Childhood

NaPoWriMo 2023 (Day 21)

My assignment (okay, prompt) for today was to choose a word from a list of 14, then to use that abstract noun to title a poem with short lines containing one or more invented words. I chose calm.

Calm
I recall
from long ago
Dad saying
“If you don’t
stop crying
I’ll give you
something
to cry about.”

That worked
as well as
“calm down.”

He never did.
I had plenty
of reasons
to cry.

I should have
laughed.

Mom said
I was being
demonstrative;
she meant emotional
or dramatic
or histrionic,
or noncalm,
or theatratic.

Now I’m calm,
laid back,
easy going.
Boring.

Now it seems
I should inflate
my former
theatricality.

Look both ways in a world flooded with emotions, actors, and lies.
Mind the gaps trying to find the facts.
Play your role.

 

Click on the NaPo 2023 button to see the challenge and to read more poems (not all are on prompt).

Not so calm:

NaPoWriMo 2023 (Day 19)

On Wednesday, the nineteenth day of April 2023, I was asked (challenged, assigned, or prompted) to write a poem about something that scared me or was used to scare me as child and may still haunt me somewhat. Well, nothing fits that memory mold perfectly. But still, they tried.

When I was young
many things scared me
most of my own invention.
Adult assurances solved nothing.

Death saddened me more then
but not the causes
like diseases, cancer, or stupid.

Yet, I knew well the Hearse Song (or poem)
by the age of seven.
Parents and siblings alike (all dead now)
tried to torment me with recitations.

But I do not recall my fear. Now,
at my advanced age
I find the whole thing ironically humorous.

Look both ways.
Memory is often as reliable as divination.
Mind the gaps and hysterical historical lapses.

*Click on the NaPo 2023 button to see the challenge and to read more poems (not all are on prompt).

If you want the more musical version:

 

NaPoWriMo 2023 (Day 9)

Today I was to write a sonnet. While allowed space regarding traditional sonnets, I was to keep with a general theme of “love.” I did not shoot for iambic pentameter, but I did manage ten syllables per line, except for the final two, which are nine and eleven, thus averaging ten. I made no attempt to rhyme.

I don’t think you understood love like me.
When I told Mom that you were a good man
Walking home after making arrangements
She balked. I understood and we agreed.

You had always been a difficult man.
With a world view no wider than the path
Of a tear rolling down my cheek or hers.
Coalminer tough and Irishman drunk.

Your mother died when you were only eight.
You were raised by a strict Scotsman father.
About him and you, you never told me.
He was your only father role model.

Now I wonder about me as a father,
And my wife as my children’s mother.

Look both ways in love and life.
Nobody is perfect and forgiveness is good.
But forgetting is optional.

 

*Click on the NaPo 2023 button to see the challenge and to read more poems (not all are on prompt).

NaPoWriMo 2023 (Day 5)

Today, the NaPo prompt challenged me to write a poem in which laughter comes at an inappropriate time. While George Carlin would be my inspiration for laughing inappropriately, I recalled this story about my first experience with laughing in church.

Measure Up

First grade was—what? —age six?
Twelve months before Pope P. declared
us prepubescent Catholic children
to be at the age of reason: still, that’s seven,
thus eligible for eternity in Hell.

That’s the time when we must confess
our sins to a priest and then to receive
the actual body and blood of Jesus
into our mouths (no touching or chewing).

Too young to jerk off;
couldn’t spell rape or murder,
(but could be a victim of either);
abuse, or extorsion.

On Sundays, at nine o’clock Mass, we had to be there
and sit in the front pews, down range from
second through eighth graders
in ascending class order behind us,
thus we were easily seen by everyone.

Our teacher, Sister Mary Menopause, floated by
just as Jimmy Sauer (also six) dropped his punch line
and we both committed the unreasonable, punishable,
but forgivable sin of laughing in church.
She crucified us both.

After Sister M. played whack-a-mole on our heads
with her ever-present wooden ruler,
she further embarrassed us with after Mass detention
upstairs in our school classroom. Mortification!

Dad said, “I hope you learned your lesson.” I did.
Seventy years later, I examine my conscience
by writing a poem about a churchly childhood experience
and a nun whose real name I’ve long forgotten.

Look both ways as the lady in black floats down the aisle.
She comes for you.
Mind the gaps between us and sit in the center of the pew,
well out of reach when she begins her swing.

 

Click on the NaPo button to see the challenge and more poems (not all are on prompt).

NaPoWriMo 2023 (Day 1)

Yesterday, I muffed the first day’s poem of the NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month) challenge because I did not write mine. I was too busy, then I was too tired. My driveling twaddle needs no other obstacles.

But we may play catch-up in this 30-day challenge. It’s 30 poems in 30 days, not necessarily one each day. But that does mean I may/will post two or three times (if I do the Sammi thingy) today. That’s a normal week’s worth for me.

I write to the prompts given at napowrimo.net. Yesterday’s poem was to be based upon a book cover. I recently bought Friday Night Lights: A Town, a Team, and a Dream, by H. G. Bissinger. I wrote a poem inspired by the jacket cover (photos by Rob Clark, Jr./Jacket design by Paul Bacon). Addison-Wesley Publishing Company, Inc., publishers.

 

Not Only Texas

Three darkly clad gladiators of the eventual eleven,
clasp hands
and march together
into the night, onto the place where town heroes are made for life,
where cheers and tears are looked forward to—
all year long, where football is not only king,
but the guiding force called team, spelled without an “I”
(one of many lies) that makes boys gods whose Gods can’t help them.

It’s like a religion, but it’s not the same.
These minor gods are transient. Heaven is winning a game.
The game gives them reason. The stadium,
their fields, like churches with gridiron pews
and endzones as altars with goalpost frames.

Hymns are cheers from stands
led by beautifully clad encouragement,
perchance a mascot,
yelling is encouraged raucousness. Defeat is deeply felt.

It’s serious business, American football.
But in the black-and-white towns of Texas with teams,
lifetime memories
are set in shaded darkness under the illumination
of Friday night lights after rallies, the breaking
of barriers, of illegal prayers to Jesus Christ,
their Lord and Savior who cares greatly
about high school football and who wins.

The God of the human godlings who will endow
the favored with great plays and touchdowns.
“Thank you, Jesus, for this blessed win.”
The game where the best and worst pupils become one,
where ending segregation with despised integration created championships,
and later,
millionaires would rise from denied memories.

The three, a darkly clad trio, of the eventual eleven, no! thousands,
clasp hands and march together into the night,
feeling and hearing the cheers and adoration,
which,
for most,
is fleeting at best.
And the band played well.

Look both ways, offense-or-defense, we are not all playing by the same rules.
Mind the gaps, the fumbles, the muffs, the broken bodies, and ubiquitous concussions.
Rave on! The band!

Note: This is the 20th year for this challenge. My congratulations to all poets and to Maureen Thorson, along with my thanks, for keeping poetry and writing it what it is: wonderfulness.

 

Sammi’s Weekender #304 (mail)

Click graphic for Sammi’s blog where you may play along and/or read more prose or poems.

 

Mail men: leather bags, caps, big shoes;
they walked onto front porches,
with letters, bills, or draft notices—
seldom junk.

Now she rides fast. Much junk. No letters
or conscription notices.

Forever stamps may be exactly so.

Look both ways and pine for the past.
Amazon may own your soul or make your day.
Mind the gaps as you fondly recall the memory.

 

(The irony is that the USPS sends us an email each day alerting of the coming snail mail.)

Sammi’s Weekender #302 (breathtaking)

Click on the graphic to find more breathtaking 14-word shots.

Powerlifting Champions

A thousand people talking loudly
coaches screaming
lifter athletes
grunt and groan.
It’s breathtaking.

Look both ways because sometimes tragedy strikes at the last minute.
Mind the gaps for faulty judgements.

 

Monday’s Rune: Hanukkah or Chanukah?

Happy Hanukkah everyone.

The eight-day Jewish festival, which began at nightfall yesterday, is also known as the festival of lights, or the Feast of Dedication. It commemorates the recovery of Jerusalem and rededication of the Second Temple at the beginning of the Maccabean revolt.

As a child growing up in a relatively “strict” Roman Catholic family, I recall all the “Christmas” cards we received during December. Mom used them to decorate our home. I recall many of the cards wishing us Happy Holidays and Happy Hanukkah. This was from the late 1940’s through the 1960s.

While I attended a Catholic parochial elementary school, I also recall saying “Happy Hanukkah” and playing with dreidels (or similar toys). A dreidel is a four-sided top bearing Hebrew letters. I ate some Jewish foods (year-round) and drank sweet kosher wine, but I did not learn the full meanings and traditions until years later.

When my children were growing up, they (and we) had Jewish family friends. During the holiday season one Jewish friend went to our children’s public schools and explained the Hanukkah festival. During the eight-day festival, my children spent many evenings at their friend’s home learning about Jewish traditions, eating the special foods, and participating in lighting the nine light menorahs (Chanukiah).

While Hanukkah is a minor Jewish religious holiday, for me it is full of happy (and a few sad) memories, and I ponder the possibilities. One more time, Happy Everything, Everyone.

Look both ways to learn the stories our friends and neighbors have to share.
Mind the gaps because no two are exactly alike.

 

Sammi’s Weekender #289 (engrave)

Click for Sammi’s blog and more 23-word magic.

A Lone Memory

Her face
an engraved
memory,
the cold winter night,
her aroma,
her taste,
her soft skin,
he felt
sixteen,
still in love,
again.

Look both ways, but today’s memories were conceived long ago.
Mind the gaps to be filled with feelings of love and pleasure.

A Lone Memory

Monday’s Rune: Halloween

The Last October Night

Last night, as I sat with my extended family, a mixture of baby boomers, Gen X’s, and Millennials, we spoke of haunting experiences: fear intentionally endured for fun. Few of us said we wanted to repeat those ‘fun’ occasions. They were things that fell into the it seemed like a good idea at the time category, but now we wished we hadn’t risked them.

We have learned that Halloween can be fun and scary without doing long term psychological damage. What adrenalin rush is worth the walk into nightmarish darkness? I recall the fun: the costumes, the parties, the doors to knock on, the treats, the stories, and the songs we made up and sang. We were having fun. But when scared, boy did we run!

I recall winning a Halloween party costume contest as an adult. I was not in the best costume. Was I given an honor for courage? Was humor involved? Did my green legs catch the judges’ eyes? No one fears a giant tomato.

What I like about Halloween is that I owe no one anything for it. It has a strange history and a life of its own with unique childish traditions. It is when it is, on the last day of October, followed immediately by November. Halloween has as many bizarre religious undertones as it does silly religious rejections.

With nods to the goths and the goolies, to the vampires and fried eggs, to the ubiquitous hobos and fun folks in clever, challenging outfits, I like Halloween and I know I’m in good, scary, company.

Look both ways on those dark October nights.
Mind the gaps where memories of youth dance and sing because it is time for all of that.

 

But this Halloween tragedy was way over the top.