I haven’t been on the back of a horse in ages.  The weather in Pittsburgh today  is gorgeous, 78 degrees, low humidity, refreshing breeze.  While Pittsburgh isn’t a huge metropolis, its big enough that finding a place to ride without spending a small fortune is damn near impossible.

This is an old poem, one I posted ages ago, but I reworked it and made several changes, so I wanted to get some feedback.  Here’s hoping you find something in your life that can carry you, ride you, and take you where you want to be.

El John

There is something about

women and horses

how they are pictures of beauty,

a representation of

that which is wild and

hidden inside of us.

On the back of the horse

I was invincible.  El John

would charge up the hillside

his hoofs pounding the ground

in sweet rhythmic cadence

to a natural earth song.

The smell of corn growing

and freshly mowed hay

smelled sweet in the Highlands,

filling my nose and lungs

like an intoxicating drug as

the wind whipped his mane.

It was the closest thing to flying

you can feel while on the ground,

a kind of safe danger,

he would reach a naked gallop

with joyful abandon, his mouth

foaming at the exertion of his power.

Sitting beside my dying father,

I think of El John now.

Smile weak, eyes closed in pain,

the breath is labored

as he becomes a shadow of

the man he used to be.

I remember how Dad told me

that animals just get old sometimes

as my rides with El John

came abruptly to an end.

His life was a roar, his death a murmur

as he did not wake up one spring morning.

Holding my father’s hand

I cherish this time to say goodbye,

a luxury I did not have with El John.

As his minutes on earth ebb away,

I realize that the hardest and rarest

part of love is letting go.

I wrote this toninght and I can’t tell if its done or not.  Does it seem complete, or does it leave you wanting more?  Anyway, here’s the poem.

The Banshee Child (as told by my Mother)

There were fruitless efforts
to make of her a young lady
as red nail polish splashed carelessly
upon her clothes like spilled blood
as she crawled on the ground in
her makeshift trench, playing war
with the boys across the street,
Barbie’s head plucked from its shoulders,
the body flung like a grenade
into the neighboring ditch.

I asked for topics, and TheNarrator served as a muse!  He showed me this poem form called a countdown.  5 stanzas, first 5 lines, then 4, then down to 1. 

Countdown to Heresy

Prophets act according to
their conscience, bringing themselves
in balance with mysticism.
Fantasy mingles with faith,
belief with rational inquiry.

Thought is born of searching
mysteries and their philosophies,
the secret teachings of all ages
in the ancient quest for light.

Questions brand thee heretic,
and the centuries have persecuted
with burning stakes and burning crosses.

The heretics rise against injustice.
Can you hear their song?

We shall overcome.

I’m up to my eyeballs in writing assignments…but I’m not complaining.  I’ve started an article for Venus Envy Magazine on female castration in third world countries, I’m writing a piece on my Dad on how he was a drug dealer in his teens and twenties and ended up a father and preacher, plus I’m doing a piece for school on odd jobs (I have a friend who is a professional psychic, so I’m going to ask her.)

Well, something that helps keep me going when I’m doing this much writing is to take time for poetry.  It’s the most easily accessible way for me to tap into my creative side.  I’m sort of at a loss at the moment for topics. 

Any suggestions?

Wish me luck!

I don’t write many mosaic poems, but I wrote one last night.  A mosaic is where you piece together one whole thought or theme based on short vignettes or stanzas.  The mosaic form can also be used for essays and short stories.  Anyway, LOL, end of your English lesson!  Here is my mosaic…

Games with my Mother

Sorry

Soothing clucks emit soft and low
trembling her bosom as my
tears fall.  Her hands flutter,
wings of a mother hen,
as my plastic soldiers return home.

War

The tedium stirs in my legs
as they kick and swing beneath the table.
Impatient sighs fall like grenades
wreaking havoc on Mother’s nerves.
Cards are flung, the last War we play.

Monopoly

I press the iron on the cardboard,
scrutinize the rainbow of money.
Railroads are more interesting than property
and I still cry when I lose.
Clearly, no future Me in real estate.

Scrabble

I have found my crack cocaine
as my mind smokes words
like zineb (a pesticide.)
I dream of dictionaries
and double, triple scores.

Small Talk

When we grow tired of games
like “Who is the Worst Daughter”
or “My Mother is so Crazy”
we slip out a new bored
and chat on dancing with the stars.

After a couple weeks in Michigan helping out the family, its nice to be back.  Dad will need to spend a little time in a nursing home as he continues to recover from his broken hip.  My foot is doing well, and I’m able to put some weight on it and toddle around the house so long as I don’t overdo it.

Pittsburgh really has become home after all these years.  I felt somewhat estranged from my hometown of Bath, Michigan.  We’ve outgrown each other.  Here is a poem I wrote after coming home.

Birthing Pittsburgh

Pittsburgh has been pulled from the rivers,
carved from the forests and Appalachian foothills
until her eyes arose from the windows
of steel mills and coal mines,
until her arms pushed through the mountainside
with concrete tunnels and bridges.

Pittsburgh has been pulled from the rivers,
her hair tangled with hope and opportunity
as the sons of Europe come to take a bride
and fill her fertile womb with the neighborhoods
of Italians, Poles, Slovaks, and Africans
reaching their hands towards a metal dream.

Pittsburgh has been pulled from the rivers,
abandoned for foreign lovers rich with industry
as she lies weeping for the ones who leave.
Those who believe wipe their dirty faces,
roll up their tattered sleeves,
and help her rebuild.

I’m having a rough time today.  My Dad fell and broke his hip yesterday, and with him being terminally ill, he is in a tremendous amount of pain.  He needs surgery too, and the doctors are afraid of serious complications, but the fracture is too serious not to do the surgery.

First, the Challenge:

I got two acceptance letters in the mail today (yay!).  First I want to tell you about Raw Dog Press.  They do a series of Poetry Posts every year.  Its a set of postcards with short poetry works on them.  My poem, Among the Rubble, was chosen to be a part of this years series (and did I mention, YAY!)  There website is http://rawdogpress.bravehost.com/ if you’d like to check it out. 

So you’re mission, if you choose to accept it, is to write a poem of 9 lines or less and post it on your site.  If you’re feeling jazzed about the concept, maybe do a few of them and send them on to Raw Dog.

Second, the Crowing:

I’ve always been a big fan of The Iconoclast poetry magazine.  They have previously rejected me (oh well, comes with the trade) but this time around they have accepted my poem “Lie–A Rolling Stone.”  I know its somewhere on my blog if you want to look around…maybe last summer?  Anyway, many thanks to LadySongbird who helped me title it as I wasn’t able really to think of anything and as a general rule, hate to leave work untitled.

Three, a Poem (of course):

The floppy with “Among the Rubble” is back at the office so I’ll post it later.  Here is a short poem I sent Raw Dog that got rejected but that I liked anyway.  Remember to let me know if you decide to write a short poem.

Yellow Dog

My little yellow dog is sick
and this is our last day together.
Chico sniffs as we walk
in the park, his hips stiff
from arthritis.  He hops
towards a squirrel.
I am glad for the sunshine.

This is one I tried to write ages ago and gave up on.  Here’s my attempt at a rewrite.  Still not sure it does anything for me so please give feedback.

You reached out and
cupped the back of my head,
pressing your lips
forcefully to mine,
opening your mouth
and mine to the taste
of each other.

It was as if a great
division occurred,
separating my life
into two hemispheres.
One side holding all the moments
before we touched and
the other, the transformation
of passion on the life
of this woman ever
and forever after.

This was a Featured Grownups topic.  I don’t always get to all of them, but this one intrigued me.

If I knew then what I know now

1.  I had a particularly tumultuous six-year manipulationship from ages 19 through 25.  I wish I would have known then that overweight girls ARE beautiful, loveable, and valued by the right man.  Another lesson that I have since learned from that difficult era was that my life is made up of so much more than my romantic relationships and that good sex is not equal to good love.

2.  I would have taken more chances.  My mother was a fundamentalist Christian who was afraid of everything and everyone.  She would have these “prophetic visions” of me coming to a “bad end” if I did anything or hung out with anyone that she didn’t approve of.  I was afraid of these dreams until my late teens/early twenties.  I finally started taking chances and I realized two things:  bad things do not happen when you have a little fun and my mom’s visions were full of hooey.  But I sure have had fun making up for lost time…

3.  I would have stood up for myself more and learned how to say “no” with love for the other person and respect for myself.  The people that really matter won’t need you to please them 100% of the time.

So, that’s my list.  As time goes on, I have fewer and fewer regrets.  The things that have/haven’t happened to me did or did not happen for a reason.  The things that I have done and haven’t done are what have shaped me into the person I am now, and I really like me.