I know nothing of saints,
but these past thirty days
I’ve felt like a poet

life has smacked me in the face
daily

I wake up
open to poems

listening
looking
feeling
for
je ne sais quoi
but
always open to poems

my challenge
is to keep
listening
looking
feeling

for
Jenny to say “Quah”

for
Billy Collins eating a banana

for
chances to fly in my dreams

for
the bird cloud to return;

Our Town
Our World
Our Imagination

all fodder for poets

poets
like me
and you

It’s not much of a poem
But it’s heartfelt and
For you.

——————

Yesterday is gone
And with it

Whatever it was
That you did

I’m moving on

Can you?

A dozen Santa mugs migrated
To our counter

Evergreen in our yard’s spruced up
With rainbows suddenly

Hallmark’s been geeked
For months

And yet

I want to ride my bike
Around Mackinac Island,
Make time for soccer,
And
Go garage sale hopping.

The Dark Time is here.
‘Tis the season for
Movies,
Treadmill,
And
Internet.

Crap.

Hey, James (Taylor),
I can still picture
sitting on the grass at Meadow Brook
with Judy
and hearing those sweet sounds
that you and your all-star band
cranked out.

Hey, Cristin (Hubbard),
the Phantom came to life
that night
on Broadway and your performance
was thrilling.
Bravo!

Hey, Amy,
it was a lifetime goal
of Judy and mine
to learn to dance together;
we appreciate your directions
and example
during our recent lessons.

Hey to all the people involved in MSU Collage concert,
I can still see, hear, feel the beauty
of your violins, pianos, trombones,
clarinets, saxophones, violas, basses, other instruments,
and voices
as you wowed us
that night
at Wharton.

And last but not least in any way —
probably most —
Hey, Family.
Thanks for every note
you blast or play with feeling and touch
on every piano and organ you play
Judy,
especially Handel’s Messiah;
thank you, Aaron,
for your many and varied talents
from bells to tenor sax
and from your voice in the shower
to the concerts on the stage
and from your acting in theater class
to your amazing riffs on Guitar Hero
and even the occasional piano melodies;
and finally,
thank you, Rachel,
for every moment you’ve been on stage
including the time you jumped off the table
in Taming of the Shrew,
the sparkle in your eye at the top of the ladder
as Emily,
your rendition of a caring, concerning, changing teacher
in Up the Down Staircase,
every note you’ve sung in Children’s Choir,
as well as the notes you plunk out on the piano
and strum on your new guitar.

I’m thankful for the Arts
on this Thanksgiving morning.
Thankful for all the ways
I experience them in their fullness
as a spectator,
but also for the opportunity
to participate in dance, comedy,
song, theater, and music
of every kind.

Larry smiled with satisfaction;
His parent’s Commodore 64
Had done the trick.
Larry was the first word processor
In his class.

His 6th grade teacher
Wrote a note in his file —
“Larry is easily distracted.
He has trouble focusing
On the task at hand.”

Little did she know
Larry was outside
The (school) box;
Larry was tinkering
With the future.

Larry’s 8th grade teacher
Asked him to stop doodling
And get to work.
Every other day she
Had to get after Larry.

But his parents encouraged
Larry to draw and think
And see where it would lead;
Every single day they
Let
Larry
Go

Larry’s high school teachers
Expressed concern at conferences:
he wasn’t turning in work,
he didn’t make friends easily,
he seemed angry.

So Larry left East Lansing High School
Worked at Stanford
With a friend named Sergey
To create what had been tinkering around
In his head all along —
A way to connect people with
The stuff they really wanted.

View a fun version of the poem at Prezi.com

And hardly ever do I see
Their parents
2 x 2 box
Which Baboo and Grandma pull
Behind them
On a string.

I balance Dad’s 50 x 50
On my shoulders
Always.
Shifting the weight around
As needed.
So present —
Though mostly in mirrors.

Mom is more of a triangle.
She’s the horizon line at
All times, then from
Far left and right
Points on two
Lines to
Me.

Armen, Tam, Ara
Smaller triangles
Above Mom.

Judy, Rachel, Aaron
Large, multi-colored juggling balls
I don’t control
But that come back to my hands and heart
Like the seasons,
As present as weather.

You are there, too,
In the mix.

They were followed,
Rather quickly,
By Philadelphia’s finest
Sanitation truck
To pick up their waste.

The rainbow of
Hats and gloves,
Sweaters and coats,
Had found the ground
As body temps soared,
Go figure

A couple of citizens
Seeing the runners’
Crap
Found plastic bags
And beat the policing
Action’s moderate rigor

They became an improvised
Salvation Army
And gave the bags
Of useful waste
To the their namesake
Charitable organization

On the same block
Where the runners’ crap
Had been discarded.

As the army disbanded,
They couldn’t help
But wonder
Why more armies
Couldn’t be mobilized
Next
Time

And
Next
Time

And
Next
Time

“poetry is a bird, prose is a potato”

Billy is inspired by irritation.
Emotions can be distractions.

The Romantics eliminated sex and humor from poetry
and substituted landscape

Billy says that the past tense of “Oh, my God” is
“I was like, Oh, My God.”

Writing is an act of hope:
we hope someone will read it.

I just got the chills.

Billy needs to give us girls “a break.”

A gasp from the audience.

It never goes how we think it will.

Would they be an angry mob?

Billy thinks the best time to write is with a blank mind

{btw…this is my extra poem…now I’m caught up again…for my 30 poems in 30 days}

Rex Pizza
Must be from the Tyrannosaurus family
Of Italy

Two slices were enough
For a family.

Thin, but cheesy.
Cheap, but yummy.
My shrooms hit the spot
The sausage filled in around
The spot.

Everything in the vicinity
Of the spot
Was covered
In some manner.

I tried rolling
My second slice
To make it more
Appealing.
A Kabodizone
Of sorts.

Nothing doing.

Most
Of the second slice
Sits there
Lonely,
Except for several
Crumpled napkins.

Sorry Mom,
I tried.

I know…
I can’t get up
Until it’s done.

You’ll just have to understand.
Or check out Rex’s
On Race near 17th.

Choose wisely.