Finding Peace

"Finding Peace"

Surrounded by chaos

I search for peace.

It cannot come from outside,

but must be found within.

I do the usual—

prayer, laughter,

yoga, breathing

meditation, reiki,

Ayurvedic herbs—

OK, perhaps not all

that usual—and this helps.

But not as much, I find

as a cup of good, well-brewed

tea, taken from a china pot,

sipped from a thin porcelain

cup with saucer, all adorned

with my beloved violets. Sitting

in a quiet room, watching

rain pour down, turning the

tiny creek behind the house

into a rushing stream, while

surrounded by cats and a dog.

There, in the quiet stillness,

gazing on the green lushness of

Spring in the rain, surrounded

by uncomplicated love, enjoying

a perfect cup of tea,

I find peace.

It fills me up, pushing out

the stress, the worry,

the complications that fill

my life.  The depleted tank

of compassion is refilled.

I think of Love, of Art,

of Poetry, and am calm.

Peaceful. Healed. Restored.

Ready to once again face the world,

give of my time, my knowledge,

my love. Making the world better,

more peaceful, more loving,

until once again, it is time

to retreat to my tea, my quiet,

my companions and find peace.

“Carson-Newman College, Summer ‘78”

I have missed over a week thanks to a challenge at work, and even tonight, I cheat. I wrote this for Napowrimo  4 years ago. But today's march for science made me remember this girl.

“Carson-Newman College, Summer ‘78”

Once upon a time, I was a girl who wrote a paper on

“The Effects of Triacontanol on the Total Lipid Content of Wheat Plants.”

Triacontanol, a fatty alcohol, C₃₀H₆₂O.

Once I could even draw a picture of its molecules.

Cutting edge research back then. Something new to help food yields.

National Science Foundation, Summer Science Training Program.

Working in a team, we each took a component: protein, lipids, carbohydrates.

But first we grew the wheat from seed, carefully applying different concentrations.

On the roof of the science building, a greenhouse hot as blazes.

Plants needed nurturing: watered twice a day, fed, measured, protected.

Mice loved to eat the tender green shoots.  Dr. Naylor killed one with a broom.

One hard thwack and no more mouse.  His glee at its death shook me badly.

Then harvested, ground, lipids extracted. The hood fan was off;

I entertained lab mates with half-mast eyes and slurred speech.

Gas chromatography to do the counts.

Preparing the plates for the reading took a day. Palest blue polymer gel.

Who was that girl? Just reading the specs of a chromatograph today

Leaves my eyes glazed.  What happened to her? She loved being in the lab.

Loved using the words that sounded so smart because deep down, she was, too.

But rarely got the chance to show it.

That small Baptist school in a little Tennessee town ironically liberating.

Her first taste of what it was like to be one of many instead of one alone.

That once upon a time girl retreated to the comfort of words.

After a scientific start, majored in English: a 180° turn occasionally regretted.

If honest, more often than occasionally lately. The humanities will kill you.

Today I am a woman who tells students, females especially:

STEM, the only way to go. Science, technology, engineering, math.

If you want a job, remember STEM. I am glad to be that woman.

But where was she when I needed her to remind me

Of the joy of donning a lab coat, goggles and gloves?

Mouse's Song

You don't actually realize how bad my poetry can be. To give you an example, the "song" I "wrote" for Mouse during tonight's car ride. It's better set to music, believe me.

Mousey Dousey
Mousey Dousey
Mamma's good boy
Mamma's good boy-ee-oo

Mousey Dousey
Mousey Dousey
Pretty boy
Pretty boy

Good boy-ee-oo
Pretty boy-ee-ooooo
Ride in the car
Mousey Dousey boy!

State of the World

This isn't saying all I want it to, but I am already behind in my poetry production, so I wanted to get back on track.

Sadly, and happily, a true story.

"State of the World"

This morning, before breakfast,

I learned that gays were being tortured in Chechnya,

poor women are now legally denied preventative health care,

and a doctor in America was performing FGM on 7 year olds.

All this inside my head before I even got out of bed.

But then this morning before breakfast,

I sat on the ground in the warm sun with my dog,

and listened to the birds in the trees all around us;

smelt the new growth as spring starts its yearly arrival,

then gazed on the violets and dandelions dotting the

grass in a riot of contrasting colors.

The world around me is a constant source of grief:

tragedies, injustice, cruelty and stupidity

vying for my attention, clamoring for me to do

something to make things better. At times I think

I can take no more. The insanity has gone too far

and all hope is gone.

But then the earth itself reaches out—

A dog’s love and affection given freely;

Birds careless of human strife.

Renewal, fertility, the cycle never ending.

This is why humans have always celebrated

the arrival of spring—a healing so powerful that it

has been a goddess or the dying god returned.

Has there ever been a time when humans did not

rue the state of the world? Did not know, instinctively,

that both nature and humans are

tragic, unjust, cruel and stupid?

Life is uncertain, so the only sane response

is to love and be loved,

and rejoice in the power of renewal.

A Poem in Honor of New Supreme Court Justice Gorsuch* (SATIRE)

A Poem in Honor of New Supreme Court Justice Gorsuch*

*in imitation of his style

_THE LARK, while she her Gratitude to prove,

Lauds with her sprightly Notes, immortal Jov

Shuts not his Ear against the SPARROWS Lays;

Whose tuneless Pipe can only chirp his Praise.

Thus I, tho' Learned Bards before have strung

Their sounding Lyres, and most divinely Sung,

Fear not the Dictates of my Soul to own;

The less of Art, the more of Love is shown:

Vouchsafe, Great Justice, to hear my humble Muse,

And let my Zeal my Want of Skill excuse.

HAIL! Hero born to rule, and reconcile

The fatal Discords of our American Law!

When round the Continent the Trump of Fame

Did America's Glory in your Right proclaim,

Tyrannick Democrats, as with Thunder scar'd,

Sent up their Prayers impending Fates to ward;

Whilst RUSSIA's LION brav'd his threaten'd Chain,

Rowl'd his Glad Eyes, and stretch'd his Paws again.

BY your fam'd Justice, and your prudent Sway,

WOMEN shall be taught to Love, or to Obey.

WELCOME great Guardian of our American Law;

Receive the Court rescu'd by thy Hand.

A wicked Race of Men, for private Ends,

Had rais'd her baffled Foes, and sunk her Friends,

Dispers'd her Strength, and Republicans betray'd:

When Heav'n, in Pity to those suppliant Few,

Who own'd its Power, and kept their Vows to YOU,

Came to our Aid, revers'd our low'ring Fate,

And by thy destin'd ARM retriev'd the State.

Finis

OK, so this entire poem is plagiarized with a few changes of country and so on, from Susanna Centlivre’s poem “A POEM. Humbly Presented to His most Sacred Majesty” written for George I in 1714.

Not that I’m making a political statement. Nope.

I’m just too lazy to write my own poem today. And the overblown style of this one just matches my feelings so well. And it has the word Trump in it, already capitalized. I mean, kismet.

Wait, plagiarism is wrong? Who knew?

“Ah, Bartelby! Ah, humanity!”

“Ah, Bartelby! Ah, humanity!”

“I would prefer not to,” said Bartelby,

much to the despair of the Lawyer.

But I can tell you, those are some of

the best words in literature.

I would prefer not to much of the time.

Prefer not to be underemployed

Prefer not to grade papers

(I love to read them, but not grade.)

Prefer not to care about the state of politics.

Prefer not to be responsible.

Prefer not to smile in the face of stupidity.

But there are things I would prefer to do.

Prefer to sleep until I wake naturally.

Prefer to snuggle with my cats and read.

Prefer to sit in the sun with my dog.

Prefer to write not just in snatched moments.

Prefer ease and leisure and peace.

But that is not the lot of the common woman,

or man, either, to be strictly fair.

So instead, we prefer not to, but only in our hearts.

And unlike Bartleby, we do, do it all, every day

Because not all of us can turn our

faces to the wall and die.

For that way, madness lies.

Backyard Nemesis

I just couldn't write something sad or political today. I actually didn't think I'd be able to write anything but I managed to get some words down on paper. That's a win in my book.

"Backyard Nemesis"

Long and sinewy,

winding through underbrush,
hiding, subtle,
catching the unwary
unaware.
 

Grabbing, tearing

clothing or skin
Indiscriminately.
War wounds of
Backyard adventure.

But these aren’t weapons,

But guardians of the precious:
blackberries, roses, firethorn,
bougainvillea, raspberries,
and more.

Is it truly summer without

a run in with a stately or
sneaky or surprising
pricker bush?
Spilling blood, giving to the soil.

#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!