Solstice Morning Poem (mine).

Monday morning. Lipstick, dirty hair. Reading articles about books
I already love and want to return to disguised as another woman.

Glowy gray winter sky glinting off the car parked outside, giant
spools of electric cord hidden behind. Christmas songs on the radio,

the rape-y ones (“I really can’t stay” “But baby it’s cold outside”)
interspersed with the others. Yellow coffee cup with one cold sip

remaining and the impending refill. Holiday cards taped to the wall
in a collage of those who love us for our purchasing patterns. Ten AM

on the winter solstice and the postal service workers are hustling
to make it in time for Christmas. I’ve been wearing this blue shirtdress

for three days and it’s time for a wash. All astrological signs pointed
to career success this month but where’s the proof. Holiday treats

thrust at me from everywhere; I accept. Flip my greasy hair
to the other side of my head; I let it lie where it lands.

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Filed under ain't that the truth, holidays, poem, poetics, poetry, poetry alive, wintry, worklife

“Wish for a Thursday” (poem) (mine).

Wish for a Thursday

In a soulmate we find not company, but a completed solitude. -Robert Brault

What I would’ve give to be settling in to eat breakfast
at Eaton’s Sugarhouse with you. The sky would offer
no commentary as we stripped off our scarves, unlatched
our jackets. We’d slouch a little in the chairs designed
for hunters on opening day of rifle season, for families
who’ve fed their cows hay from their own fields
for generations. We’re not those people; we’d only be
ourselves on a Thursday, a little sleepy still from summer’s
hot swipe of mayhem which we survived with long porch
lunches, sweaty bandanas, tulsi-scented winds. The windows
which appear cloudy from the road would be adorned
with hand-sewn curtains as if the diner were a living room
where anyone’s languor was welcome. Plates full of food
would arrive and greet our noses with their names.
We’d eat eggs and hot sauce over toast and split an order
of buckwheat waffles. It wouldn’t be the best meal
we’d ever eaten, not even the second best, but we’d be
unhurried and together: buttering toast, passing ketchup.

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Filed under ain't that the truth, autumn, brunch poem, country life, cozy, i love him, poetics, poetry, poetry alive, vermont

Hip-Hop & Ladystuff

1. In high school (middle school?) I was sure the chorus to this song said “Yo lie come way.” I actually have a mix where it says: Mark Morrison-Yo Lie Come Way. What would that even mean? Is it a request? No idea why I didn’t think about this absurdity a the time. Probably because I was used to not knowing what the eff r&b artists were saying. (The song is ACTUALLY called “Return of the Mack,” and he’s saying “You lied to me.”)

 

2. I like making words with “lady” in them. The verb “ladyweird” (to be your fucking awesome self in the presence of your ladies, which may or may not include talking in a distinctive voice/saying stuff you wouldn’t say around other people), the noun “ladyfairy” (the women in my life who drop their friendship gifts upon me & vice versa), ladyfriend, ladystuff, ladygravy (just made that one up–I’ll define it as “the delicious sauce of a  lady,” interpret as you will), ladywild, ladychats, ladyscapes (a landscape populated by ladies doing sweet stuff)….etc.

3. Speaking of ladystuff: THINX. Just thinking (thinkxing?) about how these underwear would have changed my life as an early menstruater makes me tear up a little. Future girlchildren of the world: get excited. (For the uninitiated, THINX are underwear for those days of the month when you are shedding your uterine lining like the badass female you are.)

thinx

4. LadyYelp now exists and it’s called Fairy GodBoss. It’s a website where women can rate how sexist our workplaces are. This strikes me as deeply important and exciting. Because, somehow, there is still no federal law requiring paid family leave, and women are getting discrimiated against for growing humans in their bodies, and we’re also making less money overall. Sexism is technically illegal…but so is jaywalking!

5. “You will never need another lover/Cuz you a MILF and I’m a motherfucker,” -Jay-Z, to Beyonce, in the “Drunk in Love” REMIX. These are the type of lyrics that made me want to write rap lyrics in high school, I’m not kidding. But then I realized who I was (short, white, Westchester) and switched to poetry. But still. Rappers. You make me LAUGH. And that laughter is infused with a little disgust (cuz misogyny) and a little reverence (cuz wordplay).

jay and bey

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Filed under ain't that the truth, awesome, hip-hop, just sayin', ladystuff, wordlove

These paintings make me feel calm (Nigel Van Wieck).

I’m loving Nigel Van Wieck right now. He feels like a modern Edward Hopper (who incidentally had a summer home very close to where I live, who painted the farms along the road I drive to work on ). I like the shapes of people’s bodies that he portrays, the positions they’re in. And he’s alive right now, living and painting in New York, which means we can purchase prints for eighty bucks, follow him on Instagram, wild but true.

*Please note that I technically know nothing about painting except that I love paintings.

To the PointTo the Point

The Wind Can See

The Wind Can See oil on canvas 24x36 inches a

Escape

Escape oil on panel 20x24

Holding the Heavens

HOLDING THE HEAVENS oil on panel 16x20

Q Train

nigel2

New Model

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

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Filed under paint, the internet is for art

Autumn poem (Edward Hirsch).

Fall

by Edward Hirsch

Fall, falling, fallen. That’s the way the season
Changes its tense in the long-haired maples
That dot the road; the veiny hand-shaped leaves
Redden on their branches (in a fiery competition
With the final remaining cardinals) and then
Begin to sidle and float through the air, at last
Settling into colorful layers carpeting the ground.
At twilight the light, too, is layered in the trees
In a season of odd, dusky congruences—a scarlet tanager
And the odor of burning leaves, a golden retriever
Loping down the center of a wide street and the sun
Setting behind smoke-filled trees in the distance,
A gap opening up in the treetops and a bruised cloud
Blamelessly filling the space with purples. Everything
Changes and moves in the split second between summer’s
Sprawling past and winter’s hard revision, one moment
Pulling out of the station according to schedule,
Another moment arriving on the next platform. It
Happens almost like clockwork: the leaves drift away
From their branches and gather slowly at our feet,
Sliding over our ankles, and the season begins moving
Around us even as its colorful weather moves us,
Even as it pulls us into its dusty, twilit pockets.
And every year there is a brief, startling moment
When we pause in the middle of a long walk home and
Suddenly feel something invisible and weightless
Touching our shoulders, sweeping down from the air:
It is the autumn wind pressing against our bodies;
It is the changing light of fall falling on us.

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Filed under autumn, poetry alive

30 One-Liners (Joe Brainard).

WINTER
More time is spent at the window.

SUMMER
You go along from day to day with summer all around you.

STORES
Stores tell all about people who live in the area.

WRITING
Others have already written what I would like to write.

TODAY
Today the sky is so blue it burns.

IN THE COUNTRY
In the country one can almost hear the silence.

THE FOUR SEASONS
The four seasons of the year permit us to enjoy things.

RECIPE
Smear each side of a pork chop with mustard and dredge in
flour.

BOOK WORM
Have always had nose stuck in book from little on.

THAT FEELING
What defines that feeling one has when gazing at a rock?

COSTA RICA
It was in Costa Rica I saw my first coffee plantation.

HAPPINESS
Happiness is nothing more than a state of mind.

MONEY
Money will buy a fine dog.

OUR GOVERNMENT
A new program is being introduced by our government.

EDWARD
On the whole he is a beautiful human being.

LAKE
A lake attracts a man and wife and members of a family.

THE SKY
We see so many different things when we look at the sky.

A SEXY THOUGHT
Male early in the day.

POTATOES
One can only go so far without potatoes in the kitchen.

MOTHER
A mother is something we have all had.

MODERN TIMES
Every four minutes a car comes off the assembly line they say.

THE OCEAN
Foamy waves wash to shore “treasures” as a sacrifice to damp
sand.

TODAY
High density housing is going on all around us.

REAL LIFE
I could have screamed the day John proposed winterizing
the cottage and living there permanently.

ALASKA
I am a very cold person here.

THE YEAR OF THE WHITE MAN
The year of the white man was a year of many beads.

LOYALTY
Loyalty, I feel, is a very big word.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT
Perhaps in our mad scramble to keep our heads above water
we miss the point.

HUMAN NATURE
Why must we be so intent on destroying everything we
touch?

COMPANY
Winifred was a little relieved when they were gone.

brainard

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Filed under new york, poet-love, poetics, poetry alive

Smith Mountain Lake Wedding Getaway Vacation Poem.

Bravanza

I can’t stop thinking about those farms and silos buried
beneath the lake. Rooms full of water, doors swinging
on their hinges with each passing boat above. Never in my life
had I boated to lunch, never floated on a neon noodle
in the summer darklit water watching fireworks break apart
above my head. First I was living inside my life, chucking stems
to the chickens, fetching flowers at dusk, and then I was there:
the lake, a single bed, rooms full of brothers and wives,
a couple to marry, my hand held and adorned with henna,
the screams of cicadas, unceasing. Artists draped in metals
they’d bent into form, hats and towels strewn on the deck
like clothing stripped by lovers. A husband kissed his wife
in water, the raft between them bobbing gently. A woman
with a mohawk danced beside her lady’s braids. A toast was made,
a dream was told, a glass refilled. I was but a single set of legs,
unbuoyed and unburdened, free to roam at will, gently moving
through the spider threads that draped between each couple
in attendance, dewdrops of their pairings landing on my arms,
my ankles. I watched a belly held to feel the kicking; I handed
cups of bubbly to each person in the room, I picked a chigger
off the inside of my toe. I ate the food they fed me, I lingered
on an edge of dock to marvel at the sunlight floating in the water,
I swimmed some laps, I swished the ice cubes in my cocktails,
I wore a skirt and spoke the wedding words in front of everyone,
boats tearing through the water just behind. I watched
the married ones exclaim in summer heat as the shining faces
of their familes encircled them in hugs. In the company
of teachers I talked of names and ways of being; I laughed
with jewelers, I spoke of herbs, I threw away the memory of never
having known these people and gave them all I’d brought.

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Filed under poetics, poetry alive