Getting Ahead, for NaPoWriMo

Happy Easter!

For the NaPoWriMo Challenge, for "Found Poem," for national poetry month at ReadWritePoem:

Getting Ahead, Found Poem with Canyon Bob

When I finally start getting ahead, disaster strikes.
Today it's the sewer line, the trees growing
into it, the basement flooded. My sister
wants to sell my mother's house. But who wants
a flooded basement? I'm still living
in my Mom's house after all these years.
With her gone, it feels like my house.
Maybe I should leave the basement flooded
so it won't sell, been in the family for generations,
but who wants that wretched sewer smell
and I'd probably fall in and drown. Sorry
to bother you. Do I smell bad? It's that stupid sewer,
oh, and alcohol, probably. I'm not an alcoholic,
but that that f-ing Roger next door gets me going.
Look, he drove on my lawn and tore up the grass.
My mother was a wonderful woman, but she slapped
me once for using the f-word and that f-ing Roger
wrote a note about my trees in his sewer, that's why
he was on the lawn, taking down his trees,
ashes they were, fire trees, and he wrote me a note
with the f-word and my sisters saw it; my poor sisters.
He didn't have to do that. I still try to protect them,
though I came seventeen years after my youngest sister.
They took Mom to the hospital, thought she had a tumor.
I was the tumor. Roger's Dad said she was too old
to be pregnant, to have me, but she did anyway.
He asked my Mom, "aren't you ashamed?" she said,
"no, I'm married." I know you gotta go, sorry
to bother you. But I'm not an accident or a mistake.
And I'm not an alcoholic. Smell like it, don't I?
No, I'm no mistake; I'm an unexpected pleasure.
And I'm not an alcoholic; alcoholics go to meetings.
I'm just a drunk.

Mary Stebbins Taitt
A "found poem" (captured "rant" from Canyon Bob)
090412-1128-2a, 090411-2341-1c, 090411-1704-1st

This is a "found poem" of sorts, from a "rant" by "Canyon Bob." I have used his words as I recall them and arranged them into this poem. Should I be concerned about appropriating his material or life? Anyone? Do I have the right to do this? And can I call it "mine?"

If I write any edits or revisions, I will post them ABOVE so the newest version is always at the top.

When I was God

HAPPY EASTER!!!

For the NaPoWriMo Challenge, Paradise, for national poetry month at ReadWritePoem:

When I was God

energy sang and eternal light interpenetrated
eternal darkness. Vast joy had a pulsing consciousness: me.
Thoughts gathered to make substance, things coagulated
and then dispersed, but they came and went
with little consequence. Mostly, I was alone in all that singing
emptiness, without thought, self or being,
except when I chose incorporation. Then,
I preferred high places, which I created so I could continue
to see forever. I gathered my body around me and sat
with the God Cat who was another part of me, who stretched
away from my energy-flesh in an attenuated light and snapped
into being. Its blue eyes radiated energy's song, its power
hummed around it. People, too, were a part of me,
shadow clones of the many thoughts
that drifted to the surface of my huge wild mind. I knew
everything then, but began to get lost in the minutiae.
My creations created problems, wanted solutions.
Back then, I could produce solutions with a single thought.
Miracles, they called them. But the attention was tedious
and overwhelming after the relaxing expanse of the void.
I shrank from my terrifying omnipotence
until I was one of them and could see only
what was in front of me. Paradise ejected me.

Mary Stebbins Taitt
for Peter and George Osawa
090412-0916-1b, 090412-0846-1st, Easter Sunday

If I revise this poem during April, I will post the revision above the current one so the latest version is always at the top.

Trapped (Nicknames) for NaPOWriMo

For the NaPoWriMo Challenge, nicknames for national poetry month at ReadWritePoem:

Trapped (Nicknames)

Horsehair, Gary called her, spitting the word
like phlegm, burning her cheeks with it. Horsehair,
because she wore her hair in long braids,
instead of short, curled and coiffed
like the other girls. She liked horses, loved to ride,
but the name stung as if each hair were a bee
angry, spiteful. In the classroom, while other kids
screamed, she lifted trapped bees gently in her hands
and carried them outdoors. They never stung,
but Gary did. “Dale calls me Tiger,” she told Gary,
wishing, at his horselaugh, that she'd never spoken.
If Gary called her Tiger, it would be an insult,
but Dale smiled when he said it, his eyes full of soft heat.
He found her feisty, strong. Independent. Fierce, even.
In the glow of Dale's appreciation, she morphed to Tiger.
Stood taller. Growled a little. Stalked the forest
like a predator. Kissed with hunger.
Gary couldn't see a tiger in her. It wasn't there.
When Gary looked at her, the tiger morphed
into a mouse, wanted to be invisible and hide
from Gary and his gang. But they always saw her,
the all too visible target for their venom. In an attempt
to quiet Gary, she chopped off her hair.
Though she tried to blend like a chameleon
with the other girls, she’d already been marked
for the kill.



Mary Stebbins Taitt
for Gary Sommers, Mike Sullivan, David McNalley and Dale Ripberger
090409-2341-1e

v older ones below, more recent above ^

Trapped (Nicknames)

Horsehair, Gary called her, spitting the word
like phlegm, burning her cheeks with it. Horsehair,
because she wore her hair in long braids,
instead of short, curled and coiffed
like the other girls. She liked horses, loved to ride,
but the name stung as if each hair were a bee
angry, spiteful. In the classroom, while other kids
screamed, she lifted trapped bees gently in her hands
and carried them outdoors. They never stung,
but Gary did. “Dale calls me Tiger,” she told Gary,
wishing, when he laughed his horselaugh,
that she'd never spoken. If Gary called her Tiger,
it would be an insult, but Dale smiled
when he said it, his eyes full of soft heat.
He meant feisty, strong. Independent. Fierce, even.
In the glow of Dale's appreciation, she morphed to Tiger.
Stood taller. Growled a little. Stalked the forest
like a predator. Kissed with hunger.
Gary couldn't see a tiger in her. It wasn't there.
When Gary looked at her, the tiger morphed
into a mouse, wanted to be invisible and hide
from Gary and his gang. But they always saw her,
the all too visible target for their venom. In an attempt
to quiet Gary, she chopped off her hair.
Though she tried to blend like a chameleon
with the other girls, she’d already been marked
for the kill.



Mary Stebbins Taitt
for Gary Sommers, Mike Sullivan, David McNalley and Dale Ripberger
090409-11832-1d


Trapped (Nicknames)

Horsehair, he called her, spitting the word
like phlegm, burning her cheeks with it. Horsehair,
because she wore her hair in long braids,
instead of short, curled and coiffed
like the other girls. She liked horses, loved to ride,
but the name stung as if each hair were a bee
angry, spiteful. In the classroom, while other kids screamed,
she lifted trapped bees gently in her hands
and carried them outdoors. They never stung, but Gary
did, Gary who called her Horsehair, and his buddies,
Mike, and Dave and the boys on her street.
"Dale calls me Tiger," she told Gary, wishing,
when he laughed his horselaugh, that she'd never spoken.
If Gary called her Tiger, it would be an insult, but Dale
smiled when he said it, his eyes full of soft heat.
He meant feisty, strong. Independent. Fierce, even.
In the glow of Dale's appreciation, she morphed to Tiger.
Stood taller. Growled a little. Stalked the forest
like a predator. Kissed with hunger.
Gary couldn't see a tiger in her. It wasn't there.
When Gary looked at her, the tiger morphed
into a mouse, wanted to be invisible and hide
from Gary and his gang. But they always saw her,
the all too visible target for their venom. In an attempt
to quiet Gary, she chopped off her hair.
Though she tried to blend like a chameleon with the other girls,
she'd already been marked for the kill.



Mary Stebbins Taitt
for Gary Sommers, Mike Sullivan, David McNalley and Dale Ripberger
090409-1757-1c

This is very brand new for me. If I make any edits or revisions, I will post them in this same window above this version.

Third's a Charm ("Three in a Row") again (revision)

For the NaPoWriMo Challenge, three in a row for national poetry month at ReadWritePoem:

Third's a Charm ("Three in a Row")

The first one beat her. She was bad because he beat her.
Bad because a dragon, hatched from an egg of flame incubated
in her heart. Deep in that pocket of inherited midnight,
it struggled to press its scales through her slimy skin.
Her breath burned with dragon fire. The beatings
squeezed the dragon-flames into that dark heart hole, transforming
it to dynamite or maybe a neutron bomb. That bit of antimatter,
heavy with shame and pain, prepared itself to blow acid and fire
in the face of the second when she finally escaped the first.
The second hit once, hard, then shrank
her with words and venom until she was smaller than the point
of a needle and crammed with the impossible mass of the universe.
The third one's a charm. If he can pry her out of her shells
of darkness and protective fat, and get past the land mines
and fire-breathing dragon, he might find a beating heart
held exposed in an open palm, eyes green
with forest light, a swallow, swooping through the trees,
carrying, like his cousin, an olive branch, a promise of roselight
and rainbows, kisses, a soft embrace, a hand to hold in his.


Mary Stebbins Taitt
for Pius, Nat, Keith and BP
090409-0802-3a, 090408-2124-2b, 090407-1651-1c

I edited this a little and think it's a little better and I am sure it's still not done!

Third's a Charm

For the NaPoWriMo Challenge, three in a row for national poetry month at ReadWritePoem:

Third's a Charm ("Three in a Row")

The first one beat her. She was bad because he beat her.
And because a dragon, hatched from an egg of flame incubated
in her heart, deep in that pocket of inherited midnight,
struggled to press his scales out through her slimy skin.
Her breath was hot with dragon fire. The beatings
squeezed the dragon-flames into a crevice, transforming
it to dynamite or maybe a neutron bomb. A bit of antimatter,
heavy with shame and pain, prepared itself to blow acid and fire
in the face of the second when she finally escaped the first.
The second hit once, hard, then shrank
her with words and venom until she was smaller than the point
of a needle and crammed with the impossible mass of the universe.
The third one's a charm. If he can pry her out of her shells
of darkness and protective fat, and get past the land mines
and fire-breathing dragon, he might find a beating heart
held exposed in an open palm, eyes green
with forest light, a swallow, swooping through the trees,
carrying, like his cousin, an olive branch, a promise of roselight
and rainbows, kisses, a soft embrace, a hand to hold in his.


Mary Stebbins Taitt
for Pius, Nat, Keith and BP
090408-2124-2b, 090407-1651-1c

Of course, I didn't do their three in a row, because I was working on personal poetry, but I still hope to complete some or all of the NaPoWriMo challenges, even if not on the given day.

Where Only He Could Go (Two new poems)

This is probably an unfinished draft--It's a poem for "fun" but I've been struggling with it all week. It is full of hidden rhymes which I've been trying to refine. I have added an image showing the rhymes. You can click on it to see it larger. It is part of my current manuscript, Counting Fingers, Smelting Light. If you are interested, try this, before you look at the image showing the rhymes, see how many you can find--some are obvious, others less so. There is a small new haiku at the very bottom. I have written about twenty other new poems I haven't had time to post.

Where Only He Could Go
How Uncle Jake tells Stories of Tristan to Geraldine, February 14, 1962[?]

Across the Santiago rooftops, he'd dance and run,
full of monkey antics, shenanigans, and fun.
You would have laughed to see him scamper high
Up in the trees, sun lighting his hair in a halo of cinnamon,
though he certainly was no angel. He chased the birds
to make them fly, to hear the whirr of wings and watch them
screeching from all the branches, lift in unison into the sky,
probably yelling curses. And him so pleased
and grinning. Yah, cinnamon, like your candy hearts.
A cinnamon capuchin was what he was. In spite
of his happy games and frolics, he looked so sad
I named him Tristan, and he was bad. He ran amuck.
He'd duck into an open door and steal a banana, guava
or some Senora's pie (a Senora's a lady, Gerry)
and oh, the hollering and fists upraised, like so!
He was always in a jam. Every day and more
I had to pay for that monkey's spunk and thievery.
He filled my bunk with stolen coins and loot. Bought
me a drink or two, I must admit. Even a drunk. Shhh,
I didn't say that, Gerry, don't tell on me. Good girl.
But he spilled a few as well. He was nimble, free,
and wild. And especially sweet when he wrapped his arms
around my feet and hugged and kissed me
with smacking sounds. He liked to ham things up.
And cute. You'd think he invented cute, the clown.
You would have loved him, child. He'd catch a ball
and sometimes fetch it like a dog maybe once
or twice, but then hide the ball, the wretch
in the top of a tree where only he could go.
No making nice would make him change his mind
and bring it down. He put my hat in the treetops too,
and worse, the passport I needed to come home.
I had to learn to climb again and was never as good
at trees as you.


Mary Stebbins Taitt
In memory of Grim, and for my parents
(note: read other version and compare! The one with the rhymes marked)
090213-2312-4d; 090212-2009-3a; 090211-3201-2d; 090210-2220-1b; 090210 1st

At Winterfest

The hawk ice sculpture,
look! Sun and rain have melted
it into a dove. Mary Stebbins Taitt