L U M I N A * N O S T R I

 Baile  de Lana El dinero poderoso, energético,  viene, va, crece Aprovechamos de la riqueza de bondad, seguridad, amor. el efectivo  Money Dance Money powerful, energetic comes, goes, grows Let's enjoy the wealth of kindness, safety, love. Cash * poema cinquain is something my 2nd grader taught me from Ms Avila's class.  I n response to the prompt "Another Prompt, Another Dollar 11th Annual Getaway 2004 "  by  Peter Murphy  found in his collection called  Challenges for the Delusional , edited by  Christine Malvasi .  

Timely We begin with unmitigated contact, then permanent separation. Our growing away from each other is divine, yet is personal too. Everyone knows her before she becomes my teacher. My mom is -capital I- Involved. Tempus fugit. Yes, Ovid, for us too. The growing apart lays open an ever deepening ocean between us. The kind into which we both want to dip our toes. We wave our hands frantically from each shore. I see her in her Trump hat, her fear of MS13. I think she can see me here, but she’s refusing to read my signage. Margaret Johnson says “Time is a fixed income—“ Mom budgets on the back  of Sunday’s prayers. “—The problem facing most of us is how to live within our daily allotment.”  We begin believing ourselves inseparable. Are we, alas, wrong?    I n response to the prompt "Time and Again, 11th Annual Getaway 2004 "  by  Peter Murphy  found in his collection called  Challenges for the Delusional , edited by  Christine Malvasi . ...

I n response to the prompt "Your Name Here 10th Annual Getaway 2003 "  by  Peter Murphy  found in his collection called  Challenges for the Delusional , edited by  Christine Malvasi .     "There are few nudities so objectionable as the naked truth." Agnes Repplier (my first crack at a pantoum) The story of my name comes with a fee.  It is not something I would easily confess. "Little princess," her love calls me, my mother, the genetrix, who puts it to rest. It's something a girl doesn't just confess, see? "Emma?" My classmates laugh in jest. The genetrix makes a deal over tea. She promises two nannies their names she'd progress.  "Emma?" my classmates laugh in jest. "Me?" "Which is it?" my poetry teacher would egress. She promises two nannies their names, so I've three. She answered herself- "Ruth,"- her own address.  The story of my name comes with a fee. Three whole names. Quite a fancy d...

  Kid Stuff I n response to the prompt "Joisey 10th Annual Getaway 2003 "  by  Peter Murphy  found in his collection called  Challenges for the Delusional , edited by  Christine Malvasi .   In elementary school, as a little girl, already keen on accents, the way they widen the world,  my dream vacation is New Jersey.  The land of cousins who are our same age,  of storied slurpee-machine adventures,  mythical refillable soda cups, times infinity. Jersey swoops up my best friend every summer. Sends her back with a tan, a hair wrap, a smile, and such funny stories.   When family from Hoboken visits, I attend the parties, I sit next to the extra seats  at the town parade. We have a fresh face to take boogie boarding.  We build a new appreciation for our Pacific.  In junior high, I send and receive transcontinental  AOL Instant Messages, to boys who are not my family,   but technically one da...

Today’s Murphy Prompt was on Making/Unmaking. Enjoy!   First Cre8tive Cluster It starts with the intention to believe something wild like “you’ll always have everything you need. No need to worry.” You fake-believe it ‘til you make-believe it. You post it to your journals, your mirrors, then your walls. Finally, the windows too. That’s when you listen to Golda Mier say “Don’t be so humble— you’re not that great.” It startles you, puts a little shake in your leg, but you keep moving. Now there is no other choice but to draw attention to yourself. You call to the others, “Come out, it’s alright.” One by one they come, some early, some late. and like a slumber party there is no sleep. The three of you start something, then, joyfully awake.

  Today’s prompt was to write postcard length about a postcard. An Enthusiast Can Appreciate One When She Sees One. Whosever idea this was You— are an animal. Wearing peanuts on your pants?  Across your chest? Down your arms? An absurd fringe! I am dying to hear  how they dangle, feel the weight of their swish. Then, these accoutrements! The cornucopia  sits at your hip, a column topped with a peanut plant Shadows your cane. So, What am I—she who picked you up And carried you home?

Field Notes Aging at Thirty Nine             reads “you’ve got a romantic evening ahead,”  and thinks of Thai ice cream, and her vibrator. Aging at Thirty Nine             wonders when Life’s Sudden Rise is coming. “Is this the wrong stop? Something delay the line?” Aging at Thirty Nine             finds out her kid’s wart cream also staves off wrinkles. Say out loud to the pharmacist, “score!”  Aging at Thirty Nine              says yes to fast food— she’s on her period.  She’ll do her best not cry while she waits in line. How old was Napoleon when he said “obscurity is forever”? Aging at Thirty Nine              wonders if Glory’s fleeted, once and for all.  Aging at Thirty Nine               cuddles her kids like human stuffies, loves clean socks, makes herself warm tea. A...

  Family Vacation   You whine,  You scream hit, kick, bite. You are Agony. People gawk. Uncle yells the way Dad might if he were here. Hold on— more than this — to how when we march Meadow we, sundripped, reach Stream, You, with the soft of your  six year old hand touch the sharp smell of Pine, And you look up. You are Wonder

My Elegy, Just In Case In Honor of the Many Families in the USA Living in and Experiencing Inhumane Terror from ICE If I die, survive me by memorizing  Neruda's number seven-o-five, not by this "scribble-scrabble" you would call it; n ot this, which I write as a stubborn warm winter cries "morning", and I here, alone set in my favorite sun-patch, much like our cats.  Don't picture me here, waving and whispering to the ancestors through the bees nor them as they waggle and hum through our lavender bush out front.  Rather, recite whole-heartedly his words, sing them out to the trees, no peeking! Do not trouble yourself with mine. I am gone.  Yes, this used-to-be-teacher, self proclaimed artist, everyday mom (who loves you, kid, and don't you forget it: Top to bottom, inside outside, forwards and backwards, near or far,  no matter what!) is gone.  Remember that and this: that you, my darling,  always know where you can  find my love. I n response to...

I thought I had ten minutes to write this but I now have less than two

In response to the prompt "Humor and Heteronyms; 5th Annual Getaway" 1999 by Peter Murphy found in his collection called Challenges for the Delusional , edited by Christine Malvasi .   Molten Mouth It happens, again, and again. My lies erupt. My lies blow the top right off. I am a volcano dying to be a hill.  My white hot fingers stretch out and onward, My white hot fingers change everything I touch, save a little mouse who finds high ground, again, and again. She sees my lies and offers back her honest “squeak.”

Port of Nice Berthe Morisot, My patron saint,  Made her escape. Set herself free. A woman on a boat to paint boats.  On the shore, family vacation, the horrible public. See how she leaves the edges bare! The horrible public, family vacation, on the shore. To paint boats A woman on a boat. Set herself free.  made her escape. My patron saint, Berthe Morisot.

  What in the World? Tomorrow night I double booked myself.  Either I go listen to a man who  used to be a boy who  (I am pretty sure) looked down my shirt my first time to Europe  talk about the ren-AI-ssance. Or I go listen to a woman who I heard was a writer, filmmaker, artist, who  I  now  understand is none other than  the  Miranda July. old loyalties don't die so hard when faced with the fear of unmatched artistic freedom The answer of course, is obvious,  and I have every excuse either way. As always, it's me who has to choose, me who has to choose. 

  Make Believe I've been calling myself a writer again,  though I've no publications of note. My only readings are the public library kind, where anyone who's willing can try.  I've been calling myself a writer again,  even though I finished the draft five months ago,  printed it out at three, and have only now begun to edit, with help of a guide.  I've been calling myself a writer again,  like a kid wearing mommy's glasses,  in an adult-sized sequined gown,  some gigantic silver shoes. The word is outsized on me,  disproportionate, this close to a lie but in a way that to the mirror I can laugh, and say "cute."

 Appreciation for A Warm Morning In January The hillside where my black bench sits insists on springing to life. It splashes purple and green around with abandon. As if it were new-bride-season, as if baby bunnies were rising again. How futile, my protest wait, but its winter! Who am I to say, who am I to say?

Content warning: homophobic slur/sexual assault Women and Gender Minorities Groups “Lesbians,” “d*kes,” “flirts,” “sluts,” being in a body is excruciating  being in a body is excruciating  Say what we will about  non-cis-men,  but not one  e ver took —without asking—  from me the impossible  to give  back. 

Soak Frog songs, again hullabaloo, then quiet. The crowd doesn’t stop them— everyone out there, belching  signature discordant croaks. The crowd emboldens them, Then strikes the listener deaf. It’s stopped. Hear that? Nothin’. Seems Nature has a maestro,  giving all these soloists their cue. Is it the fantom of an owl wing? Or does a shadow, shaped blue heron, stalk through pale marshes at night ?  Or is it that— just like for the rest of us— singing their hearts out is more delicious when they take a moment to stop, to soak in rest?

Frog Music When January is warm out even in the afternoons I hear frog music all jubilee, all bliss. Night may try to dampen their spirit, but no luck. Fool-hearty, they sing Summer, or Spring. I have nothing profound to say not about frog music, anyway. I just wanted to write down that I noticed. 

 I Don't Like Poems That Make Me Sound "Troubled" ~ If I am always going to be in trouble, I may as well  make it count.  ~ Instead of missing curfew by five minutes, I am on time ~ so drunk I have to crawl, hands and knees, to our front door. ~ Instead of staying up too late chatting on the phone, or internet,  ~ I am busted for sneaking away in broad daylight to meet that boy in the parking lot of our store.  ~ Instead of tardies,  I skip class altogether. ~ I get high in that neighborhood, watch raindrops race to merge on the pane. ~ If I am always going to be  in trouble, I may as well make it count.  ~ Does this count? ~ Does this?

Beware The Objective Genitive (alt. title: Grammar’s a bitch) ~ My business’s name is a mistake,  Yet, there are no mistakes. I’ve found  ~ in languages that are not my own I often tell on myself, reveal ~ my intentions more awkwardly than the subtleties of my mother- ~ tongue. There is no hiding when Grammar comes to call, “lumina nostris [sunt] and Lumina Nostri are not the same.”  he spits. ~ My business name is not Our Lights as my mother-tongue first lead me to believe. ~ It’s Lights Upon Us, but only if we believe  that which we create— ~ those over which we endure our passions are never within our possession. ~ No,  not really. Rather, they are what we reach for  sempiternally.

 Morning Space When you have dreams that from the floor you see your favorite student shot; that your partnership with the man there is founded on being brave enough to treat the wound in his groin— those are the mornings you say yes to the light you want even if you have to scootch the cat. You go outside to go inside, and try to keep finding, —from ridge to crow to purple flower to leaf— that great sky everyone keeps talking about. You fight the urge to text your gal pal, hold off on listening to that voicemail from a certain him. You allow yourself to check your virtual car windshield, see if anyone in your community has left you a little note. The emails from your poet friends and that one comedian, so skinny and cute, these make it in, make you smile. This is the best you can do. This is the best you can do.  

 In the House of the Poet I arrive thirty minutes early, palms sweaty, pen in hand,    pause at the poetry library.   When, there while I stand, a little bird tells me "Not yet! You're too soon."  So, I dash away to be not seen from that front room.  I drive to get coffee, but end up with a plant, a new journal a moon garden, a new pen for my hand.  "Is someone here," the women whisper, as I come through the door "Hello, yes it's me, I thought that's what it was open for..." "Welcome!" they say, eyes bright and mouths full "Welcome in, and thank you dear," I watch for the rules.  Shoes on or off? Which seat is required? "Did you see her library? Come, look, be inspired!" That's when I realize, I've walked into a dream her home is a vision I've both always and never seen.  Poems on poems, shelves upon shelves I stand there and marvel, were they sorted by elves? Ceramics, bronze sculptures, figure drawing...

Question re: the Daytime Moons 🌑 🌒 🌓  What if like the moon we submerge ourselves in light caring not for the time being that our edges disappear?

  You know what I haven’t done today? I haven’t written a poem sat down and listened to more than my own heart thrumming “Oh my fucking god!” Haven’t listened to more  than my friend’s heart thrumming “This shit fucking hurts!”  haven’t listened to more  than my kids heart thrumming “Don’t you fucking dare!”  I don’t want to be still in a place where  under the same school roof children are trying to    pass  their quizzes on math facts teachers are trying to meet the moment with strength and patience, office staff are trying to attend to  the systems work of another institution,  in the USA when she’s dead, and he’s been shot, and by the way there’s seven more, and more beyond that and their trapped, and their fundraising and whose organizing, and everyone is  scared, but only some  all  the  time Speaking requires taste, and touch, and feeling, even when we feign otherwise.  Say anything, whether it’s in S...

Morning People ~ Some mornings wake up heart a flutter, first-day-of-class optimism a sense of the day’s infinite possibilities. For those mornings every particle has potential And nothing has as of yet collapsed into waves. ~ Other mornings wake up late. It’s cold. The finite nature of time, open doors, closed ones, cold floors, of unending unmet needs they stand around, gawk, seem to say “Get up. Times a wastin’” ~ Is there not a third option?  A morning who sets the table for both  pours hot tea, offers warm bread and after all mornings have supped and given thanks, bellies full they can all agree ~ That the nature of things is not morning business, and morning business is a bit better without an argument.

In the dream In the dream you are still here at your best, giving me what I want. The ache is still here too. Someone dies something is lost but not you. You call me “sweets” and hold my hand and smell like you always do good. I wake up and starfish, limbs stretching over your absence as if just to check. In the waking dream too then, you are never                        really gone. 

  I found my poem!   I’ve been looking for my poem all day,  and most of last night.  Checked for it under all the blankets  my kids left on the cold floor of our living room,  Kept my eyes peeled for it through  job postings with the city, the county, on Craigslist, Scratched for it the back corners of the fireplace where I stoke the embers to burn anew. Watched for it behind the blinking signal, the blinking cursor, the blinking light.  Dug around for it in that final yoga pose, that hug from my sister, those isles of paint and epoxy too.  Finally I sat. I ate. I gave up. I surrendered my deepest and darkest fears to the page and still, no poem. In defeat, I listened to the writing of my friends, Had the joy of them listening to some old verses of mine. Made jokes, got compliments, and let out some really girlish giggles to top it all off. And wouldn’t you know, my poem came then somersaulting in like I’d known it all along, and together we...