You’re Welcome Here on Our Block

Posted on by The Read-e-ologist

(Reply to “Try That in a Small Town”)

Got a flat tire on the way to work;

Daughter’s mental health took a turn for worse;

Check’s coming next week, but there’s kids to feed.

You think you’re doomed, but your neighbor comes through.

We’ve got your back, come eat with us.

We will check in when times get rough.

We don’t have it all, but we have enough.

Well, you’re welcome here on our block.

See how much we care about y’all.

Around here, we take care of you.

You have a need, it won’t take long

For you to find out how much you matter!

You’re welcome here on our block.

Got a key that my neighbor gave me,

They say I am welcome any time.

Well, that’s what good folks looks like—good friends.

You’re welcome here on our block.

Love is up and down the road.

Around here, we take care of you.

You have a need, it won’t take long

For you to find out how much you matter!

You’re welcome here on our block,

Good neighbors up and down the place.

If you’re looking for some grace

You’re welcome here on our block.

You’re welcome here on our block.

You’re welcome here on our block.

See how much we care about y’all.

Around here, we take care of needs,

So come on, we want you to feel welcome.

For you to find out how much you matter!

You’re welcome here on our block.

You’re welcome here on our block.

Ooh-ooh

You’re welcome here on our block.

Trigger Warning: What Do You Know About Some Thirteen-Year-Olds?

Posted on by The Read-e-ologist

Thirteen-year-olds
Talk back sometimes,
Because they recognize their own 
Humanity.
And they might want to speak up
For themselves
For their friend
For justice.

Thirteen-year-olds
Like Sprite sometimes,
Except when their 
Best friend
Says that Orange Crush
Is better
So they try to like that
For a while.

Thirteen-year-olds
Want to be brilliant—
And they are—
But don’t always want
To do their homework
Because . . .
Video games,
Snapchat,
Texting,
YouTube
Bike rides,
Stories,
Daydreaming,
Music,
And
Sleep.

Thirteen-year-olds
Still have
Legos,
Action figures,
Stuffed animals,
Special blankets,
Favorite Pillows.

Thirteen-year-olds
Have
Big brothers,
Big sisters,
Baby brothers,
Baby sisters,
Baby sitters,
Hopes,
Dreams,
Fears.

Thirteen-year-olds
Have grown-ups 
They look up to
And at least one
Who they want to
See smile.

Thirteen-year-olds are
Children,
Babies,
Minors, 
Kids—
Just dipping into the teens years
Last week they were
TwelveElevenTenNineEightSevenSixFiveFourThreeTwoOne
Just born
Infants.

Thirteen-year-olds
Are afraid of ghosts
And get crabby 
When they need sleep.

Thirteen-year-olds
Smile
When their favorite teacher 
Greets them in the hallway,
When they get their first phone,
When their mom is happy,
When they see dog memes
And hear corny jokes.

Thirteen-year-olds
Need 
Someone to 
Remind them 
To eat their veggies,
To turn off their devices,
To go to bed,
To say “Please” and “Thank you.”

Thirteen-year-olds
Need 
Someone
To buy their clothes,
To tuck them in,
To drive them to school
To say “I love you.”

Thirteen-year-olds
Play
Hide-n-seek,
Heads-up-Seven-Up,
Simon Says,
“Don’t run.”
Put your hands up.
I didn’t say Simon says,
You’re out.

Thirteen-year-olds
Can
Dissect a frog.
Write an essay,
Make a friend,
Give a speech,
Break a bone,
Play a sport,
Reduce a fraction,
Get shot and killed for 
running while Black.

Misura Crescente

Posted on by The Read-e-ologist

Screen Shot 2020-03-20 at 10.24.33 PM

I

Am

Able

To fathom

Multiplication of

Sun-shaped “leeches”seeking new homes.

Each Pair of lungs becomes weaker, times two, doubling, infinita infinitis.

Isolating—hiding from Aching, Burning, Coughing, to hide our Aching, Burning, Coughing—Isolating even when it is too late and not enough—Ice. Soul. Late.

The crescent curve on the graphs/charts/maps that total the tolls and count the cases represents the exponential misery that cannot be totaled, because there is more ahead and the numbers keep growing. We can measure the growth and measure the growth, always, always watching the crescent point towards more.

Where is Your Crown?

Posted on by The Read-e-ologist

National Poetry Writing Month, Day Two


From http://www.napowrimo.net/
“Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that similarly resists closure by ending on a question, inviting the reader to continue the process of reading (and, in some ways, writing) the poem even after the poem ends.

Happy writing!”

Where is Your Crown?

Do you know that you descended from kings and queens?
Can you see that you are regal?
How will you realize that you will inherit the Kingdom?
Do you know how much you are worth?

 

Do you know that you are a survivor?
Can you see that you are strong and brilliant?
How will you recognize that beauty that lives inside you?
Do you know that you are loved?

 

Do you know that your dreams are valid?
Can you see that you are on the way up?
How can I help you see your value?
Can you please put back on your crown?

How to Write a Poem

Posted on by The Read-e-ologist

Day One — National Poetry Writing Month http://www.napowrimo.net/

“For our first (optional) prompt, let’s take our cue from O’Neil’s poem, and write poems that provide the reader with instructions on how to do something. It can be a sort of recipe, like O’Neil’s poem. Or you could try to play on the notorious unreliability of instructional manuals (if you’ve ever tried to put IKEA furniture together, you know what I mean). You could even write a dis-instruction poem, that tells the reader how not to do something. Happy writing!”

 

How to Write a Poem

Sit down.

Scribble ideas.

Scratch the surface—

Pen to paper.

Miss the mark.

Pause.

Stand up.

Walk away.

Go outside.

Rake leaves.

Talk to neighbors—

Witty exchanges,

Clever words,

Flowing.

Remind yourself

That you

Were searching

For meaningful words.

Go inside,

Return to task—

Poem-planning.

Dig deep

For expert expressions,

Figurative phrases,

That tell

A secret

Or celebrate something.

Try for a metaphor that

Falls flat,

Like a

Scanty simile.

 

Scratch.

Scratch it out.

Start again.

Stack short sayings

One upon another—

Expressions

That may

Topple over because

There

Is

No

Meaningful

Foundation

On

Which

The

Blether

Blather

Babble

Gabble

Prattle

Chatter

Jabber

Can

Stand.

Parcel

Posted on by The Read-e-ologist

Today’s Napowrimo.Net prompt is to write a haibun, which combines prose and haiku.  

 

Sliding out the side door, you step onto the deck to smell spring.  Worn wood tells the tale of quiet days reading in the sun. Summer soon shows up.  Before you set up the patio furniture, tulips have come and gone.  Lilies crowd around each other comparing their outfits and gossiping.  Before the sunburn cools, a brisk autumn breeze rustles the foliage and reminds you how quickly time flies.

Overfilled fire-pit
Branches, grass clippings, leaves and
No promise of s’mores.

Response to “Waiting”

Posted on by The Read-e-ologist

The beautiful and brilliant Nikki Grimes wrote the following poem today:

Screen Shot 2018-04-09 at 10.17.51 PM

While I know it was not about me, it hit home so hard.  Hard.  After crying, I put my warrior pen in hand and wrote this response:

Julie no longer plays into the big hand,
     The heavy hand, the upper hand,
The hand that silences, shames, smacks.

She used to plead, “Pick me! Pick Me!”
     In a rush, she’d cast her heart into pools of abandonment—
Pearls to swine, like clockwork.

They could count on her to bear the secrets,
     The stains, the scarlet paragraphs and
Chapters that chronicled cries and crises.

But in the hour of need, past half the darkness
     The second hand clicked into place. . .
Safe hands and second chances surfaced.

This is her day in the sun. Love won.
     Flourishing, fostering freedom and hope,
Counting on truth—not time—to heal her wounds.

THE MAN WHO SEES THINGS

Posted on by The Read-e-ologist
The Day 5 prompt from NaPoWriMo.net was a wild one.  I clicked on each link and counted to 23 in order to randomly select the image and the poem.  This is what I found:
Screen Shot 2018-04-05 at 11.40.38 PM
DE GEBRUIKER VAN DIT LICHAAM
Vliegangst is het scherpste protest tegen CO2: thuisblijven en
pissen in de pompbak, gedistilleerd drinken tegen waterschaarste
schepje rijst per dag. Kluizenaar met wilde haren wist het
stilzitten is de beste bescherming tegen pijn. Blijf binnen.

Isolatie is het beste antwoord op hitte, kou, geluidsoverlast en
information overload. Keuzeverlamming wordt lifestyle. Gelukkig is
een leven niet groter dan het blikveld van een oude kat die zich
oppervlakkig ademend steeds kleiner oprolt tot ze in zichzelf verdwijnt.

Kluizenaar vergist zich. Een lichaam kan niet niet bewegen
altijd pompter iets in rond: verlangen, verlangen en lucht. Sterven is

stilstand is sterven maar zelfs na het zwijgen van de pompen
het verteren van de cellen het verkleuren van de huid

zelfs binnen het dode lijf is er geen stilstand: sterrenstof werd kind
werd kluizenaar wordt sterrenstof wordt opgevreten, meegedragen
laat los, waait steeds verder van de kern, maar waait, beweegt.

-Runa Svetlikova

THE MAN WHO SEES THINGS

Some say that he is a ghost—man who is spirit, or at least
a man who knows his spirits well.  His boozy breath gets
worse through the evenings when his mind needs escape
from the desperate darkness troubling his bones.  Sadness.

He moves through town quietly, a nod, a smirk, a chortle
when he eyes someone eyeing him.  Aye, to see him
is to question everything—humanity, peace, poverty, power.
He holds these things with fingerless gloves and grace.

Rumors tell of a riches to rags route, a journey he will 
confirm and deny with a shrug of his shoulders.  Chin tilted
sideways, he turns the other cheek while gazing at
the infinite above us.  He sees things that we don’t.

I want to know and understand as he does.  What wisdom, what 
freedom, what calm he seems to know; while I am more familiar 
with clean clothes, new car smell, bills, anxiety, and fear.