Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold. —Zelda Fitzgerald
You have been chosen, and you must therefore use such strength and heart and wits as you have. —J. R. R. Tolkien
not even poets…
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Tag Archives: Poetry
original utility…
original utility by Lisa Lillibridge
walking Scusset Beach at low tide
we came upon a buried boat trailer
submerged and deserted
sadly, no longer transporting anything
no boat ramp nearby…curious
my sandy-kneed observations kept shifting
a salty adventure miscalculated perhaps?
oh, the seduction of coastal fog
heightens my investigations
in ways sunshine just never can
later, observing my photos
what I could not see intrigued me
and my mind wandered
as it so often does…
America, personified
allegory, metaphor, or perhaps, punchline
in need of rescue and repair
while other nations
adapting to their shifting tides
ignore what’s beneath our surface
our nation’s collective principles
hopefully preserved
waiting to be exhumed
and one day
restored to original utility
othering/a transitive verb
by Lisa Lillibridge to treat or consider (a person or a group of people) as alien to oneself Merriam Webster I want to blame I need to blame someone else something else anywhere else for my inner tornado alienate vilify repeat easy breezy automatic, unconscious our world’s challenges far too complex and exhausting to metabolize entirely on my own quell my fears confirm my programming please just tell me who, what, and where I should other today my team’s constant drumbeat deliberate, unyeielding laboring 24/7 to justify their clouding of my inner knowing click, forward, like, share, and tweet fair and balanced the daily diary of the American dream all the news that’s fit to print immutable and distracting like a howling airplane baby poor mum damn baby damn mum poor baby othering seductive like an ice cold beer hot, salty french fries or another slice of chocolate cake how did I other today? those people are not my people that problem is not my problem that place is not my place alienate vilify repeat conformity is obedient and compliant far easier than looking in the mirror and down into my own heart I know I should not utter a word until I’ve walked at least ten steps in someone else’s work-boots sneakers high heels wing tips flip flops or bare feet but I do we all do and it’s destroying us
Thank you Title IV & Little Big Town!
I don’t know how this song wasn’t on my radar until yesterday.
I came of age in rural South Dakota in the 70s and 80s. There were a lot of mixed messages around gender roles, religious beliefs regarding women’s place in home and society and male privilege.
Thank goodness for Title IV.
On June 23, 1972, the President signed Title IX of the Education Amendments of 1972, 20 U.S.C. into law. Title IX is a comprehensive federal law that prohibits discrimination on the basis of sex in any federally funded education program or activity.
Without middle & high school athletics, I don’t know exactly where my resilience would’ve come from. I was a creative, slightly above average student—I just didn’t (and still don’t) get any juice from good grades.
I remember how patiently my late father fostered my young girl inner athlete. My Dad used the intelligence most readily available to him to teach what he highly valued; practice to improve, leadership, resilience and team work.
In the 70s and 80s in rural South Dakota, that pretty much makes Dad a feminist. He would find that funny, but I doubt would disagree.
Definition of FEMINISM noun
1: the theory of the political, economic, and social equality of the sexes
2: organized activity on behalf of women’s rights and interests
(Merriam Webster)
Thank you Little Big Town!
horizontal mystery ship—for Dad
HORIZONTAL MYSTERY SHIP when you leave at seventeen rarely home more than two weeks at a time months, years and decades can be surprisingly unreliable markers of adulthood only once in the summer of ‘88 a recent college grad wide-eyed and wanderlust-fueled my tonsils required more I stayed a whole month once healed, packed, and in possession of necessary visas off to the southern hemisphere a young pioneer in search adventure and different stars now, when visiting after a lifetime lived elsewhere grey hairs visible no matter my efforts I find myself sliding into a peculiar second adolescence of sorts driving Dad’s truck windows down, hair blowing mile after mile of expansive, wild beauty the prairie a determined cellular homesteader forever staking a claim in my blood and bones I want to sneak out to the bar play Space Invaders sadly, no longer a standard unlike 1982 drink beer, eat junk food and avoid the endless expectations of being a grown-up Looking back with midlife sensibilities I realize those late nights in high school tenth grade, I believe laser focused, playing Space Invaders provided a surprisingly valuable education initials entered, quarters stacked protect the bunkers, defeat the aliens monitor the horizontal mystery ship with vigilance my peripheral vision unknowingly trained to notice things beyond immediate scope bonus points pinged while friends waited impatiently twenty more minutes, please under a waning August moon only one lunar phase ago I was still my father’s daughter a middle-aged, South Dakota teenager pretending time actually plays tricks wanting desperately to disregard reality one more visit on the calendar one more phone call cheeseburger or ice cream cone one more evening watching Everybody Loves Raymond M.A.S.H. or Mayberry RFD twenty more minutes, please quarters stacked no longer Space Invaders the nearly forgotten teenage relic of a heartbroken fifty-something fatherless daughter once again, I am protecting my bunkers monitoring a new horizontal mystery ship paying very close attention to what's just beyond my immediate scope just twenty more minutes, please
in the ruins…my love story
a rigid or fluid heart? choose.
I don’t want half of my heart to be stone-like.
Thankfully, we always have a choice between being rigid or fluid.
life is choices.
When I carefully choose what I want to pay attention to, my heart swells.
When I let the world be in charge of what I should pay attention to, my heart sinks.
Thank you, Leonard Cohen.
Anthem
by Leonard Cohen
The birds they sang
at the break of day
Start again
I heard them say
Don’t dwell on what
has passed away
or what is yet to be.
Ah the wars they will
be fought again
The holy dove
She will be caught again
bought and sold
and bought again
the dove is never free.Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.We asked for signs
the signs were sent:
the birth betrayed
the marriage spent
Yeah the widowhood
of every government —
signs for all to see.
at the break of day
Start again
I heard them say
Don’t dwell on what
has passed away
or what is yet to be.
Ah the wars they will
be fought again
The holy dove
She will be caught again
bought and sold
and bought again
the dove is never free.Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.We asked for signs
the signs were sent:
the birth betrayed
the marriage spent
Yeah the widowhood
of every government —
signs for all to see.
I can’t run no more
with that lawless crowd
while the killers in high places
say their prayers out loud.
But they’ve summoned, they’ve summoned up
a thundercloud
and they’re going to hear from me.
Ring the bells that still can ring …
You can add up the parts
but you won’t have the sum
You can strike up the march,
there is no drum
Every heart, every heart
to love will come
but like a refugee.
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.
That’s how the light gets in.
That’s how the light gets in.
college, coffee, poetry & connecting
This week my husband and I took our son to college in Milwaukee. He’s a freshman attending the Milwaukee Institute of Art & Design or MIAD. Milwaukee is a great city and the local coffee shop is Colectivo Coffee. My son, Ellis has been a big coffee drinker since the age of 9—thanks to friends who own Mirabelles in Burlington, Vermont.
I just loved the aesthetic and color story of Colectivo and now have a good sense of where he’ll be hanging out with new friends. On Thursday morning, my husband Jeff and I were having breakfast at the one located on Lake Michigan. I started talking to a Timothy Kloss who was sketching and reading something very amusing at the next table. Turns out his Dad (Gerald Kloss) was a humor columnist for the Milwaukee Journal. Timothy proceeded to recite a beautiful piece his Dad had written about him when he was two about a robin being just out of his reach. Anyway, it was an interesting morning at the coffee shop and I am sure that Ellis will create many memories hanging out there too. Maybe one day he will even get to the weekly poetry/painting night Timothy hosts. Here’s all the links. Have a great Saturday!
http://do414.com/artists/poets-monday-w-host-timothy-kloss
http://slightlyhoffbeat.wordpress.com/tag/gerald-kloss/
http://www.miad.edu/
http://colectivocoffee.com/cafes/third-ward/<img
