Beth Camp's Blog, page 77
April 7, 2013
G is for 'Good golly, Miss Molly . . .'
Seattle. 1958. Once we were inside,
past the young men smoking
and standing by the door in clumps,
past the lines at the bathrooms,
the cloakroom, down the long hallway
and into the darkened ballroom,
strobe lights flashed through the crowd.
It was never about the words:
we couldn't start dancing fast enough:
the wailing saxophone, that stride piano,
the drums, everyone pressed close,
past the young men smoking
and standing by the door in clumps,
past the lines at the bathrooms,
the cloakroom, down the long hallway
and into the darkened ballroom,
strobe lights flashed through the crowd.
It was never about the words:
we couldn't start dancing fast enough:
the wailing saxophone, that stride piano,
the drums, everyone pressed close,
April 6, 2013
F is for Fats . . .
They rolled a beat-up piano
right in the middle of the basketball court
in our tiny high-school gym.
You, Fats, banged out stride while the sweat
rolled down your face.
We danced white-kids' bop not five feet away
and fell in love with your gravel-voice
and your music -- "Blueberry Hill,"
"I'm Walkin' to New Orleans,"
and "Ain't That a Shame."
I never knew a piano could sing like that.
I
right in the middle of the basketball court
in our tiny high-school gym.
You, Fats, banged out stride while the sweat
rolled down your face.
We danced white-kids' bop not five feet away
and fell in love with your gravel-voice
and your music -- "Blueberry Hill,"
"I'm Walkin' to New Orleans,"
and "Ain't That a Shame."
I never knew a piano could sing like that.
I
E is for Elvis . . .
Elvis 1968 (Wikipedia)
Screaming teen-aged girls
mobbed him;
Blues-loving fans adored him;
Guys hated him.
Adults were outraged, but
Elvis was a soft-spoken
young man from the south,
a bad boy wearing leathers,
a parent's nightmare
with heavy-lidded eyes,
so nervous when he sang,
he jiggled his legs;
his cross-over music
a tribute to the blues, he topped
the charts over and over again.
I
Screaming teen-aged girls
mobbed him;
Blues-loving fans adored him;
Guys hated him.
Adults were outraged, but
Elvis was a soft-spoken
young man from the south,
a bad boy wearing leathers,
a parent's nightmare
with heavy-lidded eyes,
so nervous when he sang,
he jiggled his legs;
his cross-over music
a tribute to the blues, he topped
the charts over and over again.
I
April 4, 2013
D is for Delight . . .
When I write, I relax into almost meditation, a focus on other than myself, the routine of early morning driving the day's writing goals into something that wasn't there before. And so,
I write in delight,
always somewhat surprised
to see words
arrange themselves
on the page.
Writing drives me to detail
that single, lost Canada goose
heading south last night in the dusk,
alone, honking,
as if
I write in delight,
always somewhat surprised
to see words
arrange themselves
on the page.
Writing drives me to detail
that single, lost Canada goose
heading south last night in the dusk,
alone, honking,
as if
April 3, 2013
C is for Cow-licious . . .
A Swiss Braunvieh cow contemplates nature (Wikipedia)
Let us go to the far hill,
my well-flanked one.
We'll stand there in quiet.
I'll ruminate.
You'll munch on the grass.
Together we'll watch
the young ones butt heads
and run in circles.
And we'll remember
those long ago days of spring.
Today's poem was inspired by a story we overheard at the T-J Diner just north of Medford, Oregon, as we
Let us go to the far hill,
my well-flanked one.
We'll stand there in quiet.
I'll ruminate.
You'll munch on the grass.
Together we'll watch
the young ones butt heads
and run in circles.
And we'll remember
those long ago days of spring.
Today's poem was inspired by a story we overheard at the T-J Diner just north of Medford, Oregon, as we
April 2, 2013
B is for Blur . . .
"Blur"
You could not see his face
for you met on the internet.
His words drew you in,
until you were nearly lost in love,
words tumbling between you.
He lived somewhere
between London and Norway;
He searched for someone exactly like you,
offering love, marriage, a new life together.
I broke the bond.
An internet search brought
multiple photos, different names, and
the same fractured syntax,
You could not see his face
for you met on the internet.
His words drew you in,
until you were nearly lost in love,
words tumbling between you.
He lived somewhere
between London and Norway;
He searched for someone exactly like you,
offering love, marriage, a new life together.
I broke the bond.
An internet search brought
multiple photos, different names, and
the same fractured syntax,
April 1, 2013
A is for April
A is for April, another round of ROW80 begins today, as does the A-Z Challenge and a-poem-a-day to celebrate National Poetry Month. So, first the poem:
"Anniversary"
Two camellia trees lean together,
like old friends, like lovers
who put roots down
when the house was new and filled with children.
Blossoms red and white litter the garden
an invitation to stroll here
as spring rounds
"Anniversary"
Two camellia trees lean together,
like old friends, like lovers
who put roots down
when the house was new and filled with children.
Blossoms red and white litter the garden
an invitation to stroll here
as spring rounds
March 26, 2013
April and poetry, etc, etc.
I write and no matter where I am,
or in which century,
each word builds story
as the doves chitter and sit on the garden wall
in this Tucson morning sun.
Already the mountain laurel and the marguerites bloom,
the wind chime tinkles softly,
and the palo verde glows green with spring.
April promises to be intense. I'm getting ready for the next round of ROW80 (A Round of Words in 80 Days), which
or in which century,
each word builds story
as the doves chitter and sit on the garden wall
in this Tucson morning sun.
Already the mountain laurel and the marguerites bloom,
the wind chime tinkles softly,
and the palo verde glows green with spring.
April promises to be intense. I'm getting ready for the next round of ROW80 (A Round of Words in 80 Days), which
March 22, 2013
Scintilla Day 9: Lost
When I was in my early twenties, dreaming of going back to school, my hippie sister came up out of the wilds of Mendocino County, dragging her adorable kids, Chrissy 5 and Dale 6.
"You take them," she said. "You've got a job, you've got a life." And so I became a mom, arranged a babysitter, bought clothes, cooked proper meals, read good night stories, and fell in love all over again. My sister
"You take them," she said. "You've got a job, you've got a life." And so I became a mom, arranged a babysitter, bought clothes, cooked proper meals, read good night stories, and fell in love all over again. My sister
March 20, 2013
March 20: Scintilla Day 8: It was the best of feasts . . .
Thanksgiving. My sister and I invited eighteen people to gather for an unforgettable meal. We spent hours shopping, cutting, preparing, stewing, boiling, baking. Every special food had been prepared for this four-course Swedish Thanksgiving feast. We took more time in the kitchen than planned. People wandered in and out, encouraging us, for we had prepared no appetizers. By the time we sat down
