I fall to my knees
wanting nothing more than to press
my face to her cool, sepia skin and weep for shame
A friend pointed me in the direction of this photo on Flickr. This Fibonacci (which I expanded to a seventh, thirteen syllable line)–a form I was led to by Grace on her blog–is what happened. Marian also wrote a Fibonacci today. Hers is better.
when the hour arrived
in which she chased the leftover curry
with caramel sauce straight from the jar–
the rugs were still rolled up
because she couldn’t bear to put them down
with the awful sofa still in the room,
which turned out to be a blessing
because the dog took the moment
of her planned departure
to vomit copiously on the living room floor.
get the fuck out!
her angry finger pointing to the yard
and retreating between-legs tail
then the damn dog wouldn’t come back in,
and she had to pee
just a trickle was beginning to soak her panties
which were the shifty ones
that always ended up slipping down
pooling below her ass cheeks
unless her jeans were too tight–
she maybe lost her mind a little.
My dear friend the Mad Woman has a new baby boy. Welcome, Sam!
While she’s basking in new maternal glow and learning the two-child shuffle, she’s got a parade of amazing guest posters, and me, too!
So, go, preferably with a glass of wine and someone whose bones you’d like to jump, and read.
I have an old copy of A Swinger of Birches: Poems of Robert Frost for Young People.
Before Felix was born, I filled the bookshelf my father built for me when I was a child with all of my childhood books. Lovingly arranged with the Sandra Boynton board books I got at my baby shower and Guess How Much I Love You are my copies of The Dark Is Rising and A Wrinkle in Time. Miss Rumphius, Bread and Jam for Frances. A Swinger of Birches.
So, every now and again, from between his many favorite stories, he pulls out a memory, pages slightly yellowed and musty with age.
Two nights ago he pulled out the Frost. I read him Birches, The Oven Bird, and Canis Major, before moving on to his current favorite, Katy and the Big Snow by Virginia Lee Burton.
Last night he pulled it out again,we read The Road Not Taken and The Drumlin Woodchuck. Then it was on to Dumpy the Dump Truck (a very sweet story by the incomparable Julie Andrews).
Tonight for a third time he pulled it out. I opened it to Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening. He said, “No, Mama. I want the Birches one.”
No, Mama. I want the Birches one.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
Posted in Nostalgia, Parenting
Tagged Birches, conversations with the Small Boy, Dumpy the Dump Truck, Julie Andrews, Katy the Snowplow, poetry, reading, reading poetry again, Robert Frost, Small Boy, Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening, Virginia Lee Burton
we say I-love-you every day
who needs a Hallmark holiday?
the fourteenth can come and go
Prompt #3: A poem for my special Valentine.
my heart’s home
smells like snow in the air
and manure in the spring
a month of mud at the equinoxes
To the Music Snobs
poo to that
I am a magpie
I like every shiny song I’ve ever heard
and the ones I don’t?
I just ignore