real.  This was.
2/30

"It is painful as well, because it means turning yourself inside out, giving up your own sense of who you are, and being willing to see yourself in the unflattering light of another's angry gaze." - Lisa Delpit from "The Silenced Dialogue"

Her eyes were red puddles.
She sat unblinking, hunched
over the paper like a streetlight
in the rain, her tears unfettered.

I kneeled by her desk
hushed tones confident that
my words in this letter had uncorked
her emotion, I was the cool.
I understood.

"It's not enough"
she coughed at the smooth
white sheet in her hand.
"your sorry is not enough."

Trust is broken
by people who know how.
She was still learning how
to spell the word
as I handed her my farewell
full of sentiment and guarantees.

"It's not enough."
I know that now, my bruised attempt
to bandage a wound older than her
deserved nothing less.

I watched her leave,
braids swinging softly.
The click of the latch
sounded like dissolution;
sounded like breaking.

Year of writing 91. National Poetry Month 30/30.

4/1/12

This month, poets all over are writing 30 poems in 30 days in honor of national poetry month.   I am too.  This is number 1/30.  Not only do I have this blog to keep me honest, my aunt Linda accepted the 30/30 challenge.  You can see her blog here:  http://lindadelnegro.blogspot.com/   Every once in awhile, I'll write to the images my cousin Tony finds for her.  Keepin' it in the family.

1/30

His words had weight.  Each one
making it just past numbed lips
only to crash onto the formica top
of the table between us, gouged deep
by the scratching of countless pens.

We both stared at them sitting
there on the table; bold, harsh
they dared me to hold. Dared
him to believe in their existence.

"I'll have to hide my father's gun"
he said, words clattering like spent
shells at his feet, "it's too tempting."
My heart and silence broke like a fever,
I spoke without thinking.

I told him a story about birds;
how a single Canadian goose will fly down with
an injured comrade while the flock flies on
and wait until he recovers enough to continue.
As I spoke, the color returned to his face
like mercury rising. 

The pressure of holding all those leaden
words for so long gave way.
He sighed like a steam engine into his elbows
scooped each word carefully into steady hands.
One, he lingered over, broke in half, handed
me the remains.

When he returns from the place one must go
with words like these, I will remove the half
from my pocket.  I will light a fire,
and we will dance like only weightless people can,
like geese returning to the flock.