The Bears on the Stairs.

February 26, 2017 § 2 Comments

bear-2

****

There is a place at the top of the stairs,

that’s a favorite haunt of nighttime bears.

They park their butts so fuzzy and wide,

two across and side-by-side.

****

Sis and I sleep unawares,

guarded safe by those bears on the stairs.

Lulled by the music of grunt, rustle, groan,

we sleep secure; we are not alone.

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The restless arrow.

February 18, 2017 § 4 Comments

arrow

If I were to represent our species with a symbol it would be an arrow. The direction of the arrow is unimportant; that changes quickly and often.

The important thing is that an arrow is going somewhere with all possible haste. And so are we.

Our existence is made manifest, validated, and given importance by how quickly we fly toward a destination.

But the goal, once we get there, is not a steady state, not a resting place. The arrow will move on, taking aim at another target, another must-get-to place it will fly right past, hesitating just long enough to check the accomplishment off the list.

Then onward!

arrowsWe aim for “there,” but “there” never becomes “here.”

“There” is a moving target, so we spend our lives in transit.

The sense of arrival is fleeting. Few rest on the laurels of a goal achieved, few rest, period.

 

I figure things out as I write, and looking at that last sentence I see I inadvertently revealed another side of the arrow-flight that is human endeavor.

We equate arrival with rest. And what is rest for?

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When I’m with you.

February 12, 2017 § 6 Comments

img_1203Who am I?

That depends.

My alone-self is relaxed, and as comfortable as a pair of well-worn jeans, entertained by quiet thinking, making a little music, leaving a trail of words across a page.

Who am I in company? That depends on the company.

It’s not that I am a mirror, vacant until you step up, but I respond to you.

Together, we create a dance that is not the freewheeling dance of all-alone. We cue each other. We synchronize.

Depending on you, the shift from the inner me to the public me can be slight or profound, but it always happens.

You do it too. You change for me as we turn toward each other.

No one is unyielding, unresponsive. No one is, under all circumstances, a single, monolithic self. That would be as impractical as wearing one outfit for all occasions.

Now, think of the people you are closest to: parents, children, spouse, best friend, colleague. But don’t think of them with you. Think of you with them.

Who do you become in their company?

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Unlike a brief encounter with a stranger, that one-off in which we hold a door or honk because that idiot hasn’t noticed the green light, our encounters with those we know well come with a history, an unspoken set of rules. Over the years a shared vocabulary has been established.

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Back at you, Dorothy Parker.

February 4, 2017 § 1 Comment

dorothy-parker1-1I had never even heard of a response poem until I went to this year’s great annual gathering of English teachers, the NCTE conference in Atlanta.

It was the final day, participants slumped in their seats and thinking of the trip home, when a high school  poetry troupe burst onto the stage. They were there to talk back to existing poems with poems of their own.

Those conventional, mostly-dead poets wouldn’t know what hit them if they had heard these teens rap back at them with fervor, sass, conviction, and a barrage of words.

We all sat up straight in our seats–this was great!

So what is a response poem? As soon as I got home I asked the great god Google for the details.

And the oracle said, a response poem can answer another poem, or mirror its structure. It can update it. Steal an opening line and go from there—all’s fair as long as the poem responds in some way to the original.

Now that I knew what a response poem was, I had to test drive one. Before taking on something heavy like “Ode on a Grecian Urn”  I pulled up this Dorothy Parker poem: « Read the rest of this entry »

Where Am I?

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