number 5

Mothers' Day
in Mexico
is always on May 10th
5/10
predictable
like mothers should be
but frequently are not

light of day

through sleep-shifted eyes, the room appears
picassoesque, water color effects-
highways and high seas wandering beyond...

into spaces perhaps they oughtn't

words (too thin) fly through air (too thick) and
settle
like dust on the dresser
reminder
of duties left undone



[suggestions for titles welcome]

eurich's steampunk dragon

ferrus interruptus 10

he remembers the winter
when patches appeared on his too-short trousers
and his mother often found
food on their porch-
origin known or unknown, they ate

the dinner table talk was harder to
hold onto that year, but still he listened,
for he discovered he could hear
even behind tone
and gesture

that year, he became Harry Potter for the third time,
Anakin for the fourth,
and a Dragonborn Paladin for the first.

that year, his mother left for mysterious places;
he missed her more than he was able to show,
and sometimes more than she was able to see

that year, he put metal in the microwave,
never returned the lid to the litter box,
and mismatched the socks.

that year, magic was real,
and there was still-
real maple syrup
clean clothes
the symphony
a wedding
solo flight
and
trust

the morning

perhaps
it began with
a peeling open of the eyelids
to see a clementine on fire

or

maybe
it was a suffusion of
gray and unwinding dreams

either way
it was
perfect

for deposit only

just for today, i will
grow skin as thick as
century-old cedars, guard
my heart from
cupid's arrow and
my breast from
cancer's lust. i will not
cry for unknown loss nor
weep for the unblossomed

[written on the back of a deposit slip in the car while waiting for the boys to get out of school]

poem-a-day

Being that it's poetry month and all, I have decided to challenge myself to write a poem a day. I will post it here. Even if it's bad. Which it probably will be. But I need some sort of external motivation, you know? Something to make me get up off the couch and grab a pen when the first (or usually, the last) line pops into my head. I have missed so many. We'll see.....

So for today, just to get me started, I'll post an old one:

hwy 101 with dad

It takes time, yes, for
liquid lies to solidify into stories
of Alaskan icebergs-
impervious to the truth of our
emotions, hidden somewhere in
the mist of Oregon’s
simplified seventies psychobabble
poured out as
rationalization for falling
in love and out of love and in love

"you’ve changed", she said
it takes time, yes, but
we all change-
the world changes
not even global warming can melt these
lies turned into truths by the telling
over and over and over

tell me something about the nature of
the human heart
that doesn’t fit into a box-
but rather
an endless curving road
miles stretching ahead and behind
we drive forwards, you know, to get
to where we’re going
and rarely ever look back

stephen colbert on motherhood

Being a mom is no picnic. Raising the kids is the mother's responsibility. It's a thankless, solitary job, like sheriff or Pope.

On the plus side, they do get to wear cool hats.

just when you think it can't get any more absurd....

it does!

too much

The day started out rough enough.... an argument with my oldest over his science project (whoever invented "Science Fair" anyway?!) Truce drawn, we managed to get out the door with all four potted radishes, grown under different light conditions, only to find out there was a two-hour delay. Part of the reason for the argument was that my son has had two miserable nights of sleep in a row. Seems that they were telling scary stories in class day before yesterday, in preparation for a "Fourth Grade Camp-in" while the fifth graders are away at Outdoor School. Being the sweet sensitive soul that he is, with a thin fantasy/reality line, he has had a hard time getting to sleep the past two nights. Last night, he woke up screaming at 3 AM, and I had to camp out in his room for about two hours until he finally managed to relax and drift off to dreamland. The worst part is that he felt sorry for ME, and his brother, for keeping us up.

Later that day, while my students were working in the computer lab on their blogs, I took some time to read some blogs of friends I hadn't visited for awhile. Turns out another one of my blog friends was recently diagnosed with DCIS, and had surgery. That's number three! Three blog friends who have had cancer after me! I feel fucking contagious or something! If you don't want breast cancer, don't read my blog!

After class, one of my students, one of my favorite students, stayed after class to tell me that her 14-year-old daughter, who she had been struggling with, is pregnant. (Don't think all teachers do is teach!) The girl has no choice but to have the baby. My student is a single mother of FOUR teenagers, who has always tried her best to keep them involved in school, give them a good life, etc.., and now she feels as if she has failed. Having no tissues in my room, I had to watch her wipe her eyes repeatedly with the sleeve of her red sweater. The cuff of my sleeve holds evidence of my tears as well.

To top off the morning, on the drive home, I kept thinking about Timber, who I didn't know but many of my friends did. Suicide. Having to read others' outpourings of love and regret and loss is incredibly difficult.

I just wish there were something to take away the pain. Not my own.
Everybody else's.

earth hour

The only thing that Bennett wanted for Christmas this year was a sled. A real one. Made from wood and metal, with a steering mechanism. He didn't beg for Pirates or Pokemon or Playmobile.

Santa was kind, and brought him exactly what he wanted. For two weeks after Christmas, the sled lived in our living room. Bennett pretended to ride it: face first, on his knees, on his bum, all the while making swooshing noises and fake screams. Sad thing is, it hasn't snowed enough here this winter to do much of anything........
Until now.

On Friday of Spring Break, after the infamous "Blizzard of '09!", we met up with several friends for a spontaneous sled-fest. In the words of John's immortal grandfather, "You can't beat fun!"

grammar rules!

For Halloween of 2007, I was a "Grammar Nazi". Part AP English Teacher (grey wool suit, glasses, hair in a bun) and part SS Officer (swastika arm band, SS lapel pin), complete with red pens and white out in my pockets. I don't think I will ever top that costume. Even the punk rock fairy godmother from 2008 pales in comparison. So here's this:

inhaling apricot

vernal equinox

For some reason, it just doesn't seem right that the first day of spring should coincide with the 6th anniversary of the Iraq War. But that's how it is. Perhaps that's why, after so many days of sunshine, today finally feels like rain.

seven random shingly things

1. I always thought shingles was an old-lady disease, on account of the fact that the only person I ever knew who had it was my grandmother. Turns out LOTS of people I know have had it! And they're not old.

2. Because I have shingles, chemo has been postponed AGAIN!

3. Tomorrow should have been my last round, number 12, if all had gone as planned. But because of all the delays (neuropathy, liver functions, low WBC, and now shingles) I still have three left. That's six more weeks.

4. They hurt. Kind of like having a knife jabbed into your back.

5. I'm banned from hot springs and swimming pools, two of my most favorite places.

6. I don't really even care anymore about chemo being postponed, or not being able to soak at Mt. Princeton. I'm not sure if that means I'm less depressed, or more depressed.

7. I am learning to live beyond "should have" and "as planned".

my first rejection email

Hi, Sue.

Thank you for sending your work, which I really did enjoy reading.

Because the volume of work received (over 1,000 poems) far exceeds the
space available in the Poetry While You Wait book, I have had to make
difficult decisions regarding which poems among so many fine ones to
include.

I am sorry to say that we will not be able to include your work.

Please do, though, keep writing and supporting poetry in our community.

Sincerely,

Aaron Anstett

On the suburban street where I grew up in the 70's, there were many kids. We played together in the park that was situated in the middle of our neighborhood. For some reason, it had 100 foot Douglas Fir trees, and I realize now that the whole area must have been covered with a forest, before they cut the trees down to build our houses and streets.

But this was not meant to be a post about my park, amazing though it was. It was supposed to be about friendship.

Picture me, age 10. Scrawny body, long blond hair, hand-me-downs. 1977. Purple bike with banana seat and big handlebars. Quiet suburban neighborhood, born into existence the same year as me.

At the far end of 39th Avenue was my friend Holly's house. Around the corner and down a few houses was my friend Lynn's house. My house was pretty much equidistant from both of them.

I was friends with Lynn. I was friends with Holly. Lynn and Holly were not friends.

Or they tried to be, sometimes, if we all happened to be together for some reason. But those moments I remember as awkward, and filled with meanness. I could not figure out how, when they were both my friends, they couldn't manage to be friends themselves. So for the most part, I kept these two friendships separate. It was as if there were two circles, and I was the point where they intersected. My house was the literal and figurative center.

Fast forward to high school, with its cliques and cliches. I was lucky enough to have a "best friend" at this time, but beyond that, I never had a group of friends that I hung out with exclusively. I had "volleyball friends", but didn't do much with them outside of practice, bus rides, and games. We might hang out together during the season, but after it was over, not so much. I had "waver friends", but didn't do much with them outside of dancing in clubs and smoking clove cigarettes and discussing music. There were the popular kids, of course, and though I was certainly never ostracized, and was sometimes even included in party invitations, I was never truly a part of them (as evidenced by the fact that I was never voted onto Prom Court!)

I had friends who were jocks, preps, punks, waver, and outcasts. (I loved the outcasts best.)

I seemed to exist on the edge of many circles.

I was the place where several circles intersected.

This is what I have been thinking about lately. Especially tonight, after hosting my son's 10th birthday party earlier today, and seeing children and adults from several different "circles" in my present life, all together in one place.

For several years, when I first moved to Colorado, and during the first few years of my sons' lives, I didn't really have any friends at all. I had an infant, a toddler, a husband, and a mother-in-law, and that was about it. I look back on those days and wonder how I ever managed. Then I met Sara at my new teaching job (Hi Sara!), and knew instantly that I wanted to be her friend. Now, eight years later, I think I would call her my "best friend".

But just like with my best friend in high school, Sara and I don't necessarily have the same friends.

In my present life, I have managed to surround myself with several circles of friends. I value them all. Each circle. Each individual. Each one brings something unique and special into my life. Some are for dancing. Some are for crying. Some are for sharing soup. Some are for spiritual kinship. Some are for creative inspiration. Some are for fun. Some are for shared interests. Some are for the neighborhood. Some are for art. Some are for the intellect. Some just are. And of course, these are not exclusive categories!

And I never tire of meeting new people, and getting to know them, and expanding the circle, or creating a new one. Most of all, I enjoy bringing the circles together. They overlap in all kinds of places, not just me.

But sometimes I wonder if it isn't all too much. Sometimes I see myself on the edge of circles, and not really a part of any of them. At these times, I long for the relationships you read about in books, you know, the four women that have been friends forever and ever........

But then I look back on my past, and I realize: I am not that person, the one who has the same friends forever and ever. I live within and among many. It's just who I am.

Today, I observed this same phenomenon with my son. At the party this afternoon, there were his old friends, his school friends, his Dungeons and Dragons friends, his neighborhood friends. Like mine, some of these overlap in several places, but others are completely separate, joined only together by HIM.

I hope he can see himself, not on the edge of many circles, but as the center of them all.

bye-bye nine!

I'm ashamed to admit that my first thought upon opening my eyes this morning and reentering the world of light and life was not, "Hey, it's my son's tenth birthday!!!" but rather it was, "Oh, chemo."

I lay there for a short while. After I had slowly crawled out of my own ego, John and I walked downstairs and sang Grant awake.

Later, after taking the boys to school, Brandy drove me to chemo. It was, thankfully, uneventful. Grandma came over for Chinese food and cake. At the end of the night, Grant popped balloon number nine. He's no longer nine. I'm no longer stuck at nine. These two events, his birthday and my chemo, will be inextricably linked in my memory for as long as I live.

it's all about the process

Too often, I don't think I give myself enough credit for my creativity. I see it so readily in others, perhaps because I tend to surround myself with so many talented and creative people.

Here, though, is an example of what I can do (with a little help from my friends and family) when I put my mind to it. It's taken roughly two years, but the tile mosaic in my bathroom is FINISHED!

The shell angel(above) is a tribute to my mother, who, I believe, really did see angels once.



The sun was the first design to go in (of course!). Followed shortly by the volcano that Bennett helped to create.





Thanks to Sara, who assisted me with this lupine. But mostly she helped me get over my self-doubt and sluggish mentality. To the right of the lupine, you will see pieces from my mother's broken hotplate from Alaska, with Mt. McKinley in the center.






Into this blue-green montage went the pieces of a small bowl I broke. It was one of my husband's favorites, a piece of Russian Gardner porcelain passed down from his parents. I still feel horrible about it. (Advice: never, ever, get a stone kitchen floor! Everything breaks instantly when it hits.) Also some cool polished glass found in the creek bed behind our park.



"Mad-Eye Moody", named by Grant who assisted with this design, is made from some pieces I bought last summer from a local guy. I wish I knew his name so I could give him credit. He makes tiles and magnets and jewelry and barrettes from plastic he finds in the streets and paints with fingernail polish. Is that cool or what? If you look closely, he has a wand in his hand.
And the moon, of course.





Finally, in the corner, a trilobite and fish fossil, surrounded by some leftover tiles given to me by Chris Alvarez. They gave me the inspiration I needed to finally finish it off.






So now it's finished!





Well... almost. I still need to decide whether to use white or gray grout. Then I need to grout it. Then I need to clean up after myself. Then we need to get a shower curtain (clear, of course). Then perhaps, we'll actually be able to shower in it! Could take another year or so. Don't hold your breath.