A Name I am called

I reflect on names often. 

Names are power and naming art – fine, text or metaphorical - an underrated skill. (Graduate School paper-2002)

I muse about why I remember some, forget others. 
The power in dropping names. The cultural expectation of name changes.
The confluence of 1950's babies called Susan. The name that sticks 
from childhood. The name friends call you. The name that works best for the day job.
The name that estranged children of steps should call you.
It will not be a paternal title as that is not who I am.
Eventually it may be the name friends call me - because I have done what friends do - 
provide the safety net that enables life to be less harsh. 

I am not a girl named Sue.

Apparently Personal

A name I am called ‘chirps’ out

inquisitive about what I find to my liking

A watch behind the glass case, jewelry in a tangle 

at a tag sale, socks to make comfortable shoes...

I am a mystery that changed her life

Brought her into a zone, re-positioning home

She is daddy’s other little girl, the unexpected

continuation of a faded union, the turf

of parenthood. Still young, enough

to welcome mother in any carnation – recreated

But not familiar like flesh, or morning or cereal with milk,

Parent poured from the gallon jug.

She accepts nurturing 

like a school lesson or vegetable pills, easier to swallow.

Her phrasing of my first name becomes us

in its lacking, in its echo,  

in the absence of mother-less requests

A name I am called, retained since my girlhood, speaks volumes

In her step-zone, as we appear apparently personal

Like poems in the first person.

~ adele houston

1st draft written after hearing Maxine Kumin speak & share in New Haven  2001 International Festival of Ideas. She died in 2014 at the age of double infinity 88.

Markings, Revisited

A Jazz Peace

In reflection with Markings by Dag Hammarskjold

Clap …   … clap, clap

It can take 40 days.

Notice the Markings. Listen for the Lead.

Seek as if to find melody in jazzscape.

The longest journey is the journey inward.

Am I ready, readied

by the life lead. Graced by manna mornings

of verse and parable, graced enough

to be in stillness before beguiling oases,

ridden of carnal flashbacks.

Superficial, fleeting wonder and greed …hindering

Each tapping foot-imprinted. Forward-

back to the calling forth. Knees

grass stained with determination,

forehead glistening with sweet water

of tempered dedication.

Liberate, ..irrespective of the consequences to yourself.

No time to discern.

The conductor pierces the moment: “Here we go”

Sax then Bass. Piano keys riff. Trumpets putt.

No solo in this flight. Every cavity of being
transported as played before

but never jazzed like this.

Clap …   … clap, clap

There is reverb devotion. Echoed Praise. Contagious

adoration of the Markings. My cavities fills. My hands

come together.

Clap …   … clap, clap

Never for the sake of peace and quiet, deny your own experience.

Hiswillbedone – a jazz peace.

Brick,ing morphed

If All the World’s a Cage, … ?

Episode 1: Opus of our ages

Chum was a baritone.

In a cacophony of siblings he tuned out.

Dressed in manly muscle, disposed to callouses, 

he sang havenward, a barista on the edge of other, 

in the hungry spirit of the nation – in a world at war.

Chum-me, food-ration stamps once in-hand on a butter errand

Blinks life out of focus, stoned by the smell of coffee.

The unquestionable truth slips into dark-sided possible.

Catapulted, not coerced, holding still to unifying News.

Radio, rations and service. Filling life preserves with milkweed kapok

Together – a future in business – an only son.

Episode 2: Colors of the Cages

Papy did not hug.

Hand-speaking and baked in the mold: high demand, no mistakes,

he colored between the blood-lines,

kept his stories closely guarded, read the paper

watched the nightly news. His world with color bars 

on TV and discomfort about a women’s movement

gathered some light, corrugated placards readied for ‘half-baked’,

(his words) resistance, well-worn Crayolas, unboxed

and a brick. His war was also a “conflict”.

Overalls, backpack, 10-speed road ready bike and brick.

Author,ing lines of resistance - to author – ity.

An eldest daughter – goes off to college prepared for brick,ing.

Episode 3:  Aromatic Inner sages

Has every one smelled the coffee?

A rear-view mirror on history beset us with melancholy and foreboding

We have the days of our fathers, the years of our distance and now – 

Memory resides in lines. We return again and again. We keep them safely guarded.

Our lenses scratched. Vision muted with walls of images, words and

Adult Coloring Books with fanciful color within the lines whimsy. Brick’ing is legendary. 

The war – is on Truth 

~~~

The prompt was to write a poem with a partner for the title drawn randomly. We drew  All the World a Cage. My partner and I both said we were feeling oppressed by the challenges truth appeared to be having especially in the now varied and constant media and this phrase immediately brought that top of mind.  Before gathering I had started a poem somewhat on the topic of resistance - searching my own history with advocacy for justice. It was very incomplete. My notes follow with the exception of the inserted "title".

Brick,ing

I pledge to resist, author

ing lines of movements

resistance to form

to voice, author-ity,

Father did not hug, Baked in the mold

high demand, no mistakes

hand speaking, Papy preferring to color be

-tween the blood lines.

Crayolas, unboxed

corrugate readied for

'half baked' (his words)

resistance, a brick.

overalls, backpack, bike and brick --

for college, for now, for how?

All the worlds a cage

damaged beyond repair

utterly un-savable.

Saturday Morning Poetry Group

It is always fascinating to see how a group of people respond differently to the same task. We are such a product of our filters, lenses and life experiences. One thing everyone did seem to have in common was wanting others to hear their poem.

Being part of this group helps me take time for reflection. For this I am grateful.

It was an active engagement prompt day. 1st we could, has a team or independently, compose cinquains (five line poems) using three different methods.  Results follow:

Water
is Life.
Sacred river place
Stand with Standing Rock
Protectors

Blood.
pregnant - winter
celebrating, abiding.  Holding
regrets is useless
Tribesmen

Forgone
Conclusion - No
Today we write five lines
To laugh. To Rhyme. To be unstuck
Gleeful.