top ten

are as follows:

1. January 6th, 1973

2. face value

3. the birthday story

4. on sunday morning

5. and 6. resurrection sunday - revised (both poems)
*I kept the un-revised version of "in transition", but the revised version is the one I'd like to be graded.

7."Will you give me a drink?"- Revised

8. landscape sketches - revised

9. They Couldn't Salvage Anything

10. What makes people tick

Thank you!

January 6th, 1973

the January air creeps
through the cracks
in the house that father built
and mother makes

and their bodies shiver,
stirring from their
separate stations,
as they rise, and gather
close together

forty years ago today,
they became each others.
the bitter wind crawls,
dissipates - two faces smile,
one shared warmth

face value

(after Nicole Mason's Identity art piece)


if truth was a verb
would you let it happen
on your face
staring strong and straight ahead,
eyes aglow like spotlights,
inviting your audience
to watch your Artist's story playing
at face value?

the birthday story

twenty two years ago

daddy told brother that

" 'little sister decided 

to come into the world

13 minutes 

after we got mommy 

to the hospital.'

'were you speeding, dad?'

'no, son, i couldn't make the car

go fast enough.'

'did you run any red lights, dad?'

 'no, son, i didn't see a-one.'
because you were coming fast!"

through the cellphone,

i follow along, predicting

the exclamation in his voice,
the expression in his face,
the certainty of this
birthday tradition
 and smile, as we savor
 our story together.

on sunday morning

warm light reaches
through wide windows,
a gentle yellow glow,
touching our faces
with tender hands,
and we lift our eyes
as we give thanks
for the floor
beneath our feet
the roof over our head
and the many voices
who join in harmony,
in praise, as we gather
here together
on another sunday morning,
this morning that has
never dawned before.

resurrection sunday (revised)

between transitions:

pews fill
pastor prays
bands praise
we slip in
transition


heads bow
us three
mother and me
and you
even nod
nervously,

bitterly,
anxiously,
sleepily,
restlessly

stirred

by this spoken Word


pews part
pastors prays
bands reprise
we slip out
us two. . .three. one
family
in
transition





between transitions - revised:

On those rare Christmas Sundays
when mother drags you to "come
to church with the family" 
it could never be more obvious
that you do not want to be there

in the sanctuary, where the praise band
exchanges stations with the pastor
as he steps to the small stage.
that's when we slip in, mom and i,
and you too, dad, following behind
finding three seats together to
belong to for the morning message.

it's Easter Sunday today. not that
cold Christmas Eve with the evening service
you dread, because you know you can't
tell her no. And dad, you definitely couldn't
tell her no, you wouldn't go now, when
the ring in the night was her doctor's
cell phone bringing, yes, good news, but still news.

yet the strangest thing about this morning
isn't that you're sitting still here with us,
it isn't that you're not acting four, for sixty-four,
when the pastor is speaking and people reading,
the strangest thing about this morning is that
she didn't ask you to come with us at all.
and here you are with us, on Sunday morning,
on Easter Sunday morning, your one heart
and our one family, in transition.

Walking To Emmaus:

we count the days

again

again

but not again.

out the open door

we walk

and walk 

and farther walk.

and pass

people

places

plans

by

bye, Jerusalem.

who we miss

have missed

must have missed something.

"Were not our hearts

burning

within us as we walked?"

"Will you give me a drink" Revised

Where the sun melts the sky above Sychar
an old, deep well plunges into the earth
a women bends down, burned back to the sun
drawing water, for herself, by herself.
hot, red hands cup cool clear water, she brings
her blistered palms to her pink face, washing
yellow dust from dried lips, eyelids, temples
she sighs, standing over the well, tired.

A man approaches, drenched in sweat and sun
near the well’s gaping mouth, he stops and sits
She signs again, relieved, returning hands
to the deep, ancient well, hiding water


when suddenly, a man’s voice breaks the haze
“Will you give me a drink?”. The woman stops
She turns to face him, her melting eyes gaze.

Will you give me a drink?

where the sun melts the sky above Sychar,
sits an old, deep well. a woman bends down
drawing water, for herself, by herself.
She startles as a man approaches her.
He is a Jew. and she is a half-bred.
He sits down by the well, tired, thirsty,
a wearied traveler, lost foreigner.
He begins to speak, "Will you give me a drink?" 

"How can you ask me for a drink!" she cries
exasperated - she does not realize
who is speaking, who is standing with her

He speaks, "If you knew who it is who asks
you for a drink, you would have asked and he
would have given to you Living Water"

landscape sketches - the tree - revised

[close frame]

the old tree's
dark brown arms

out-stretched towards heaven

standing. bending. 

growing together. 

fingers extend 

to touch the sky

in the chalky mist

of snow

[medium frame]

gray grass bobs,
 bends in the bitter breeze
backs burdened by snowfall
heads bow towards the tree
standing tall, lined in white
unmoved by February's breath

[distant frame]

snow falls like a cloud of chalk
against a living, grayed, black board
the gentle, rolling lines of the field
curtained by white winds and falling snow
in the distance, a strong stroke of
dark brown pokes through the white

after Isabel's poem : "They Couldn't Salvage Anything"

They Couldn't Salvage Anything
A house burning
is a home on fire.

“a house burning is a home on fire”

we flee
clinging what we could carry,
the heat chasing our backs.

your room
the flames seize with clenched fists,
releasing singed black ashes.

unsatisfied
the fire licks your children's rooms
too, no safe space left unscathed.

from a safer
distance, we count our heads.
"all safe. no, wait - ". we count again.

father demands
"where is she?"
at the neighbors'. across the street. 
out for a drive. or at the office, certainly. 
the crumpled wood and blackened bricks sit silent.
 so sister says, "we don't know". 

image poems : an attempt

paper coffee cup
drained.
clock’s hands drag

*

nails stained with
week old polish
post-it-note reminders
covering wooden desk

*

dog-eared pages
thumbed.
the familiarity of
a friend’s face

*

uneven footprints
pressed in the ice
and slush.
it must have been a close call.

*

Reflections in the puddles.
face facing down
braving the rain.

*

Dents and dings in
the picture’s frame.
Your face, five years ago,
captured.


*

Bright balloons
streamers hang
cards crowded on the coffee table.


*

papers hide my professor’s face,
still, an open door

*

The salt sets in
her new suede boots,
squares crossed out
on the calendar.

*

My ceramic coffee mug
sits upright on my shelf,
anticipating morning’s grey rise.

. . . .into a poem!

The scanner beeps. 
We hurry through
 the doorway, scanning 
the burgundy-colored 
carpeted aisles 
with our eyes for a
 place to sit in the maze 
of occupied and open seats, 
teeth and fillings 
belonging to one giant,
 gaping mouth. 

The chapel is alive; 
students push their way 
through the aisles dividing 
the rows of seats
 like blood pulsing 
through arteries. 
Each wave that finds their seats
 is replaced
 with a new, busy cluster. 

a descriptive paragraph : chapel

     We scan our four-year faded red bar-codes on our plastic I.D. cards under the red LED of the scanner attached to a lanyard draped in Sam’s loose, pink hand.  She is one of four students, each equipped with hand-held scanners, and a small band of students piling around their posts in the foyer, flanking the sides of the two wide entryways into the chapel. The scanner beeps. We hurry through the doorway, scanning the burgundy-colored carpeted aisles with our eyes for a place to sit in the maze of occupied and open seats, teeth and fillings belonging to one giant, gaping mouth. The chapel is alive; students push their way through the aisles dividing the rows of seats like blood pulsing through arteries. Each wave that finds their seats is replaced with a new, busy cluster. We claim a couple of seats towards the back. My friend leans forward to tap the shoulder of a thin, golden-haired girl sitting in front of us.  A black, wool jacket with a brand-name tag drapes the back of her chair. Securing the fit of the jacket over her seat, she turns to exchange a quick, delighted “Hello!” before snapping her neck around and standing at the bellow of the organ. I fumble to find a safe place for my ceramic mug in a space below an open seat in front of me, a shove my black messenger bag next to it, before joining the others in standing. I notice a friend rushing down the aisle, heaving his heavy backpack high upon his back, making his way towards the front of the chapel. Behind him, a few stragglers find seats towards the side of the aisles. Two faculty members and one student file out onto the stage before us.  Chapel is about to begin. 

poetry assignment 3

     When transforming these descriptive paragraphs into poems, I attempted to structure the new poems around separate scenes depicted in the prose.  Each stanza, therefore, represents a descriptive or active scene from the paragraph. The white space between those stanzas is intended for the reader to pause and digest each scene. The use of white space also allows for a separation between sounds of syllables used in each stanza or scene intended to give a musical, rhythmic quality to the flow of the poem as a whole, as a vocalist might take a breath between phrases in sheet music. Stanzas and lines were also formed in a way that allowed the syntax of the sentences in prose to naturally be structured. Stanzas were kept short to make the poem appear more accessible and not overwhelm the reader with the contents of each “scene”.
    I attempted to shape the new poems around a thematic center that would anchor the poem and draw the reader in. Choosing a thematic center required paying attention to the climax of the paragraphs, watching for the natural apex of action or emotion. For the “Pine Barrens” section, I chose to use the episode where the lizard materializing as the witch as this center, because it was the most active part of the paragraph. After this scene, the poem ends describing the mysterious origins and death of the witch. For the “Blueberry Farm” section, the thematic center was more difficult to locate. I formed the poem around the repetition of sounds in the stanza describing Charlie’s family. Although this may not be the most intense part of the story, I thought the rhythmic quality of these lines together helped set the tone and pace of the remainder of the poem.

poetry assignment 2.2 : "their own particular witch"

The Pine Barrens once had
 their own particular witch,
 Peggy Clevenger.

It was known
that she could turn herself into a rabbit,
 for a dog was once seen chasing a rabbit
and the rabbit jumped through the window of a house,
 and there-in the same instant, in the window-
stood Peggy Clevenger.

On another occasion,
a man saw a lizard and tried to kill it
by crushing it with a large rock.
When the rock hit the lizard,
 the lizard disappeared
and Peggy Clevenger materialized on the spot

Peggy lived in Pasadena, another of the now vanished towns,
about five miles east of Mt. Misery.
 It was said that she had a stocking full of gold.
Her remains were found one morning
 in the smoking ruins of her cabin,
 but there was no trace of the gold.

poetry assignment 2.1 "farm labor transport"

We had come to a clearing 

where thousands of blueberry bushes grew.

 In the center was the packing house

a small, low building 

with open and screenless windows all sides.

 In front was a school bus

marked “Farm Labor Transport”.

 The driver stood beside his bus. 

He was a tall and amiable-looking man, 

with bare feet. 

He wore green trousers and a T-shirt. 

The end of the working day had come. 

Pickers were swarming around a pump

-old women, middle-aged men, a young girl.

Inside the packing house, berries half an inch thick 

were rolling up a portable conveyor belt,

 into pint boxes. 

Charlie’s sister was packing the boxes. 

Charlie’s daughter-in-law was putting cellophane over them. 

Charlie’s son Jim was supervising the operation. 

Charlie picked up a pint box

 in which berries were mounded high,

 and he told me with disgust

 that some supermarket chains 

knock off these mounds of extra berries

 and put them in new boxes, 

getting three or four extra pints per twelve-box tray. 

At one window, pickers were turning in tickets of various colors, 

and they were given cash in return. 

One picker,  in his sixties, tapped Charlie on the arm 

and showed him a thick packet of tickets held together with a rubber band. 

“I found these,” the man said. 

“They must have fallen out of your son’s pocket.” 

He gave the packet to Charlie,

who thanked him and counted the tickets.

 Charlie said “ These tickets are worth 

seventy-five dollars.”

what makes people tick

a casual conversation
attempting some connection
resorts to the routine repertoire
of expected questions.

"psychology," i reply.
"i love studying
what makes people tick".
yet, my disclaimers
prove useless
to those nervous ears.

"Oh- "
"Are you sure?"
"You're going to graduate school, then,
of course."
"Can you tell me what I'm thinking?"
"Aha! You're psychoanalyzing me now, aren't you!"
And a jab at Freud. Piaget. Adler. here and there.

i smile, and thank them
for their kind words and
compliments. content. amused. delighted.
as one who knows the answer to a
cleverly kept riddle.

(they did not know what they were getting into.
and the best part is, neither did i.)