Poem #20 for National Poetry Month. My son loves to listen to radio stations that have lots of static. This drives me crazy and he delights in that.

Range

Static, the noise of in between

Or being not quite tuned in

Interference brings on the fuzzy

Frantic sound that splits my synapses

And creates such a crawling clawing creepiness

That I flee the room

When it seeps into my focus

I want it to be on or off

Not in no man’s land

I can’t understand how

You can listen to the barely audible

For hours just to hear

One drop of content

That you make out between

The rushing worlds of wooly words

My madness delights you

When I take to hiding

Because of this infernal noise

That you seek out

You find something soft and soothing

Coming to that place

Of uncertain danger and doubt

Making out barely what is being said

Excites the explorer or emerging mind

You sleep to it

When awake, you study it

You sift through it

For fortune’s faculties

That scales the heights unknown

Poem #19 of National Poetry Month

Ok, I know my poems can lean heavily towards preachy sometimes, but tonight is really more than I want. Reminds me of the poetry I used to write all the time in high school and college. It is all because one of my Facebook friends posted one of those “answer these questions about yourself and then post for everyone to see…” type things and I did answer her questions and I couldn’t post it. Probably, because this is how I sometimes feel about those things. Innocent, I know and fun to read, and I really love that friend a lot,  but…

Turning the Color Wheel

A matter of style

In speaking or taste

Seems like such a waste of time initially

There is so much more

Than what you see in store

I feel like such a bore

When answering what I like

What color is my bike?

Do I like to fish or hike?

Even if you go more circumspect

I suspect I tailor my answers for whom

I want to listen or hope to see them

What would I rather say?

I would rather sway the hearts of those I meet

To be a much better person than me

I would want them to have more

Time, education, and wisdom

Not things or trivial fiefdoms

I would want them to find what’s common

With the common man next door

Or woman who halts them in the street

That they would stop and greet

Not looking at her defeat

But finding that moment of glory

In hearing her story

I want to be that person too

To give away my shoes

Even though it is cold and wet outside

And I have no other covering for my feet

I would go out barefoot

Despite the rain or snow

Aglow, in that my feet would get warm again soon

I have a home to run inside

And I have food to make elaborate meals

It’s a good deal and I know it

I don’t have much in Western standards

And am rich by the East

I have enough to have a style

Real style that neither defines me

Or that I deny, but I will try

To be more than a color pallet wheel

A whole person who is vibrant and can feel

Poem #18 for National Poetry Month

This is a bit preachy and sappy, but I kind of like it. It was something rattling in my head today as I subbed at a school as a playground monitor. I watched all the kids playing as that was my job. Most of the “special needs” kids didn’t play or weren't played with by other kids. They mostly walked the perimeter of the playground and watched other kids play.

One, tall special needs sixth grader, asked where the lady was I was subbing for as I was standing in her spot. I told him she was just gone for the day. I moved over to another spot because my being there clearly upset his routine. He was clearly autistic. I watched as no one spoke to them. I did as much as he would speak to me as I was not a part of his routine. 

So I stood there thinking about the term “special needs” as that term has always struck a chord in me as not quite what we mean.

Our Special Place

"Oh, you are special to me,"

The sting of those words

Meant the death of something beautiful

Reality hits and bites

"It must have been a blue-light special!"

She decries as the garment

Comes apart in her hands

Falling apart at the seams

Reality cheap and expensive

Special should be, well, something royal

Some hint of jewel or precious

But unbeknownst to us it has become

Something less than we desire

Reality burns and rings

Special needs child

Each child is priceless, not less

They are extra special

Extraordinary visitors

Who are worth so much more

Than we give

Or notice

They give

They notice

They reach out for us

To make a truly special place

To us both to meet

To exchange

To hold hands

To sing

Songs together

About how special

We all can be

Poem #17 for National Poetry Month
A hard, hard day with people and the same night with the boy. Here is April 17, 2013 in all its glory. The other poem is just angry about stupid people and I won’t post that one, but here is the one that happened this evening.

Warning: Sudden Storm Boy Approaching

“Eh, eh, eh! WARNING! Thunder storm approaching!”

I hear it in my head

One of your favorite things to imitate

You say this usually calm but authoritative

In your little boy nasal voice

But in intonations just like the National Weather Service

You rehearse and rehearse

I hear it sometimes fifty times a day

Repeated and repeated

But it means nothing on those days

It is your soothing play

To say this warning in the morning

Sometimes when the day is clear as silk

Yet you milk it for all it is worth

I never know

There is no alarm

When you are about to harm

Not because you want to

You are put under this incredible pressure

That I can’t see or measure

It is always there

In the surrounding air

Weighing you down

There is no sound

Until you explode

From zero to sixty in under a minute

And I can’t fix it

Try as I might

I look, but it’s uncommon sight

To see what it is that caused it

I listen for the signs

I look out to see it brewing

No warning for the prime

The cloud burst is sudden

Flooding the region

A legion of black bugs

Tearing at you

You tear at me

I flee but not far enough

I want to help

I swat at the bugs not you

I doge a well thrown shoe

But am caught by an unseen upper cut

Biting through my own lip

As jaw is slammed shut by your stunt

You look as shocked as I am by it

Yet you rage

Not able to contain the wind and rain

Beating at your brain

A primal scream

The full blown hurricane tips

My hand raises

Energized on automatic defense tactics

Objects, body parts flying by

I can take no more

I must get to shore

I run away

Hoping for a break in the storm

A deep sob robbing me of strength

I sink into the bed far away from you

All is still

In the eye

Where we can see again

I feel your hand on my back

You fall like a sack void of its contents

Sobbing like a steady rain

You meet my eyes

Hold my hand

The storm’s abated

For this I have waited

Empathy is hard won

In my amazing autistic son

Poem #16 April 16, 2013

Pacific Northwest Morning Call

One lone bird calls out

In the blue-grey haze of early morning

The sluggish sun to arrive over the horizon,

 Barely trimmed a penchant for pink-tinged hues

 Highs and lows outlined shadow turning real

The tiny chorus member wills the day to begin

He sings the same call over and over waiting for response

From someone or thing to call back

The lonely swish of cars rush by on the nearby street

Not hearing him or his song

The dog across the street

Who bays at the moon, stray cat,

or leaf that moves under wind-power

Is silent, sleeping off the night’s intoxication

The tiny tunester changes his tone

To match the filling light that brightens

The grey to white reflecting the well-scrubbed heavens

Pure white against giant-man evergreens

Impossibly tall soldiers with their heads in the clouds

Drinking in the curtain of diffuse light and moisture

Hanging in the air filling their skyscraper-like lungs

The bird sits atop way up on a soldier’s hat

Singing for all the world

His job now is to keep the song and day going

To keep singing as the sun’s herald is renewed

Poem #15 for National Poetry Month

Virtual Earth Command

Everything is uncomfortable

Wavering in my eternal insides

Wanting and stretching the longing I feel

A spring that isn’t as sprung

 as it was two weeks ago

The sun out but cold

My heater holding back the night

I look at the sky and fight

The measure of might that seems so small

Withal I’ve been through

It isn’t enough to go on

To what I’d hoped

I could do by now

I do not wow those who read about me

But those I meet generally like my face

An honest one that smiles easily

Or shows the distant melodies within

They hear my voice

I made that choice

I’m still trying to play the ingénue

When I know I’m a character at heart

If only I could slip into another skin

I think then I could start

I pull the old blanket of stars tighter

As I see the pin pricks that trace

Shimmering to make my tatters

Into the queenly robe I think is somewhere else

Yet I wear it unto the end

When it shall melt and leave nothing but

Where I’ve been all this time

My place in space

In God’s amazing grace

Poem #14 for National Poetry Month. Inspired by Mike Purdy’s sermon today at Bethany Presbyterian Church, 1818 Queen Anne Ave. N. in Seattle, WA. The first five lines are directly phrases that stood out to me from this sermon. There was one earlier on in the sermon I wish I’d jotted down as it was very poetic. I’ll have to keep working on this one, maybe even listen to the sermon again because it feels like there is much more that I’m missing in this one.

The Emmaus Road Well-Traveled

Training our hearts

Our loving God listens

Every day moments

Deeply and passionately loved

We belong to Him

We are His

He walks behind, beside, and before us

He listens as we rage

Not noticing him gently pull ahead

To walk up a stone filled slight incline

Until we try with all our strength

Not to slip on pebbles

Rolling beneath our feet

My hand flies up

A shock of need

Grasping for some sort of balance

Waving at the person I thought was with me

Right there beside me or behind

I’m almost bloodied on the jagged rocks

I can see it coming

In my final gasp,

I am caught with a strong grasp

Above me pulling me up that rugged hill

He and I met face to face

Poem #13 for National Poetry Month.

Poem #13

Love Soup

Lucky in love

Lucky in life

Our life isn’t always ducky

But you give me more than you take away

Today, I sway in the presence of grandeur

I’ll till hope deep in the ground today

Grinding down the weeds not to pander

Or to please myself,

But to shelve those instincts with deep roots

I must pull at to clear them all---shoot!

I missed one!

Forgive me, Hon?

You in your candor

Tells me all

Together we’ll fall

Forward not behind

And we’ll dine

One the meal at a time

Improvising greatness

In our very tasty love soup 

Poem #12 for National poetry month!
I wrote out by hand notes on a conversation with my boy and then began to type a poem about a different moment we had tonight. This is how the brain works folks!

Time Hangs the Mighty Wind Watch

To hang in the wind as you unwind my world

Standing near the street with cars zooming up that hill

I watch as you trot, gallop, pitch, and sway in this invisible sail

Pushing you forward to a moment of all stop

Dead in the water

Not a ripple

No stir

Gazing at the ground there is an invisible bug or plant

Whose roots you examine or study as tiny bête crawls

Journeying slowly to intersect with some hole

You find fascinating

I can’t see what you’re starring at for so long

As if you could see to the core of the Earth

Silent now, but I wonder what that question about the temperature

In the layers of the Earth might be?

“What would you say if….?” Trailing off echoing in my brain

A well-worn train that often takes me no-where,

 But for you the possibilities are endless

You squat, head covered by the hood of your too-big-super-soft-sweatshirt

I touch your shoulder asking if you are alright

Startled, your head pops up

You give me a grin telling me it is ok

When I touched you, I scared you a little, but you liked it

I repeat the question looking into your blank endless blue eyes

You brighten stating, “I’m watching time go by, and I want to stay here.”

I feel this too and hear a chilling wind

 rattle in my brain as an empty attic room

that I know will be there if you are ever gone

Up you charge

Face into the mighty wind giant

Laughing at his roar

Lapping my love once more

Poem #11 for national poetry month.

Pay Day

Getting paid what you are worth

Is it worth it?

To know what you do is valued

Beyond your own ideas

Of what is valuable?

I value this chair I sit on

It holds me up in a comfortable position

It helps me be closer to part of the world

It is useful

Am I or anyone as useful as this object?

I do object to being treated like a much neglected chair!

Where oh, where do I go from here?

A distant shore in a small boat sounds heavenly

Where the sea rolls in and takes me away to be

Someone who rules a small kingdom

The subjects adore my every hum

There will be some that say never

She isn’t what we expected

But I shall be protected

From them ever coming near

As I sweep out the boat

Sending them out to float

On a very stormy sea

Poem #10 for poetry month.
I saw Georgian folk musicians perform today, Zedashe, and they were wonderful. They gave some of the history of how Christianity came to their country so long ago.

Georgian Gods                                                    

Delight in the dance of delphiniums and doves

Floating by me in songs hypnotic, lurching, sliding

To carve out the hills they emerge from

The people fierce to survive the Pagan rights described

Miracle believed in a young girl following her heart through the mountains

To give her life to those she only had heard about

To know nothing but a dream

A vision of a mother she’d listened to stories

Of her virgin power beyond the grave

The boy who grew up and saved her

Now ring smiles on folk artists thousands of years later

To explain this history

While singing the ancient songs

With new hearts

Shining joy

Fevered friendship

In a foreign land

Poem #9 for National Poetry Month.
I looked at Facebook tonight right before writing my 10 minute poem. My friend Amy had posted a conversation with her daughters about explaining where babies come from and it was hilarious. I couldn't get it out of my mind when I sat down to write. Not quite as funny, but it turned out sweet musing of some imaginary child might say.

Baby Theory

Mama, where do babies come from?

Do they come from elevators?

You said I’m growing up and one day I’ll have a baby

So they must come from elevators

You said I’m growing up fast

Elevators go up really super-fast

Zoom! Just like babies

Or are they left by someone who really likes you?

You said I was a gift

I give gifts to people I like

and people give me plenty of presents on my birthday

My birthday was the day I was born

Are babies naked?

You said that my birthday suit is me with nothing on

You’re silly Mama, as babies would be cold

if they came completely naked!

I think they come wrapped up tight like a present

And they come fast like a rocket

And they come when you really like someone

Is that right? You must really like Papa

Because you had me!

Poem #8 for National Poetry Month.
Cleaning my office I found some poetry and a half written one. I submit the one I began as tonight's official poem.
I began writing this in February 2013 as I was looking at a baby picture of my son sitting on his Father’s lap reading “Winnie-the-Pooh” together. My son is very attentive to it at about 9 months old. What we didn't know at the time that this picture was taken he was hyperlexic and autistic. I finished the poem today April 8, 2013. Poem #8

Hopes for the Hundred Acre Wood

He doesn't like Pooh Bear as much as we do anymore

I sigh stating that he did

I remember a small face straining

 to see the words set out to bright pictures

so important the words became

the stories, the sound, the letters came first

so very intense

stunned by his brilliance

Pooh Bear is a bear of very little brain

He has friends to guide him

in his home-spun wisdom they gather round

each with a talent, adding to the mix

of friendship and loving each other

In your brilliance, will your peers gather round?

Or run away because they don’t

see the wise-beyond-your years and fearless honesty

Your single thought or monosyllable replies

Not flowery language

Simple like the bear

But with lots more brain

Just as much heart

And I hope Piglet, Rabbit, Owl, Kanga, and Roo gather round you

Plus a benevolent Christopher Robin too

Written sometime in February 2013 for Sasha kitty as he was dying and I struggled to put into words a warm ordinary moment with him. I wanted to remember, but this was less about him than I set out to write.

Let Sleeping Cats Lie

A warm spot that doesn’t move

Except for that stretch and sudden motor

That turns on after two hours hold

I wait until the water is threatening to burst forth

Wiggling gently from my perch

Only to find a numb limb that cannot move gracefully

Awkwardly, I drop you in your sleep to the floor

Trying not to step on your superior fluffy black tail

Threatening to trip on my voyage forward on fetid feet

Turning around till I turn to place my hand atop your soft head

As you try fervidly to get me to assay to the kitchen or my chair

But not the dreaded W.C. that holds no interest for you

Written May 24, 2001

Conscious

Painful sleep

Fitful waking

Where I wear a scratchy blanket

In the full sun of my dream state

Being full of nothing and everything

A bare soul ready to be flooded

With goodness gracious beings

Thinking existing lightness

Any walk shakes new snow from my old form

I melt too slow to know anything purposeful today

So I float away to a new place

To swim underwater

In the world of color and silence