#SexualViolenceAwarenessMonth

So today I'm cheating a bit. This isn't my usual style of poetry (believe it or not, I'm working on my poetic voice), but this is a cause close to my heart. I also work for an organization that supports victims. And it is sexual violence awareness month. It's more prevalent than most people expect, and the idealist in me is working for a world in which it doesn't happen.

To the victims:                                                To the perpetrators:

You are not to blame.                                     It was totally your fault.

You are not dirty.                                            You should feel dirty.

You are not shameful.                                    You should be ashamed.

You are beautiful.                                            Apologize.

You are strong.                                               Make reparations.

You are loved.                                                 Be humble.

You are supported.                                         Get counseling.

You are heard.                                                Stop bragging.

You are believed.                                            Stop lying

You are healing.                                              Or you will be damaged forever.

Bombing Syria April 6, 2017

This is a response to something that's happening today, pretty much as I type. My heart is breaking on many levels. But that doesn't mean I know the answers.

Tonight the bombs started in Syria.

Too late? Not enough? A sign that

Trump really isn’t a puppet of Russia?

I don’t know the answer.

All I know is that Syria has suffered

bloodshed and loss for the past six years.

Civil war is never pretty.

Had we and others taken the refugees

we promised to take, how many could

have been saved?

The pitied dead children splashed across

our television screens were feared

as terrorists not two months ago.

Are we so cowardly that we fear babies?.

That we let them die on oceans, in

bombed and gassed cities?

When we know that pediatricians

were killed, hospitals bombed,

targeting children to weaken morale.

Medecins sans Frontieres has told the story.

They are bombed by both sides.

“Accidentally” we are told.

The UN, that toothless watchdog,

Has called Syria “the worst humanitarian disaster

of our time”

Our time.

The worst.

And things are pretty bad when we

look around.

I have nothing to give but

prayers and keening.

My Celtic blood boils in anger

and grief. It bubbles up through

my throat into a wild wail, rivaling

the banshees.

Keening for the dead

Keening for those soon to die

Keening for the death of humanity.

Cutting Corners

Oh, how the mighty have fallen—

Hot Pockets for dinner again.

Well, to be strictly correct,

actually a Lean Pocket

with a whole grain crust!

And yesterday, I did add

a green salad for the Bs.

Once upon a time,

in a lifetime long ago,

I cooked meals for myself.

But that was before

underemployment,

working over 50 hours,

caretaking two generations.

In the big picture,

a few nights of Lean Pockets

will not kill me.

And pushing myself to create

a healthy  meal

at 8:45 at night

just might.

Experienced Elder

Trigger warning: domestic violence

For the amazing people I work with.

"Experience Counts"

Today at work, a 5 year old

said to me, quite matter-of-factly,

“Daddy’s trying to kill Mommy.”

And I answered, just as matter-of-factly,

“My daddy tried to kill my mommy, too.

That’s sad and scary when that happens, isn’t it?”

He agreed with a “yeah,” and we sat on a couch.

“What happened to your daddy,” he asked.

That was harder.

“He didn’t take care of himself,

so he died when I was 11.”

Sorry, kid. No relief in that answer.

“What happened to your mommy?”

That was much easier.

“She was free then, and safe,

and raised her children to be strong

and brave and go to college.”

I wanted him to see

that there could be a

good ending to the story.

“You went to college,” he asked.

Go for broke, I thought, and told the truth.

“Yep, I went to college a lot. Now I’m a doctor.”

He showed me the boo boo on his elbow.

I examined it and said,

“But not that kind of doctor—the kind that

thinks and studies. A PhD.”

This child is precocious. Why not

plant an early seed?

Like most, he was unimpressed,

and the conversation turned to

ninjas. “I know a real life ninja,”

I told him. That impressed a bit more.

His mother heard and didn’t interrupt.

He was meeting a fellow witness

who was happy now yet understood

that smart 5 year olds don’t need

whitewash or pity or treacle.

They need straight talk that says

“you’ll be okay someday.”

Later I realized that although we

two share similar shit memories

of violence and mayhem,

there is something very important

we don’t share.

He told a stranger, flat out, his truth.

Even at 5 I would never do that.

What happened at home was secret, private.

I never did tell, not for decades.

So now, unlike most,

I envy that child.

His life is in turmoil, but he’s safe,

in shelter, with adults who care,

who encourage him to talk,

even to a funny lady who plays

detective and ninja with him at the store,

and who tries to match his honesty,

his openness,

so she can heal and be healed.

The Block

Pressure mounts.

I’ve vowed to write,

and write I shall.

But the page gleams white

as themes flit through,

tried, rejected, then another grasped.

The first, too painful;

the second, too trite.

Another looms with possibility:

something about my son and

the intricacies of Fallout: New Vegas.

The non-linear narrative and

role of chance and choice

on the gamer’s conception of reality

is a subject ripe for poetic analysis.

The flaw inherent here?

I have no idea what I’m talking about.

But that doesn’t stop me from

brooding upon the effects this

type of open world action role-playing

video game narrative will have on

the future of storytelling and literature.

The literary critic in me ponders,

weighing the possible ramifications

on the narrative form and whether this

is the end of civilization as we know it.

But the visionary in me, the futurist,

rejoices in the possibilities ahead.

These much-maligned but brilliant

Millennials will bring changes to

a form I know and love well.

I can’t wait to see what’s coming.

They hold such promise for a new world.

We raised them to be different from us,

and when they are, so many complain.

(I confess to a soft spot for them—

I feel more myself with them than

with many of my peers, who seem so old.)

These young ones who don’t see gender,

race, religion as “we” do and so will build

a better world. Or so I dream.

These young ones who blithely

traverse, on video screens, the post-

apocalyptic scenes that were the

stuff of my Cold War childhood’s nightmares.

What I feared would be my fate,

They find a playground, museum,

or perhaps just another imaginary

backdrop to practice strategy.

Yes, I think, there’s something there.

Something that may

be a bridge to understanding,

or, conversely, the uncrossable divide.

Only time and thought and work

will tell.

To NaPoWriMo ‘17

They say that art heals,

And I certainly know that to be true.

In my experience, great literature

has always brought me solace.

What I write is not “great” nor,

to be exact, “literature”.

My poems entertain me,

occasionally others, but that is

the extent of their powers.

But this year, I am in need of healing.

I have drained myself dry in service to others

and need an excuse to spend time on me.

Poetry will be that excuse.

I will carve out the time to write a daily poem.

I will allow myself the quiet and stillness needed to create.

I will allow a few drops of creativity to water

the barren desert that is my creative life.

I will nurture the writer in me, selfishly,

forcefully, fiercely, until I craft, or jot,

a daily poem. NaPoWriMo, an awkward mouthful,

may not allow me to create art,

but it will create healing. So yes,

Art heals.

NaPoWriMo 2017

I am excited to be attempting poetry again. Hopefully this year will go well.

Last year, I had just started a new job on March 28th, so writing a poem while still teaching three courses was a bit overwhelming. This year, I've got a year under my belt at the job, and I'm only teaching one course.

My job is at a domestic abuse and sexual violence organization. I run the thrift store that supplies a chunk of the money keeping the shelter doors open and the programs running. I also spend a lot of time with clients during their time shopping.

I've been playing with ideas of new lives, violence, family and so on. Let's see what makes it into the poetry. Of course, I may resort to 30 days of haiku! Good luck everyone! Let the poetry writing begin!