on champagne waves
the unspoken snap of knowing
an event is at hand
in the snowsoft they came
one then the other
tentative in the rose light
the deer whispered down the dune
blending in sundown lace pines
their unseen presence came into my laughter
effervescent waves and waning sun
were outshadowed by the miracle of tenderness
a deep silent surprise crackled in me
ice light on the ocean
serenely unrelenting in constant motion
she’s the perfect limb
the poised senses of the wary
she’s the ecstatic soundless step into the open
the mottled fawn brushing past
my gentle one
my sunset hush
I’m filled with splashing surf in loving you
go gently perfect peace
i love you
Laura Romaine 4/81
the cow kitty and I,
when my realtor
showed his house —
he checked me out
the hood is his
several blocks of it
the story of how
the cat came back
to be mine is
part of his charm.
with a squeaky falsetto meow.
whines about hot weather
loves tuna water tea
Mickey gives me
in my closet
he gives me
reasons to open cans
warmth on the blankets
in the chilly dawn
he emerges from
under the honeysuckle
when my car drives up
Mickey rolls in the dirt
in cat love
from the kitchen sink
in the catnip
water and chases
from the hose
he walks among us
and parks in the kitchen
when the party starts
when I sit on the front porch
for cool air
he takes the other rail
when I work in the garden
he sleeps there
when I take a road trip
he comes back over the fence
telling me not
to go away again.
black and white
Maybe I write because I watch. I’m an observer who frames scenes, a mental photographer, would-be painter. Art takes time. I work day gig, so flash memoir appeals to me.
Not a line. I’d rather look at the flowers in the yard
Or prop my feet on the couch in the sun going down
My brain was all abuzz with details of the day
That have numbed me.
My muscles are tired from a long walk
And my cat disconcerted that we are out of tuna water tea.
Maybe this is normal.
What folks mean when they say they’re tired.
Like the pacing tiger
walking off screen
I have sought, talked
I gave to my mother, my sisters and remembered my brother
I wrote with strangers this week
and I communed with the stars and my garden.
Tonight I danced, and made two 7-letter words in Scrabble
tossed down a champagne
Now I’m ready for the final day of the work week.
Months ago my 84 year old mom asked me if I’d go on a tour of the estuary at Moss Landing with her and I agreed instantly. I put it on the calendar without any idea how busy I’d be the week of April 15th and I’m glad I did.
First, I’ve made spending time with my mom a personal priority. And it is good for me to admit that a personal necessity day away from the layers and layers of my job as interventionist is time well spent.
So, like some of the otters we saw from our little tour skiff, I wrapped myself in eel weed, metaphorically, to not drift off with the tide and let myself float in the wonderful present.
I mused and sometimes I enjoyed the gift of forgetting for awhile that I am a teacher. Truly these times to let one’s mind unravel and drift are super critical to creativity.
I had a wonderful time with my mom. We saw much wildlife: great pelicans, egret, terns, harbor seals with their pups, rafts of otter.
Tomorrow I go back to continue to do my best with my students in focus groups, staff leadership team and coordinating the writing grant. But I will be more tuned in to what I really think, and how I want to be with my students. The mad press from on top and the insane pressure of testing cannot be what my world is about. My students need a genteel, humane place to learn. They need a person who has sorted out what really matters, not another program thrown at them.
So, I continue to press myself to write. To take creative breaks. And to realize that taking care of me is worthwhile.
Tonight some parents, grandparents and kids from grades 3-5 met in the school cafeteria for a writing workshop titled, “Back to the Future.” We had several Vietnamese families and Hispanic, including a family from El Salvador. And the PTA president whom I think is Portuguese. We started with getting the parents on one side of the room to talk with each other about school memories and the kids did the same, for warm ups.
Then the gist was that kids and parents would interview each other about school, freetime and personality, talking awhile. We had a three column menu style interview form, from which to choose questions. The interviewers main job was to listen not to take notes. Then, after Fran shared her super-cool model ode, titled “Dad,” we wrote odes to each other on poster size paper forms.
We even had a bit of time to gallery walk or share, while having cookies. Everyone got a little journal, a gel pen of their color choice, and several blank ode forms to take home to retry or make parents’ day gifts out of their writing.
What I loves was the conversations. The way folks talked with each other. My teaching partner Fran and I couldn’t have been more pleased. It’s a lot of work to promote and plan an event, but worth it.
Locks would seem to point to bondage. Or security. Or exclusivity. No Romantic ever wrote, “My love is like an old rusty lock that’s never sprung in June…”
The token may be an inverse metaphor for true love to some, but I think they are one of the ways we write significance. The brassy glittering array of locks on the bridges over the Seine, with the keys thrown into the water, says something about ritual and wanting to be remembered. They’re the urban version of carving initials in an old oak tree. I don’t take the locks literally. I see them as bookmarks to brain maps. They make a folk art pageantry by the charm of their variety of styles and degree of weathering.
To me they are statements, like poems, that only the key knows. What heart thoughts hovered there as the shackle bolted into the body? What worries with the certainties?
When I studied the array of locks up close I wondered if the people who had placed them would ever return? Would they come together traipsing up the bridge flooring homing to their bit of hardware? Would only one return?
Sometimes words will be scrolled into oblivion, or lost in journals, or never mailed. These ornaments along the railing are each a line, or a poem…or at least the promise of one.
Even our pageantry is sometimes writing.
clusters of flowering cherry
in wind before the sun.
those exquisite blossoms
in the dark
Tonight the beginners salsa rueda had a good turnout. I have been going to another class so there were new dancers as we progressed around the circle to the calls. On the second “dame” (give me another one) my partner collected me for the cross body lead and I was immediately taken with his manner and appearance. Slim build, Japanese angular face with longish hair combed over to the side, with bits falling on his forehead and glasses. He has a dance frame so he probably knows ballroom dances.
Silly me. I kept watching him around the circle and looking forward to my turn to dance with him. A light, polite touch and graceful lead. I was trying to guess how much younger than me this man might be. Hard to tell.
He stayed around the rec center for part of the intermediate class and I found myself watching him across the room. How funny! I really cannot remember the last time someone’s presence made my heart do little pitta pats and I felt shy.
And of course wanted to be slim, svelt and at least 10 years younger. Oh oh, there it is. See previous post about losing resentment. Perdu des poids.
Still, I came home from dance class with my memory of him. It was fun to feel attracted to someone, however inaccessible or available he may or may not be.