New Poems

I write about what's on my mind. See below.

Unrest

My legs ache
when I sit too long
in most chairs.
The ache starts
in the backs of my thighs
and steadily grows.
Stretching doesn't help
jiggling my legs doesn't help.
The only thing that helps,
sometimes,
other than getting up and walking,
is propping my feet
on a footrest,
to get the pressure off
the backs of my thighs.

A Few Good Things

My mother learned
a few good things
in those twelve-step rooms,
while smoking like a chimney
and swimming in coffee.
She learned to avoid
getting too Hungry, Angry, Lonely, Tired.
She learned to seek out others -
"When I'm alone, I'm in bad company."
She learned the trap of stillness -
"Action is the magic word" and
"Pray for potatoes and pick up the plow."
She learned that you can choose
how to respond to challenges -
"Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional."
She took care of herself
and her sponsees -
her children, not so much.

Fun with Haiku and Tanka

Another evening at the poetry class, and I learn that the haiku form, which I've known about since high school, descended from a much earlier Japanese poem type called tanka.

Longer than the 5-7-5 syllable lines of haiku, a Japanese tanka has five unrhymed lines of 5-7-5-7-7 syllables, but English writers of tanka take more freedom with the syllable count, and mostly produce five-lined poems with lines that are short-long-short-long-long, with as few as ten syllables total, up to the standard size of 31.

Anyway, we had some time to write, and examples ranging from classical descriptions of nature to cynical and angry poems about modern life. Here's what I came up with:

Stomp brake pedal down
Omigod; where'd that come from?
This time, I still live.

White mold on my cheese.
I guess it has been too long
since I cleaned the fridge.

Smallness is Asian
My cars are all Japanese
I'm really quite short.

Sturdy old Bay Bridge,
Rust like cancer in your bones,
Please don't fall on me.

I'm on a Segway
Lean into the turns
Can't seem to shift my weight forward,
My feet hurt too much.
Oh boy, a panic attack.

I can write haiku;
English class in seventh grade.
Tanka not so much
Because I'm used to ending
after the third line.

Naked ladies grow
Next to the Berkeley sidewalk,
Shiver without leaves
But beautiful nonetheless
Even as the blossoms droop.

Why would a cop shoot
A boy with his hands in air?
Bigotry unleashed
Little man with a big gun
His guilt has turned into fear.

Convoy of white trucks:
Humanitarian aid
or troops with more guns?

First Fruits of a Poetry Class

Either I just noticed or I just became interested, but last night I started going to a poetry class that's part of Roke's Feminist Arts festival. It was especially attractive since it includes not only the opportunity to perform a piece or two, but also to have it published in a booklet.

Anyway, we're trying to write portraits of a person, place, or event that reveal the pertinent emotions. My memory being nearly as bad as my imagination, I figured I'd start with something recent that I wanted to write about anyway - the dance at the OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change) gathering that I attended last week. So here it is.

Old Lesbians’ Dance

I had a high old time

the other night

at the Old Lesbians’ Dance.

I duded up,

jewelry and all,

and tucked my stuff

in a fanny pack

to clear the decks for action.

The band played a few songs

I recognized from the 70s

and it was way too loud

for talking.

Most women were eager to dance,

and we danced together or apart.

Scent-free, of course -

this being a lesbian feminist gathering.

At one point, I found myself

dancing next to a petite white-haired

firecracker; we sang

“Rolling on the river”

to each other

on the choruses.

We began to glow

with our efforts

as the evening wore on;

breasts nestled against breasts

during the slow dances.

One partner started

to intertwine her legs with mine,

but my inhibitions

intervened.

A 92-year-old woman,

looking mighty fine in her

embroidered vest and smile,

leaves her scooter to dance

by attaching one hand to her partner

and the other to her cane.

I surprise myself

by lasting through three or four

dances before heading off

for a cup of cold water

and an upholstered bench.

Women from my past

swim into view,

fellow recorder players

a lesbian studies professor

women from my synagogue

the author of a play I acted in a few years ago

and two others from the cast.

I notice one old friend

wasting the dance floor

by talking with others.

I nip over to her

and plant one on her kisser,

surprising the spit out of her.

There were no snacks,

and I skipped the wine,

but I got plenty high

on the women

and the dancing

and belonging.