Monthly Archives: May 2018

Postscript 1

Stories seem as tall as the lake is deep,
say the news reports. They’re looking again
for Nessie, this time with genetic sweeps.
I recall wading in mud, silt. Back then,
as if warm waters held whispers of sweet,
of gentleness, tenderness — invisible
seaweed stroked my ankle, cool in the heat,
while silt filmed my foot, and (immiscible)
floated away on the currents, settled,
then rose over and over in journeys
expected, erratic, like one petal
falling after rain. Some stories (Nessie’s?)
grow with each telling, while others scatter,
dissolve, as if washed away, or shattered.

Bobby, Billie, and Blue

Them with their spate of the blues, or us dancing our own
alphabet soup in tandem? (Just a jump to the left.
And then a hop to the right.) Yeah, you bet it was hot.
How hot was it? So hot I learned sweat can suck the blues
right out of my hair, and blotch my forehead with old griefs

and a new map of continents I’ve not yet seen, still …
blue. And blue. And turquoise. And blue moons. Billie
crooned out her loneliness years before I was born,
her jazzy call for a swing-step foxtrot love of her own,
bedazzled with saxophone, trumpet, and clarinet
dancing step/step/rock-step over the piano. That’s hot.

Kiddo’s been playing Flash Fire Fever (also jazzy),
and Sandy posted about her new poem, “Dijon Sky,”
“a little hot on the tongue (this dog has panted out).”

That hot. That yellow. That blue. Dancing robots, and us,
old cyborgs that we are, all the broken bits and cracks
and worn out weakness that washes away in waters

rinsing today’s laundry; doing what has to be done,
doing the things that carry us one day closer to
when we can do nothing, with no one. Time to let go
of my own leash, at least to think about it. Sandy
also posted the last lines of Adrienne’s “Splittings.”

Hard to believe, but I don’t remember ever reading
this one before. All the things I’ve missed out on, the time
I’ve wasted. Time to oil the Tin Man until he shines,
give him that new heart he keeps bellyaching about,
and see what happens. Step/step/rock-step. Maybe a spin.

Pause, Rewrite, Repeat

I hear you, at least I think so. Not sure,
cuz I’ve got “nothing left to lose” buzzing
in my brain as an earworm; been drinking
too much cold coffee too late in the day.

Janis thought feeling good was easy, but,
well, easier for some than for others.
Not so easy for me. What about thee?
I can’t call this my Bobby McGee piece.

I’d thought of “me and my shadow,” but that’s
a bit subtle, when really it’s just me
and my PTSD strolling down the street,
my brain playing the egg game — a smooth shell

for show, the white behind frothing up with
what-ifs and worries, and in back the yolk,
relaxed and safe and rarely seen. My kind
of Trinity on this so doctrinal

summer Sunday. (Lawn mower buzzes past
the window. I picked up some lemonade
at the corner store, gave the dog a bath.
Practical tenderness. Boyo and I

went beep-boink head-butt before walking in
to watch Infinity War. Affection
performed roughly.) I know the story that
kept me locked up. Sometimes we need to write

our stories out, sometimes we can’t find words.
Sometimes we need to rewrite old stories,
or let them rewrite us, writing over
whoever we thought we’d be. I dunno.

Maybe life stories need editors, or
autopilots for mid-flight corrections.
(I confess, though, as a rewrite, I’m not
fond of “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.”)

Of Midnight and Morning

Midnight blurred my welcome-home photo of the bosomy blooms —
nippled at the stem, freckled at the throat, and tongued with stamens.

Your midnight wanderings shade to my too-bright morning, the chill
breeze over my face, the dog curled on my belly. And so day

opens like the window, to Facebook, Twitter, your good wishes,
your new poem. A deck of cards was in one of the packages

which arrived during my travels — the sweet Jane Austen, sealed with
the Ace of Spades, and epigraphed with “You pierce my soul. I am

half agony, half hope … I have loved none but you.” Stupid quote.
It’s from Persuasion, her last novel, but so childish. We can

argue about it later. Or agree. Or whatever. Now
is now. It’s time. It’s time, and it’s been time, and it continues

to be time. Time stretches out opportunity like waking.
Yesterday, the loud-mouthed butch in the back of the bus

hollered, “I just want to get a hotel!” and then, “I think I’m
having second thoughts.” Her non-idea, so random, so sharp

and pointedly personal … well. The bus took notice. Today,
I swap footies with neon sunglasses for knee-highs of bold

red-faced spider-monkeys with bananas, and run for the bus.
Which I miss, of course. I wait with red poppies, blue irises,

thin-fingered pink honeysuckles. I wait with the words in which
you take delight. The words that melt in my mouth buzz against lips;

sputter, spark, and melt against the tongue — vapor, vellum, velvet,
vivid, voluptuous, vulva. The alphabet makes me swoon.

What Else Could I Say?

Sure, I think. Then, sure, I say, having known that “sure”
was what I would say from the moment I saw your

invitation with my name in it. I shivered

with the same kind of frisson I felt last weekend

when I stood on an open balcony, looked down
dizzily from the 18th floor. I did not know

that someone else was also looking down, also
shivering, but I stepped back then, sure of that edge
in that moment not belonging to me. And now,
I’m on terra firma, well, rather, on the bus,

reading what you have written with my name in it,

remembering when I hid your name in a poem,

years ago. No one found it. Now, disembarking
from the bus, I walk past a riot of flowers —

lilacs, phlox, azaleas — all shades of plump purples,

the yellow dandelions teething on my fingers.

My shadow stretches out long & lean by my door.
The plan for tonight is to unpack my bags; sort

all the mail that came while I was traveling —
piles and piles of it (9 packets, 9 magazines
only one of which I’d ordered, 12 envelopes,
and 38 streamers advertising Whole Foods);
and shower, because the travel is stuck to me

like bad dreams in the morning, because a quiet

moment can be a very good thing, and because

clean is a comfort, at times. The shower comes first,
before dinner, before sleep, but after hugging
the kid hello. I change into something simple —

a pair of sweats named “Rouge” but labelled “Love,”

a tshirt with a mermaid looking out to sea.

On Writing a Month of Sonnets for #NaPoWriMo

I’ve never done the self-reflection part of NaPoWriMo before. I’ve never tried to write a sonnet a day for a month, either! Which was … interesting.

I actually ended up with a total of 33 sonnets for a 30 day month. What happened was that there were two days with family crises where I didn’t get a sonnet written, and I didn’t want to not make the 30, so I kept going. And then, I wanted to end with a flourish, and I really wanted to try to write a sonnet crown, so … I ended up with 33. Just a few extra.

A sonnet crown involves a sonnet sequence where each sonnet begins with the last line of the sonnet preceding it in the sequence, and then the final sonnet in the sequence ends with the first line of the first sonnet in the sequence. Sonnet crowns are also supposed to be thematically linked, and technically written entirely in Shakespearean sonnet form. Depending on which authority you consult, sonnet crowns have either 14 or 15 or 7 sonnets in the sequence, or the number may be unspecified. I wanted all the poems in my sonnet crown to start with the letter “Z,” and found six words that really leaped out at me as being connected, so mine has six sonnets. Some folk will probably say it doesn’t count as a true sonnet form, but I’m pretty happy with how it turned out.

I also really wanted to explore a variety of sonnet forms, and I had this idea of doing a sonnet series titled with all the letters of the alphabet. Before starting this project I wrote most of my sonnets in variations of the Shakespearean or English sonnet form. I sometimes would mix things up with a sonnet in the Spenserian or Petrarchan/Italian sonnet form. (By “variation,” I mean that I’m not terribly good at really working the iambic pentameter, and would instead do a syllabic count for the line length, irrespective of whether the lines were comprised of iambs or a mix of spondee, trochee, dactyls, or anapest. It’s a little less musical, but a lot more flexible. I also will use slant rhymes or near rhymes instead of strict rhymes.) I hadn’t done much else, and I wasn’t really aware of other sonnet forms. Did you know there are almost 200 different named sonnet forms?! 179, actually. Wow. I didn’t, either.


So, I still did most of the sonnets in my regular Shakespearean sonnet form, but I explored some other forms, as well. Here is a list of the sonnets by the form I was trying to work with.

The “so-called American sonnet ‘form.’ (FYI, there are at least two other sonnet forms called “American” [one, two] which are far more stringent than this version used by Billy Collins, Ted Berrigan, Terrence Hayes, Wanda Coleman, Daniel Bailey, etc.): Annoying American Sonnet, Piano Sonata Sonnet

Busta: Blue Sonnet

Clare: Monday Sonnet, Delirium Sonnet, Forbidden Sonnet 2, Forbidden Sonnet 3

Envelope: Necromancy Sonnet

Grammarian: Jaguar Sonnet

Hinged Double Sonnet (other double sonnet forms and another double sonnet example): Yellow Sonnet

Hybrid: Xenophobia Sonnet

Original: Question Sonnet (duodecisyllabic lines, ‘rhyming’ xAxxAxxAxxAxxA)

Petrarchan: Easter Sonnet, Kaguyahime Sonnet

Rosarian: Orange Sonnet

Shakespearean: Hearts Sonnet, Giving Up Sonnet, Tomorrow Sonnet, Robots Sonnet, Vermin Sonnet, Ice Storm Sonnet, Forbidden Sonnet 1, Ukelele Sonnet

Shakespearen, modified: Couch Sonnet (octosyllabic lines, except for closing couplet)

Sonnet Crown (more on sonnet crowns: Academy of American Poets, Poets Garret, Poetry Foundation, Wikipedia): The Z Sonnets

Turkey’s Delight: Luz Sonnet

Visser: Walking the Dog Sonnet

Word: Self-Denial Sonnet


I prepared for the project as I do most years — deciding on a theme, and for a month or two before jotting down lines and fragments and words that inspire at those moments. Sometimes I even remember why, but often I just use these as a source of prompts when I get into the writing. Because I was using the alphabet to frame the collection of sonnets, I alphabetized my collection of prompts.

Each day, I’d look at the list of what I’d written so far, my alphabetical index of titles, and see which letters were still left. I’d look at the alphabetized list of prompts. Many days I’d look at the official NaPoWriMo prompts or Luisa Igloria’s prompts. I never had any idea what I was going to write that day, except for the Forbidden series and the Z Sonnets. The Z Sonnets I had planned out the titles, which I wanted to write about in alphabetical order, but other than that had no real plan. The Forbidden series of sonnets came about because I brainstormed what to write about for that word and had way too many ideas.

This year, NaPoWriMo felt like performance art. I hadn’t thought of the possibility for sonnets to be a kind of improvisational act! I realized the power of the audience to shape what I was writing. Some of the pieces came from nuggets other people said, or were reactions to pieces other people wrote. One of the sonnets featured snippets from a Facebook post a friend had made only moments before I started writing, at the end of the day, when I was desperate for inspiration. That turned out to be one of the most popular poems in the series.

Most days I was surprised and delighted by what happened. I discovered the delights of the volta. I’ve developed a desire to explore MORE of the sonnet forms. Each one has its own challenges, strengths, and weaknesses. I’d like to get to a point where I could match a poem inspiration to a form that is suited to it. Well, I can kind of do that with villanelles, but not yet with sonnets or other poetic forms.

I realized how little space there is in a sonnet. It’s tiny tight nuggets of concepts and images. Often I wanted to say much, much more. At the same time, I found working in a tight form to make the process of NaPoWriMo in some ways simpler easier. Working in sonnets, with the alphabetical titles, and all those restrictions meant there was less emotional labor in the poems, and more cognitive labor. It was a kind of giant puzzle.

The poem writing time usually comes out of my sleep time, and by the end of the month, I am drained and flattened with exhaustion. I do start the poems on the bus in the morning, jot bits and pieces throughout the say, but I don’t get to actual assembly until my son goes to bed and I have clear uninterrupted quiet time. As he gets older, that gets later, and my NaPoWriMo work gets harder and more exhausting each year. Realizing how much easier the strict form made things, I’m debating about perhaps taking on a sonnet redoublé or heroic crown next year. The risk of taking on too much form is that you may lose the emotional drive to write the poems. If they become overly intellectual, they are cute rather than touching, so I’m not sure about this yet. I suspect I’ll be reading a lot more sonnets while I ponder this.

Usually, I write most of my poetry during April, explicitly because of NaPoWriMo. As a single mom of a special needs kid, with a demanding professional career that is most definitely not poetry, it’s … hard. But I have always been a poet and always wanted to be a poet, and turned down a fellowship in a poetry MFA program to go to grad school in a program with a future that would allow me to support my kids on my own. Each year, I want to keep the poems going, and just become too tired. I really want to not drop out this year. I’m thinking I might be able to keep it going if I try to do one poem a week. I’m thinking probably Sundays. So, watch this space, and see if I can do it. Moral support welcomed!!

The Z Sonnets (A Cajun Crown)

Original version links:

Eh voilá, l’assemblage complète!


* Zest

The whole Cajun branch of the clan had spunk.
Zesty? “Yes, you better believe it, chère.”
(That’s what my grandma called me, in a funk,
when she wanted me to listen and care
about the old Cajun stories, but not
too much, because that was her job, not mine.)
She’d nod solemnly, pursed mouth, and then rock
back in the green and white lawnchair, sip wine,
shaded by our Iowa hackberry.
This was before indoor air, before shade
became redundant in summer, when we
carved our lives around weather, lemonade
and lime pie, water with a twist of rind,
storms that just twist, and old gals still sharp-eyed.

* Zing

Storms that just twist, and old gals still sharp-eyed,
but we’re going to twist away, blow their minds.
Let them pop! We’ll Lindy Hop side by side,
step and slide, glide and grind, until we find
the bang-a-rang zing-tone ringing out loud,
the glue that got Colinda in trouble
with mama, ‘cuz dancing tight’s not allowed.
No bad boys, bad girls? Just stick close, double
trouble, we’ll find a way. I’m shifting gears
from Blue Moon to Atomic Turquoise. Sway
with me, I say, whirl. Mama isn’t here
now. You know what she’d say. Dance anyway.
Whisper in my ear. I’ll whisper in yours.
So many ways for two to fit through doors.

* Zipper

So many ways for two to fit through doors,
but simplest is to hook arms together,
the way cotton bolls can stick to the bur,
the way zipper hooks catch on each other.
My grandma picked cotton. My mama, too,
summers, when she was little. My grandma
cooked for nuns; sewed zippers in cashmere wool,
blue satin, wine red jacquard, black broadcloth.
The broadcloth was for her, but the others
were for fancy folk. She saved up the scraps
to make dress-up clothes for my dolls, covers
and coats, wide brim hats and ballgowns with straps,
snaps, & ties instead of zippers. Make do,
do what needs doing. Those things she knew.

* Zodiac

Do what needs doing — those things she knew.
She knew not to talk when the stars were out.
To set the table, make salads, and do
the dishes, but nothing else. Never shout.
The alligator lay down with the goat,
and the goat cried. The pelican flies off
without hearing. Nuzzling, then spurned, the shoat
wanders into a trap. Cottonmouth scoffs
loudly, hisses with rage. Mosquitos whine,
the possum hides in a bucket buzzing
with flies. Swamp music and vines carve a sign,
a sky littered with critters, just busting
out full of danger and awe. The goat cried,
keeping quiet such a long time, dry-eyed.

* Zombie

Keeping quiet such a long time, dry-eyed
and wet-boned, gone all limp and loose and lost.
There’s the little cave they keep you in, tied
to bricks so you won’t float away, arms crossed
over your chest. Is that to hold your heart
in your body? Does it really matter?
Some day, you’ll get out — a black arts jump start
for all the bits and pieces in tatters,
or do you even need that? It feels like
the nightmares that surround you don’t let go,
and bad dreams alone could raise you lifelike,
guide you along an astral tether, so,
right back to where we began, in a park,
with a shimmy and a shiver in the dark.

* Zydeco

With a shimmy & a shiver in the dark,
let’s dance a two-step while the squeezebox curves
in the light, ripples with movement, with sparks
that bounce & sizzle. Sweaty dancers swerve,
missing other dancers, tent posts, and chairs.
This is music made out of leftovers —
hay rakes & spoons, washboards & croons, old cares
& new wounds, cut & cut down like covers
& quilts. Nonc Pee-Wee had a Cajun band,
but grandma grumped he sang more like a frog;
said, “Only dirty people speak French!,” and
lost her cool when grandpa muttered, “Coon dog,”
(except the word he actually used stunk).
The whole Cajun branch of the clan had spunk.