On this July 4th Holiday I want to say that all service men and women who have fought for our freedoms, and are now fighting for, I am not sure what, should be granted CELEBRITY STATUS!
This story is fiction based on factual observence... It takes place in Southeast Alaska where I lived for over fourteen years. Many of my friends and co-workers were Tlingit and Haida people whose ancestors have enhabited southeast for at least ten thousand years.
Dinner’s Ready
Stinging nettles reach for little children’s knees,
walking through the fields to Auntie’s house.
Mamma’s long dark skirts hide real wool socks.
Lisa wears her school clothes, a uniform of sorts.
White short sleeve shirt with dark blue skirt,
nothing around her bony knees for weed relief.
Hurry honey, Momma says; dinner’s about ready.
Auntie’s place smells good. Uncle Joe is scary;
he meets them on the porch, grinning at Lisa.
He sticks his tongue out under dirty false teeth.
Lisa shrieks and ducks beneath her mother’s skirt.
Uncle Joe just laughs as Auntie mutters epitaphs.
God bless you, Joe.. you will go to Hell for that!
Scaring little girls; I pray to God you grow up.
Auntie bustles indoors, still calling for good sense
to grow on Joe. Mamma laughs, untangling Lisa
from between her feet. She follows Auntie inside.
Sit, Auntie says. Lisa grabs for Momma’s skirt
as she walks toward the wood stove to help. Her
leather belt becomes a leash on Lisa’s left thumb,
dragging the child along toward red hot heat.
No… Momma points at the table; sit down, Lisa.
Tears fall. Momma relents, pulling Lisa to safety
behind her when hot fat flies from the frying pan.
Momma slices red ripe tomatoes from the garden
out back, a treat from Auntie’s diligence. Wet
spots appear on her blouse, seeds fall to the floor.
Auntie smiles, never mind she says. The animals
can clean up later, every single scrap disappears.
The big black pot of pintos is transferred carefully
to the table. Auntie calls for Joe to come inside
and eat dinner. Joe appears, covered in red cedar
shavings. He closes his bone handled knife slowly
and winks at Lisa. She retreats to the opposite
side of the table. Come here little bird, Joe pleads.
He offers a beautiful eagle he carved just for her.
I love words. I love the expression of words. I realised that I could translate my heartfelt moments into the written word, things became easier. But with my translations, It is difficult for me to translate happiness onto paper, I have to feel and show it. Yet, when I am in a rut, heartbroken, sad, want to encourage someone, want to encourage myself....i turn to paper and pen....
I write poetry to get my feelings out it's the only way that I know of. My words are mine and I love to write. All comments are greatly appreciated. I hope the words that I write can inspire any of you.
when i started posting poetry on gp, it was mostly to cope with some personal issues. then came the conscious need for self expression. two and a half years later, according to the stats kept by gp in "my ranking", my poems were read 96,916 times, they were rated 2560 times and they have 1980 comments. i think these stats are just mind-boggling. i never hoped for so many reads and so many responses. this realization made my day today.
I've never been able to separate an artists work from the artist
Monday, June 29, 2009 (01:35:00)
You know what the worst thing for me in having to wait 4 to 6 weeks for the results of Michael Jackson's autopsy?
It will be at least 6 to 8 weeks before I stop reading and hearing about him.
Edit: To hell with Prince too... I used to really like his music until I learned what a tool he is. MJ... I never cared for anything by him except for one or two songs.
OMIGOD it was a great night. It was not only the opening night of the Riverwood Poetry Festival, I got to see some old friends I haven't seen in ages.
This generational slam pitted the current CT Youth Slam Team against former members of adult CT slam teans. It was hosted by Elizabeth Thomas, a great poet, teacher and one of those friends I do not get to seen often enough.
Krishna Hayes, yet another I haven't seen in too long, was the sacrificial poet. It seemed appropriate since he was a member of the first CT Youth Slam team and is now, of course, an adult. For those who don't know, the "sacrificial poet" is not part of the slam but is used as a demonstration to teach the judges how to judge.
The adult team lost the toss and had to go first. Faith Viciinanza, a friend I have actually seen within the liast six months, unlike most of my poet friends. I realize now I should have taken notes realizing I would want to write about it, but I can't remember order or even names of some of the Youth Team.
Ngoma, probably the poet I haven't seen in the longest time was absolutely phenomenal. I'd forgotten just how dynamic a performer he is. It was as his slam in New Have a decade or so ago, that I competed in my first slam. The slam is long gone, along with the coffee house where it happened, and Ngoma moved to Harlem. I'm so glad he came back to CT for a day! He had the highest score of the night with his second poem, including two 10s!
The youth poets were all talented. My favorite among them was a young woman named Jenna. Her poems were well-written and literate, deep and philosophical without losing the dynamic power of her performance. I'll bet we see a lot more of her.
Dan Derosa was the only adult team member whom I had not heard before. He too slammed me to the wall with the power of his pieces.
The adult team won handily but youth team gave them a run for their money.
Between the two rounds, Minta White performed. I was going to say she "played the flute" but to say that would be like saying Picasso drew pictures. It was the most amazing range of flute usage I have ever seen. I can't even find a way to make an explanation make sense. You really have to hear this woman.
Lisa Lobasso and Pat Hale, both of whom will be reading at the festival later in the week joined the standing room only crowd in the audience.
Five of the Riverwood Poetry Series BOD were there too. Kathryn Kelly and I staffed the merch table, Julia Paul took pictures and Dolores Lawler joined the audience.
Pictures (when Julia posts them) and names of the youth team (when Elizabeth sends them) are coming but I wanted to get something out tonight!
And join us tomorrow night at Wood Memorial Library in South Windsor for Partners in Poetry, otherwise kwown as The PIPs! And move downstairs for our latenight venue in the "Underwood Cafe" with poets Dan Wilcox, LisaAnn LoBasso and George Wallace.
Ex-patriot Snapshots - Part III
(a memoir in three parts)
Some folks lose their house keys, others lose their dreams.
I misplaced so many of my childhood memories…
here are a few more scenes I came across.
This is the final part.
I remember my little school had lots of cheerful children.
Everyone spoke Spanish except for me.
My teacher decided to put me back in kindergarten.
I was mad. Why didn’t she understand I was a first grader?
So I learned Spanish, but she wouldn’t put me back.
Christmas came; it was hot in the Tropics.
We had sweet jelly beans stuck on short spiny cactus plants
instead of our usual Christmas tree.
We opened our presents and then we ate all the jelly beans.
I was in a play on stage; we sang for our parents.
The girls wore cute red and white candy striped dresses
made by their mothers. My dress was made by a seamstress.
My picture is faded now and my father wasn’t present.
I was taken to Mass in a little parish church,
so then I decided to become a Catholic nun when I grew up.
I was supposed to be the flower girl at a wedding.
I was fitted for a white organdy gown.
I went to all the practices and learned to walk down the aisle,
but I got sick and the bride picked another girl instead.
Weddings and funerals, they all seem the same.
Get dressed up; mothers weeping and fathers saying a’hem.
I remember Father, Mother and me on the ocean at sunset.
Father’s leaving again, he had to board a ship offshore.
We were invited to share in his adventure.
The sea was dark blue and scary; it was raining and windy.
My mother got seasick.
She cried for my father as we came alongside a freighter;
our boat leaped up and down beside it in the waves.
They let down a Jacob’s Ladder for a doctor…
Mother said, “Your poor father, he’ll be crushed to death.”
Father was wearing his usual blue suit and red necktie;
we always gave him a new one for his birthday.
Then he turned and waved goodbye.
Mother was weeping and my father was angry.
He climbed up with one hand, his medical bag in the other.
I remember when we traveled on summer vacation to Cuba.
We visited the Morro Castle. We climbed up for the view
of blue Caribbean water and the Havana skyline
with leaning palm trees and roofs of orange terra-cotta tile.
After dark, my parents went out dancing
and I was left by myself in an empty hotel room listening
to voodoo drums pounding off in the distance.
A few years went by like this, but later
they made all of us Americans return to the United States.
Father decided to take us to Indonesia next,
but by then the people had a revolution going on there, too.
And really, I’ve seen far too many movies
to recall everything I saw when we lived in Latin America.
Why do I believe some rebels are freedom fighters?
Well, you read my story. I will always remember Celeste.
Ex-patriot Snapshots - a memoir in three parts.
Thanks for reading my story and to those who commented
I truly appreciate your feedback.
Today I stopped to “gas up” on the Atlantic City Expressway in New Jersey.
I was headed back to my office and the work week in Pennsylvania.
The price of fuel continues to rise, coinciding with summer vacation season.
I still had about a half of a tank, but I knew the New Jersey prices to be somewhat less than those in Pennsylvania, due to tax rates, etc.
Being in a hurry, I opted to pay cash and estimated that $25.00 would fill up the tank.
When the pump was full, the attendant came to the window, and I was ready to throw the $25.00 at him and move on. I almost caught his hand in the window, when he stopped me, held up two fingers while he chewed and swallowed a bite of something.
Almost choking on his food, he said “two dollars, I owe you two dollars change”.
Glancing at the pump (which I should have done anyway, but hadn’t), I saw that the value of the fuel pumped only came to $23.00. He said, “I like to keep things honest.
I know how hard we all work for our dollars.” I thanked him, waited for the change and told him how much I appreciated his honesty, and that I would carry that moment with me into the day. We smiled at one another and a sweet connection was made.
I was going to try to ignore what is happening here lately, but it's growing too large to be ignored anymore. So this is all I have to say about it.
There’s an old Beatle’s song Obladi Oblada Life Goes On and that pretty much says it for me. Regardless of whether someone likes or dislikes my poetry or it they rate it high or rates it low, life goes on. Regardless if I win or lose a slam – life goes on. Even if someone rates me low because they don’t like me, or feel it is they not me who deserves to win or deserves that spot on the grandest slammers list – it doesn’t matter to me – life goes on.
No matter what happens on this site I will still have friends here who support me, care about me, enjoy my poetry and let me know when one can be improved. Life goes on.
Whatever happens my husband still loves me, my cats still love me, my friends still think I’m one of the funniest people they know and as a couple have told me lately I am one who knows how to be a friend. I am appreciated. I am loved. I am a happy person and nothing will ever change that. Life goes on.
No ones comments or ratings can hurt me because I have a family, a big family, who loves me and laughs with me and if needed will cry with me. A family who supports my writing and my ideals and even when we disagree will still love me. Life goes on.
So, for all the upset and bickering and back biting going on here lately I just want to remind everyone, that even here, we are a family. We are a family of poets who share a love for poetry. Yes, there are some who post obscenities, hatred, and just plain nasty stuff because they want to shock others. But they are like that annoying younger sibling who will try anything to get your attention. We can only hope these annoying writers will also grow up one day as do the younger siblings. But let’s also admit a lot of these poems deserve the low ratings they get. And maybe there are those who will rate a poem low simply because they don’t like the poet, but we can only hope they too will one day grow up. I just wish everyone could take a deep breath and say at least once a day…it doesn’t matter. Life goes on.
And can we also admit that not every poem on here deserves a rating between 8 and 10? And that there are some that deserve the 1's? You may think your poem, or your friends poem, is the greatest ever written, but remember another less involved rater will rate on how they see the poem. They are not looking at it from an emotional stand point, as you are, but from the perspective of how well they feel the poem is written and tells a story. So, they may rate it lower than you do, but that doesn't mean they are being vindictive. It simply means they are rating as honestly as they can. So, next time you or a friend gets a lower rating than you feel they deserve, instead of going bonkers over it...take a deep breath and remember...life goes on.
Oh, and no matter what else happens here on this site I am still going to keep working on getting every one of those old slams filled! Yep! Life goes on!
Lately I've decided to challenge myself a bit more with my poetry. Instead of writing free verse or styles with which I'm familiar, I am branching out to try a new style every time I want to write a poem. The last words on my ex-husbands web page have haunted me for months now. The words read morgen, morgen, nur nicht heute, sagen alle faule leute - which means tomorrow, tomorrow, not today all lazy people say. (that's as close a translation as I can get.) He passed away April 1st and those last words have haunted me. So today I found a new form of poetry and decided to work it around those words. Morgen is now posted. I find that writing out the things that haunt me, into a poetic form, help me accept them and move on. And by forcing myself to use a new form or style of poetry each time it also forces me to reach outside those feelings or emotions and make the poem work in the constraints of the current style of choice.
Please stop for a moment and give a thank you comment to all those on our site at GP who have fought to keep our country free.
I PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE TO THE
FLAG,
OF THE
UNITED
STATES OF AMERICA,
AND TO THE REPUBLIC, FOR
WHICH IT STANDS,
ONE
NATION UNDER GOD,
INDIVISIBLE, WITH
LIBERTY
AND JUSTICE FOR ALL!
For all of our military personnel, where ever they may be
defending our Country.
Thanks To them, and their sacrifices we can celebrate the 4th of July. We must never forget who gets the credit for the freedoms we have, of which we should be eternally grateful..
I have always loved this poem. I don't know who wrote it but it always makes my heart smile and expresses my feelings beautifully
I watched the flag
Pass by one day,
It fluttered in the breeze.
A young Marine Saluted it,
And then he stood at ease..
I looked at Him in uniform
So young, so tall, so proud,
With hair cut square And eyes alert
He'd stand out in any crowd.
I thought how many men Like him
Had fallen through the years.
How many died on foreign Soil
How many mothers' tears?
How many pilots' planes Shot down?
How many died at sea
How many foxholes were soldiers' Graves?
No, freedom isn't free
I heard the sound of Taps One night,
When everything was still,
I listened to the bugler Play
And felt a sudden chill.
I wondered just how many times
That Taps had meant 'Amen,'
When a flag had draped a Coffin.
Of a brother or a friend.
I thought of all the Children,
Of the mothers and the wives,
Of fathers, sons and Husbands
With interrupted lives.
I Thought about a graveyard
At the bottom of the sea
Of unmarked graves in Arlington.
No, freedom isn't free.
Enjoy Your Freedom
&God Bless Our Troops
When You read this, please stop for a moment And Say a Prayer for our servicemen and service men and women all over the world who have fought and are still fighting for their Independence. Of all the gifts you could give A Soldier, Prayer is the very best One.
Please leave a comment to thank them personally
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