Sidewalk days
In downtown Goshen,
we mix business with pleasure.
My favorite sign reads:
“Become our friend on Facebook
for the chance to win a gun.”
Category Archives: Uncategorized
Sidewalk days
flowers
One of my best childhood memories is of my dad buying flowers for my mother. He loved to do it. He taught me many things with his words, but some things he simply taught by his actions. Thanks, dad, you old romantic…
written for Robert Lee Brewer’s Poetic Asides.
flowers
I brought you roses from the street seller
at the corner of archway road just like
my dad used to buy flowers for my mum
always to mark a special occasion
sometimes for absolutely no reason
except that she loved fragrance and colour
and maybe I’m hoping you are like her
though I don’t realize it yet, maybe
I’m just trying to be as good as him
answers like socks – celebration sale
Time to party! To celebrate the 200th post on this blog, I’m offering a special deal on the download of “answers like socks”. If you go to CD Baby, you can get the whole album for only $2!
“answers like socks” is my favorite creative project of any I have worked on. I designed it to run like a radio show, with words and music interspersed. The recording is about 45 minutes long, broken into tracks like a regular album. Lots of poetry, of course, plus four original songs and a bunch of interlude buttons. What’s not to love?!
Check it out. If you like it, let your friends know – this is an offer for anyone to enjoy. Thanks for being there for me on this blog. And here’s to the next 200 posts!
A vegetable fable
This summer, I’ve had the chance to do some “lightning poetry” on the streets of Elkhart. During the July ArtWalk, I was given a strategic spot on Main Street, from which I would accost passers-by and ask if they had one minute to listen to a poem. If they said yes, I gave them a choice: silly or serious, and would then select a poem for them from one of two folders, based on that preference. It was amazing to see people’s reactions. Some ignored me, or even told me to leave them alone – made me feel like a street evangelist, which I sort of was, I suppose. But others were delighted to be approached and listened/responded with enthusiasm. The highlight for me was the two burly biker dudes who asked for a serious poem and then engaged me in conversation about the meaning of life. Priceless.
Anyway, the most popular poem of the day was a silly one that re-tells the Cinderella story using vegetables. Here it is – imagine you’re on a street corner as I read it to you…
A vegetable-fable
Cinderella was a Brussels sprout
the kind of snack you only think about
occasionally, like when the cupboard’s bare
or Christmas guests appear from who-knows-where
and you are caught short-handed.
Her sisters were the prize zucchinis,
tightly stuffed in mink bikinis
tanning on the castle lawn
while Cinders worked till dusk from dawn
doing the jobs that she was handed.
But then Prince Charming, that great star fruit, paid a call
and planted the idea of a ball.
The bully-girls thought they’d be most appealing
They had no idea they’d be dealing
with their sister, who, to be candid,
was more delicious to the eye
than they. They were left alone to cry
like onions when she stole the prince and left a clue
at midnight – with a single crystal shoe
the heart-sore lover-boy was handed.
The story ends, as all good meals do,
With sweetness to top off this most romantic stew.
Our heroine delicious, ripe and pure
Outlasted both her sisters, rotten to the core
At least, that’s how I’m told this fruit-and-veggie fairy tale ended…
Video: Live at b on the River!
On Friday night, I had the privilege of sharing the stage with singer-songwriter Jonathan Reuel. We did a combined poetry/music show to a full house at Elkhart’s b on the River. Here’s a video clip of me performing three poems – note the very natty Penguin Poet t-shirt…
No turning back
It can be a wonderful thing to belong in a group. I know people who find great fulfilment in knowing every move to make, every word to say or avoid, every rhythm of “how we do things.” The comfort of knowing there will be people there for you, come what may; and the knowledge that you will do the same for others – whether they ask for it or not. The can be a comfort in conformity.
But then there are the others, the ones who struggle continually within the constraints of belonging. The ones who live like icebergs, unwilling or unable to reveal their depths. Or who give up and melt away. I’ve seen it so often. The longer I live, I find I am wistful for the belonging, for its goodness; but at the same time find I am increasingly drawn to the fringes, the rebels, the bright orange in a sea of black and blue.
No turning back
Someone in this sea of black and blue,
of downturned eyes, has a tattoo
on her shoulder blade – a butterfly
perhaps; better yet, a devil’s eye
that no one but her lover knows,
a secret that she never shows.
Someone in this modest fashion show
is wearing orange, brazen just below
her neckline, bursting with desire
not so much to shock as just to let the fire
within her have its head at last – finally
to be the blazing torch that she was born to be.
Someone in this close and holy space
is terrified, yet ready to depart this place
once and for all. Tonight,
after the benediction, no fight
no grand pronouncements, no bitter end.
Just a kiss, a plain embrace for every friend
and then no turning back – her fierce reward for
loosening the tight-tied strings her mother wore.
small steps
I was a small child in the 1960s, when going to the moon went from being a dream to being a reality. If you asked me where I was when they landed on the moon, I’d tell you I was in a friend’s kitchen, watching from the doorway in my pajamas!
small steps
everything was round
the corners of the fridge
the console radio
the bowl covering my head
the high stool with two steps
the smooth calves of my legs
swinging in time to the music
of the electric clippers
the pool of hair at my feet
the fresh pie waiting.
Upstairs I tried to sleep
but the moon called me
back to watch, eyes wide,
hardly comprehending
as the man with the moon-shaped
head stepped down
in black and white
on the tiny screen.
Sets
I’m having fun learning my way around a poetic form called the Luc Bat. It alternates lines of 6 and 8 syllables, with a rhyme scheme pushing forward on the 6th and 8th syllables. It goes as follows:
xxxxxA
xxxxxAxB
xxxxxB
xxxxxBxC
xxxxxC
xxxxxCxD
xxxxxD
xxxxxDxE
Robert Lee Brewer wrote a great introduction to this form over at Poetic Asides.
Here’s an example from me – based on a true story. Every so often, the weight room at the YMCA is thrown into confusion by the arrival of someone who obviously doesn’t need to be working out at all…
Sets
Those iridescent blue-
green running shorts, on view in glass
around the room could pass
for rainbows. As the class proceeds
with weights, two shining beads
moisten her neck. She needs to get
a towel and I let
my mind wander. Her set of flies
is next. I notice guys
changing their exercise routine
in ways I’ve never seen
so they can watch that lean body
arch magnificently.
She’s on the mat now, three sets of
crunches, arms raised above
her head, and I would love to know
if she means this floor show
to cause such a commotion. She
is everywhere, yet we
all pretend not to see. Somewhere,
someone drops a weight, their
muffled curse breaks the air, and we
regain reality.
I glance across and see the door
flash. Thank god, she’s off for
a run, to torture poor souls out
on the ball field without
even knowing about it… Wow.
Meet Joe
Meet Joe. Or, Average Joe, to give him his full name. Joe is the creation of the amazingly talented Emma Gerig, of Goshen, Indiana.
I have always wanted to have a cartoon penguin to accompany my poems – a penguin who is whimiscal but also solid and dependable. The kind of penguin you could sit down and talk philosophy with, or go bowling with. The kind of penguin that would be equally happy going skinny dipping, singing late night karaoke, or just visiting the Queen at Buckingham Palace. A penguin who doesn’t take life too seriously, but takes it deeply, if you know what I mean. A penguin who would knock you on your rear end if you even thought of hurting the chicks in the nest, but who would also share the last piece of fish if you were hungry. In short, the kind of penguin I would love to become someday.
I think Emma got it just right, and I’m abosolutely pleased as punch to have Joe on the masthead of this blog.
Thanks, Emma. You’re amazing. And welcome to Joe!
Attraction
Some days we
Are magnets
Dancing spikes
Of iron
We quiver
Unable
To embrace
Until one
Suddenly
Turns their back.
Penguin Poems 