Beth Camp's Blog, page 83
October 12, 2012
October 12: Passion
Bang. Slam. The house tilts.
Presidential debates notwithstanding,
the living room fills with testosterone.
I hyperventilate. Not even national policy
can be decided without an argument.
We have forgotten civility,
punctuation that brings order to discourse.
“Madame Chair,” pause, paragraph unstated,
I give you snarky innuendo, road rage.
You are the enemy.
We smile with all our
Presidential debates notwithstanding,
the living room fills with testosterone.
I hyperventilate. Not even national policy
can be decided without an argument.
We have forgotten civility,
punctuation that brings order to discourse.
“Madame Chair,” pause, paragraph unstated,
I give you snarky innuendo, road rage.
You are the enemy.
We smile with all our
October 11, 2012
October 11: Was She Pretty?
Here she comes,
my mother, trailing five husbands.
Hollywood starlet, she never asked
if she were pretty. She couldn’t sing.
She couldn’t dance.
Her death began when she was knocked
eighty feet down the freeway;
a roaring semi-truck couldn’t stop in time.
She couldn’t stop in time.
What was she doing on the freeway,
crossing over to the other side?
Trying to cross over to the other
my mother, trailing five husbands.
Hollywood starlet, she never asked
if she were pretty. She couldn’t sing.
She couldn’t dance.
Her death began when she was knocked
eighty feet down the freeway;
a roaring semi-truck couldn’t stop in time.
She couldn’t stop in time.
What was she doing on the freeway,
crossing over to the other side?
Trying to cross over to the other
October 10, 2012
October 10: Morning
As I savor that first easy transition from night to pale dawn,
I leap out of bed and wriggle into the 19th Century,
already setting the scene with storm
und drang, the sense
of sea or prison or some aspect of colonial life
in Van Diemen’s Land in 1842.
Mac and Deidre now deep in the angst of their own morning;
my body becomes their bodies, bruised and shaken,
far from home, lost to
I leap out of bed and wriggle into the 19th Century,
already setting the scene with storm
und drang, the sense
of sea or prison or some aspect of colonial life
in Van Diemen’s Land in 1842.
Mac and Deidre now deep in the angst of their own morning;
my body becomes their bodies, bruised and shaken,
far from home, lost to
October 9, 2012
October 9: Retirement
Steady tick, tick, monotonous tock, an empty sound
this morning, and then tick, tick, tock again.
A battery-run desk clock should not tock,
the inexorable shock of time unraveling.
Outside about a block away, a thrum of cars hums,
stop and go at the corner.
I balk at the mad rush and sip my coffee.
Ah. Clock sounds fade,
the ‘paper’ on the screen invisible.
I write pock-marked
this morning, and then tick, tick, tock again.
A battery-run desk clock should not tock,
the inexorable shock of time unraveling.
Outside about a block away, a thrum of cars hums,
stop and go at the corner.
I balk at the mad rush and sip my coffee.
Ah. Clock sounds fade,
the ‘paper’ on the screen invisible.
I write pock-marked
October 8, 2012
October 8: Granola
In the 1960s, granola
was code for anti-war. We women
gathered in kitchens wearing granny glasses
and long skirts, while the men hunkered outside
by the hand-built illegal yurt deep in the forest,
trying to decide if they should evade the draft.
We used only natural ingredients, butter
fresh churned, organic oats, walnuts gathered last fall
and carefully saved, and honey [white sugar
was code for anti-war. We women
gathered in kitchens wearing granny glasses
and long skirts, while the men hunkered outside
by the hand-built illegal yurt deep in the forest,
trying to decide if they should evade the draft.
We used only natural ingredients, butter
fresh churned, organic oats, walnuts gathered last fall
and carefully saved, and honey [white sugar
October 7, 2012
October 7: Mermaids for free
ALERT: Just for today, October 7, my collection of short stories, The Mermaid Quilt & Other Tales, is FREE on Amazon (KINDLE only) at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0090VHKBC I'm hoping for a few reader reviews. Shameless self-promotion I know, but I'm trying to learn about marketing. Slowly!
Now for today's poem. The prompt comes from Octpowrimo (click to read other writers) and asks us to write a
Now for today's poem. The prompt comes from Octpowrimo (click to read other writers) and asks us to write a
October 6, 2012
October 6: Remember
We
wait for the bride among strangers,
two sisters standing beside a picket fence.
We’re dressed in crisp, white, starched blouses
with ruffled collars and matching jumpers.
I lost a brass button somewhere,
my bangs are too short, and
I peer through my glasses
with a slight smile.
I remember waking later that night,
open suitcases in every room,
then driving through
wait for the bride among strangers,
two sisters standing beside a picket fence.
We’re dressed in crisp, white, starched blouses
with ruffled collars and matching jumpers.
I lost a brass button somewhere,
my bangs are too short, and
I peer through my glasses
with a slight smile.
I remember waking later that night,
open suitcases in every room,
then driving through
October 5, 2012
October 5: Eccentric
Call me sweet, mousy, quiet, unassuming,
rather like a tall librarian who wears glasses
and lurks along the stacks. But know
this:
When I am 70, I shall have flame red hair,
wear décolleté with abandon,
stagger into morning on spike heels,
laugh raucously with my gut, drink beer for breakfast,
give perfect strangers poems written on lavender paper.
One morning you will come to my
rather like a tall librarian who wears glasses
and lurks along the stacks. But know
this:
When I am 70, I shall have flame red hair,
wear décolleté with abandon,
stagger into morning on spike heels,
laugh raucously with my gut, drink beer for breakfast,
give perfect strangers poems written on lavender paper.
One morning you will come to my
October 4, 2012
October 4: Surprise Me!
Surprise me! I wish you would
change night to day.
Morning begins
another round of words,
a familiar litany
of aches and groans and
last night’s doubt:
Why do I write?
The story first, then comes revision,
that torturing of inspiration with rules,
subject/verb agreement being least and last
or even lost
in that moment
when my words bring tears.
I knew a writer who
change night to day.
Morning begins
another round of words,
a familiar litany
of aches and groans and
last night’s doubt:
Why do I write?
The story first, then comes revision,
that torturing of inspiration with rules,
subject/verb agreement being least and last
or even lost
in that moment
when my words bring tears.
I knew a writer who
October 3, 2012
Oct 3: Connections
I come to this
constructed room
each morning --
computer, books,
table.
On the wall,
Frida Khalo,
holding hands
with her divided self,
looks down on
me, and yet
in this moment,
my past, present,
future
all stream into story,
into some sense
that even on days
too full with
obligation,
the African violet
unfolds its newest blossom,
the tiny marble
elephant lifts
its
constructed room
each morning --
computer, books,
table.
On the wall,
Frida Khalo,
holding hands
with her divided self,
looks down on
me, and yet
in this moment,
my past, present,
future
all stream into story,
into some sense
that even on days
too full with
obligation,
the African violet
unfolds its newest blossom,
the tiny marble
elephant lifts
its
