Children HELPING Children

Today I accompanied my high school juniors and seniors to a local school that exists primarily for  underprivileged and/or transient students. It is an elementary school in the heart of Tempe. Community Outreach is mandatory for the students at my school, and I think that is a beautiful and meaningful requirement. Their task today was to assist various third graders in completing a reading assignment, a word search and to color a Mexican Independence Day worksheet. 

While my students were being paired up with the youngsters I observed the following:

Angels with glitter in their hair.

A boy pounding another on the wrist, while the victim remained silent and appeared bored.

My principal telling the teacher about the pounding and my students calling him a tattle tale.

One boy's attention continuously drifting from his reading to gaze at a book on a high shelf. The title of the book was Lawn Care for Busy People; there was a living grasshopper on its spine. 

One student wiggling a loose tooth with his tongue while concentrating

A female toddler child, belonging to a couple enrolling their older son-- she was wearing tiny pink Chuck Taylors and would scream then giggle. Repeatedly.

The smiles of typically angst-filled teenagers as they left the building with fewer answers ready to leap off their tongues, and a new perception of the Universe.

And another....

Altering Course to Port

We place confessions in glass bottles

About being left of center. Meanwhile

Port side adds the desert to our view.

Our horizon is uncorked, we spill out 

Forcefully and feel insignificant.

Home is there! You ring some bells.

Later, when it is 115 degrees

And you're mowing a guilty lawn, 

I'll try hard not to nag you about the edging.

(Attention to detail makes a difference though.)

The hairs on your chest turn silver

My freckles seem to be melting.

I love your laughter when I say 

Don't forget to wear a hat. 

The way you adore the hell out of this heat, 

How we conduct a slow orbit in familiar space.

I Think So.... A Skimming Rant

I think you can hate Republican viewpoints and still be patriotic. My friend D. equates watching the RNC with watching televised church programing. I admire her for trying. I watched for about 15 minutes and began to feel the dichotomy that America has become. Theirs....and mine. 

My America is comprised of : struggling, vanishing, middle class families--uninsured teachers and students, teenagers that don't know how to form a paragraph yet know who Britney Spears fucked last, long hours, and concerns about future costs on the budget we're on. Concerns about national debt, wars, and almost-wars.

I honestly don't understand their America. I am glad they're participating in Democracy, I suppose. Although, I wish they had something better to do. Okay, not really. I just find it shocking how critical the Right has become of OTHER. There seems to be virtually NO accountability for anything. No weapons of mass destruction; oops, let's finish the job, right? I won't even start on recent elections or I don't know, the Attorney General. Worse even, is their new outrage at being questioned. Imagine that. 

It seems like America has been sleepwalking for the last 8 years. 9/11 could have been a catalyst for new alliances, diplomacy and humility. Instead it became a long and detached shopping spree. And, now, 98% of Americans can't afford the sale.  

Personally, I'm afraid to put my faith in a party, or a person. In spite of myself I hear Obama speak and I feel hope stir. Watching the DNC, I repeatedly found myself thinking, "Oh my god, those people could be my friends." That and, "Please let him be wearing a bullet proof vest." I suppose the feeling of isolation, of political minority status- began to melt in the light of the messages given there. 

Now, this week, I am left to consider what country separates me from my countrymen and women who are bent on the politics of exclusion. Well. That's fine. Count me out, but don't imply I'm not patriotic. God Bless America, and theirs too. Dammit.

Almost done....

Poor, neglected blog. Cyber-whiner. I've been busy growing a mini-book of poetry. Chapbook to be precise. And, for the record, writing/saying chapbook makes me also want to use words like "gent" and phrases like, "Cheery-o mate." These poems and I have wrestled for a good, long time. We've come together in a loose embrace.

They are a series of poems written to maritime flags. I know, I live in the desert. Opposites and imagination my invisible, non-existent audience. Each poem is titled after a semaphore symbol.

For example; "Diver Down" and "Keep Clear".  I've even decided to include the flag images next to the titles which should stir up a whole lot of ridiculous discussion if they are ever considered for publication. "Perhaps she's relying too heavily on the image...perhaps it's a gimmick." Perhaps it's semaphore on all counts, sillies. The poems are not about the sea. They're about being out to sea in relationships....ummm hmmmm.

I feel brave about submitting, as I have 5 poems forthcoming in Locuspoint late this summer, or early next fall. Hooray!

Below is a preview:  

Keep Clear of Me

Name calling after a good one,

Like trumpets! I agree Penelope was clever,

Yes, I envy her patience. Still, 

I CAN'T SEW.

Angel, hasn't this been pretty good?

Can't you forgive me for blah, blah, blah?

I know--let's climb into cornflower sheets. The argument

Docking like limbs in our ever-bed.

Cellos will state their intentions

Then steam tinted windows

Where you doodle me

Plus you. Me, but with horns.

Perhaps my moods are volatile. 

See how the sunlight plays

Checkers on the floor? King me.

What the Body is Trying to Say

I recently read that approximately 27 million people in America are misdiagnosed with depression, or pms, or anxiety when the real culprit is a misfiring thyroid. I learned that thyroids can function erratically for a variety of reasons too. Poor diet, food or environmental allergens, post pregnancy hormonal changes etc. 

This may or may not apply to me. This may or may not apply to everyone. I'm not a doctor. I'm definitely not a great patient. I've lied in order to appear healthier than normal so as to avoid blood work! I know I'm not the only one. Still. 

Did you know the thyroid is a butterfly shaped gland? Next, a metaphor about broken wings...

Today I'm tired. This might be a result of running around with the family yesterday, grocery shopping, cleaning a bit, cooking a bit, swimming a lot, seeing a movie, then getting crappy sleep. The amount of energy required to be in a constant state of awareness about diet, and exercise and mood, and the effects of the world is draining. This may be the result of a misguided thyroid. Poor butterfly is trying to migrate.

Batter Up.

Baseball in in the air. Andrew is trying out right now for the Little League All Stars team. He is amazing on the field. Very graceful and joyous. It's amusing because parents assume Kris and I are diligent with Andrew about practicing. Not even a little bit. In fact we have some guilt for not practicing with him more. He loves baseball the way a kid should. It's magic for him. It's not corrupted by salaries, steroids, or obscene trades. It's about throwing, catching and hitting. I am not lying when I say that one of my favorite past times is watching a little league game. 

Kristopher won diamondback tickets! Get this! His office had a trivia contest for exactly one month. He had to answer random questions everyday. Yesterday he found out that he won 4 tickets with box seats and a parking pass to see the D-backs play the Kansas City Royals play at Chase Field. How cool is he? Super cool!

***Home run, Dearest Vincent***

In the back of my mind I am thinking of things other than baseball. Van Gogh is haunting me a bit. I'm considering his Cyprus trees and some of his letters to brother, Theo. I don't think he was crazy in the least. I really don't. It seems his fatal flaw, (lead based paint theories aside) was being so deeply idealistic. He truly believed he might form an artistic utopia where competition between artists would become unnecessary. Instead, he envisioned an enlightened group sharing and pushing boundaries with paint, imagination, and companionship. 

I think he was beautiful. Too innocent, or progressive for his time. And, I know he was human and desired to be acknowledged for his work, but he seemed to struggle with that. He was aware of his desire for an audience, and seemingly tried to rise above, or at least away from it by confronting it head on. That's brave. I love him for risking it. And I love him for leaving us with emotional sunflowers.

Succulents

This picture is from Oregon, last summer. Miss Lilly's full name is Elisabeth Lillian. She calls our swimming pool the sea....

I've planted new succulents in the backyard, washed the dogs and set up new umbrellas. Husband bought little umbrellas for our pool area. I told him they look like they should be in a a shirley temple. Still, they look lovely and create the perfect amount of shade. 

Today there will be yoga. Today we will be sea-side.

How I Awoke on the First Day of My Summer Vacation

Mama? 

I'm still sleeping....

Andrew's mad at me. 

Hmmm?

Well, I accidentally hit him with a dodge ball. Hard. In the face.

**********************************************************

After coffee and mediation of the dodge ball wars (in the house no less!) we're off to the classy dollar store for scrapbooking materials. Next, some rock climbing and racquet ball at the Freestone Rec. Center. Then, swimming. I'm going to tire them out. I'm going to make naps an unavoidable fact in their day. I'm going to sing loudly and drive erratically so they don't fall asleep in the car. It's torture by way of fun. 

Pronouns

People of the world don't look at themselves and so they blame one another. - Rumi

In my poems, I typically shy away from the pronoun I. Journaling demands it.  While reviewing my post from yesterday I became slightly freaked out by how much I am in it. There is almost a shame....that deserves examination. If as Rumi asserted, introspection will help with personal accountability, then I could go through my days thinking about me, me, me with a deeper awareness; and hope that in doing so I'm contributing more positively to the world. Yet, I can't help wondering if that isn't a bit selfish? I'll Ruminate on this a bit....

I have friends who strive for a constant awareness of self and they are beautiful people. However, sometimes I want to shake them a bit. Remind them to get out of their own heads and respond to the world without processing events in terms of their own balance. It is definitely possible to lose one's sense of self by way of incurring too many external obligations, or some kind of unintentional martyrdom... common in women for sure. Still, it seems that being too introspective also cuts short the rope of connection to the world. I suppose it is an important balancing act requiring practice. 

My arms are extending by way of this keyboard. May this space be a balance of connections inside and out. Have you ever noticed that if you place the letter I on it's side, it looks like a tight rope? 

Seasonal Blogger & Post Graduate Lessons

My New Year doesn't really begin in January. Rather, it occurs in August, at the beginning of the fall semester. Springtime is traditionally when I begin to daydream about my summer resolutions. Usually, these dreams involve reading lists, submissions and some new form of exercise. This spring I dreamt of other things. Play dates for my son and daughter, scrapbooks, new recipe marathons, freelance writing. Don't I sound like a Betty?

The further away I move in time from my MFA experience, the easier it is to unbraid this pervasive semester mentality. During the program, I believed summer was the only time I had to accomplish what all of my colleagues appeared to be able to do each quarter. Things like regularly submit their work, take a yoga class, watch late night television... I'm sure that was a skewed perception. Still, I was in my thirties, married and raising two children under 5 when I began my Master's. I didn't meet a lot of others like me in my classes.

I think that was to my advantage on some levels. (These levels being very long term in scope.) The boat for networking and publishing and editing sailed during my time as a student. Readings were on weeknights, and opportunities to meet visiting writers usually occurred at noon. This is a problem is you work somewhere other than the University, probably even if you are on site. And in all honesty the idea of struggling  to make fast/false connections causes me to cringe. So, I suppose even if my external obligations had been minor, I still wouldn't be in the circle of "What's Happening" as a poet. And that's okay. For awhile it didn't feel okay, it felt lonely, and a bit shitty actually. However,  it made me consider the reasons that I write in a very emotional way, as well as is an objective way. Audience remains invisible. 

For a time I wanted to see my readers, and hear from them and now it as if the audience is an imaginary friend or friends.  I remember writing my first poem at the age of eight. It was after I finished reading something I found really good. I like that eight year old girl a lot. How she spelled words wrong, and made some letters too big for the lined paper. I like her intensity. Her relationship with the energy of idea to page. I'm a little bit eight right now. I wonder how many other writers feel that way too. I am listening to the "Rilke" voice inside. It is much louder now, and also, much more patient. Writing has become mine again. I don't try to corner it into a genre. I accept it gladly even if it's in the form of a note to a parent, or a well written lesson plan, or a write-up about pomegranates. Writing is year round. Happy New Year Every Day~!