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Posts Tagged ‘poem’

That day when

it rained

and the wind

was blowing hard…

That day when

I missed

the bus and

had to run…

That day when

you walked

right past me

we didn’t know…

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It’s Sunday. It’s hot outside (and inside because it never cooled off in here after yesterday’s heat) I don’t want to think too much. However, when my hand brushed against my chin, I realized the three or so hairs there had grown and needed to be trimmed. Yes, embarrassing, I know. They are very fine and I don’t see them when I look in the mirror (mostly because I am half blind). It reminded me of when my youngest daughter and I were the only ones left at home. She was home schooled and we “did stuff” daily. It never failed that we would be out in public some place, far from home, and she would smile and say, “Mommy you have a chinny hair!” I would roll my eyes and wonder why she hadn’t told me about it before we left the house, or the car. And most of the time, I would get back home and forget to trim them and we would go through that all over again!

Now this chinny hair thing always reminds me of a brilliant poem that I first read in college, many moons ago. It was in my Chicano Poetry class and it was called A Moco Pome. It was written by the late poet, artist, and teacher, Jose’ Montoya. He later came to our classroom and read for us. And even later, I developed a bit of a friendship with him through email when I was editor of Con Safos magazine in the 90’s. He and I read our work at the same reading once, too! In any case, the Moco Pome is brilliant because it is a play on words and also something we can all identify with, all while taking on the appearance of being insignificant and simple.

A “moco” is a booger. A pome, while being a strange spelling for poem, is also a play on the word “pommes” which is French for apple. Now think back at what children (and others although I’m not naming names 😉 ) do with their boogers when not being watched…they play with them and roll them into a ball shape (or an apple shape, if you will). So with that in mind, and the additional translation of the Spanish word “bigote” (mustache) and memories of my chinny hairs, I share with you Jose’ Montoya’s…

A Moco Pome

And if you see
A moco on my
Bigote –

Don’t suffer
My shame and
Don’t punish
Me with silence…

Tell me about it!

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Through the open window
I hear the world
Outside…

Tap tap tap
Lori’s cane constant
As she takes her midnight walk

Vroom vroom vroom
Andres’ clunker as it coughs, warming
Before it carries him to work

Tinkle chinkle tinkle
The delicate chimes
Whispering in the gentle breeze

Midnight’s habits never change
Midnight
The magic hour
________________
I don’t usually try poetry but today, while browsing for a writing prompt to try, I came across this one at Something New Daily and thought I would give it a quick once over try. The poem above is what spilled out. My poem is not great but it’s a good first try that I might play around with later.

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Trees

Today, a number of things have me remembering the first poem I ever memorized. It was sixth grade and I loved the poem. I have remembered it all these years and thought of it often.

A friend posted some pictures on her blog which included pictures of downed trees on her property, trees taken down by time and weather.

And on another blog, the writer is lamenting the loss of two trees in the yard where she grew up; trees that taught her to climb. They have become dangerous to keep so they are being cut down. Can you imagine losing a part of your history, your youth, and not feeling sad?

And on Facebook a friend has been posting pictures of trees that he comes across while he takes his daily walk.

And outside, as the wind blows and the trees surrounding the neighborhood bend with the wind, I am thinking of trees. There’s one in my hard that I cannot stand and sometimes I wish I could pay someone to come cut it down. It’s a messy tree. A cottonwood tree that spreads the cottony mess all over, the wind carrying it for miles. There is often so much of the white cottony stuff flying that it looks like snow and then it accumulates on the ground and it really does look like snow…in the summertime!

And so my mind has been on trees and on this little poem that has lived in my mind since sixth grade:

Trees by Joyce Kilmer
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

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An old poem that resurfaced today:

Southbound On the I-5
Middle lane of the southbound I-5
listening to the classic oldies
singing along
“… oye, como va mi ritmo,
vamos a bailar …”

rudely interrupted
by that noisy Harley
coming up on my left

just as it reaches me
I am jolted, snatched, and
catapulted
backwards
to a time I barely recognized
my teen years
a foreign place
a different time zone

I see that girl
she’s wearing hot pants
the lime green ones
they have a matching top
sleeveless
sailor collar
that awful huge bow
right in the middle

She’s laughing
I hear it clearly
She’s happy
I can almost feel it too
The girl is filled with youth
filled with joy
filled with the unknown
the future

The girl knows little
not what life is about
not what the future will bring
not about the sorrows and the losses
not about the joys and the triumphs

The girl knows only NOW
she knows only wonder
she knows giddiness
she knows That Boy
and the dizziness she feels
she knows That Boy
and the way his leather jacket smells
she knows That Boy
and the way he looks at her
she knows That Boy
and the safeness he brings

The girl wonders
wonders about the uncomfortable feeling
in that secret area
wonders what her name would sound like
next to his
the girl smiles
not knowing much

Then I’m back in my blue Camry
“… you put a spell on me Baby…”
back in the middle lane
going southbound
and I smile
knowing so much
I still smile

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Old But Good

Revisting an old poem I wrote some time ago and published here in 2009.

That’s Where I’m From
I was born from passion and lust
into a world of hunger and thirst

I am from the feelings kept
inside of me, always voiceless
that’s where I’m from

From pain and broken promises
from betrayal and from anguish
that’s where I’m from

From lies and drunken nights
from addiction and from mistrust
that’s where I’m from

I am from the laughter in my heart
from hope seen in my dreams
that’s where I’m from

From darkness deep inside of me
from vanished dreams and tears
that’s where I’m from

I am from the strength inside of me
strength that emerges when needed
that’s where I’m from

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You can’t tell by looking

that her weathered face has seen harsh times.

You can’t tell by looking

that her heart bears many fractures.

You can’t tell by looking

that healing has taken much more than time.

You can’t tell by looking that this woman is strong;

that this woman is determined.

You can’t tell by looking that this woman has survived.

She will survive—always.  That’s who she is.

You can’t tell by looking.

Note:  This was the result of a picture prompt at a recent workshop.  The picture showed a small, older woman in an elevator with a young couple standing behind her and smirking at her.  The prompt we were given was “you can’t tell by looking.”

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