I’m so pleased to share my poem, “On Domestic Life & Other Stories of Carnage,” inspired by a certain maker of mischief, which is now live in issue 48 of Neologism Poetry Journal! Thank you EIC Christopher Fields for selecting this piece and for being an absolute professional and pleasure to work with!
Instead
if i decided to stop being a poet
what would i do instead? i asked
(my husband) the other night
the other night when it was late
it was too late to start cooking dinner
& the cattle dog who lives for order
requires order & feels its lack
like her hackles feel static she was pacing
between us resorting to vocal admonishments
to higher-than-usual-pitched chortling cajoling
someone to get with the program the other night
after gymnastics & martial arts & driving
driving in gridlock on multiple highways
after the shopping wasn’t done
after—& we were too hungry to cook dinner—
after hunger became the side dish of the night
after my husband had worked all day
& beer number three hadn’t staved off his hunger
& hunger was a side dish the kids snacked
on chips & played redundant games on their phones
& the floor was unswept the dog was anxious
her nails clicked on the unkempt floor
the cat meowed to be fed the shopping wasn’t done
& so a can of tuna was cracked
the cat’s bowl was filled & we gave the dog the juice
the dog lapped then she went back to clicking
& minutes ticked another hour
while my fingers ticking on the keyboard
whooped up a frenzy of words on the screen
with hurricane intensity they swirled
they dispelled into wisps against cold fronts
& re-galvanized in isolated updrafts but rained nothing
because meaning always slips drily away from the words
& escapes like sly prey into the woods because
the words bravely give chase but they were never cut out for this hunt
& they get lost & hungry
they go hungry like an injured wolf separated from its pack
like a cattle dog lacking order & teenagers not-talking on phones
like groceries that can’t shop for themselves
like the cat settling for tuna
well not like that
like clacking keyboards churning up dry storms
like computer screens adrift
at the mercy of tidal waves of hunters
& peckers & especially delete-ers
_____like a poet who can’t do anything instead
like the shift key & the alt key
like the fourth beer needs to be the ctrl + alt + delete keys
like delete is a kind of key
they go hungry
like a husband
“Instead” was first published by the brilliant editor and poet and fabulous human being d. ellis phelps in Formidable Woman, and appears in my debut chapbook, This Being Done.
On a more solemn note, my Cattle Dog, Sydney, crossed the rainbow bridge this week at the ripe old age of 15 years 1 month. Being a part of this loyal, quirky, intelligent, beautiful, fascinating canine’s chosen family has been the honor of a lifetime. I wouldn’t be the poet or person I am without her influence.
LuAnne Holder’s parody of Frost’s “Stopping by Woods…,” a piece after my own heart, has officially made my day! 🐈
Which cat did this, oh my who knows
This leaving fur upon my clothes
She did it while I was away
On my black dress she took repose
My cats are not ones to delay
To seek out nap spots black or grey
And leave white fur just to remind
Me that their love will never stray
So any clothes left out they’ll find
The dark ones are the grandest kind
To rest white bellies for contrast
This deed they think they’ve been assigned
If I don’t want to be aghast
I’ll hang my clothes and do it fast
This I’ve figured out at last
This I’ve figured out at last
I have always loved the poem, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost, particularly its interesting rhyme scheme. Inspired by SLHARPERPOETRY’s clever rewrite of Lewis Carroll’s Jaberwokey as Trumplewokey, I decided to do a rewrite…
View original post 55 more words
because what is a purr
but the promise of nourishment realized
in the rhythmic release of the heat
that’s accumulated in pockets
with the rise & fall of her breath?
& what is a bagel
if not a nose meeting the base of a tail
& little pink berry & black currant toes
neatly tucked to sleepy chin
all curled around a heart
that holds no lack?
because basking on my windowsill
in a pretzel of scruff limbs salt-tang
& afternoon-sifted sun she is keenly sweet
like a wheat field’s essence of summer wind
in the last days before the harvest hearty
with the warmth of a freshly-baked marble rye
because whenever i’m away from home
i long for her knowing she’s there ‘kneading’
enough for the both of us (for let’s be honest
no pillowy provender of fleece to grace my bed
has managed to preserve its store-bought virginity
for much more than an hour)
& because although
I realize the time she yet has with me
will be fleeting she will ever remain
the loaf of my life
UPDATE: Our sweet Hannah passed away from cancer at age 14 yrs. 5months on Friday, January 27, 2017. She lived with unapologetic grace, generously gave to us of her healing energy, and died with stoic dignity. RIP, beautiful girl…
The house has been empty and strange without her, but my grief is tempered by my gratitude and awe for the magical connection this quirky, smart, territorial, eight-pound (in her heyday), dog-terrorizing wonder of a creature made with her human family. Such is the spiritually-rich and filling nature of the “Bread of Life.”
Hannah, age 14 yrs. 3 mos.
SLHARPERPOETRY 