Field Trip to the Rescue Farm

Here’s another old poem of mine from 2009. Funny, I remember the field trip rather well, but I don’t remember writing the poem!

The clapboard farmhouse sighs over the cold
stone foundation, relieved to see our group.

Our guide presents us her rescued charges,
heaping food and praise in equal measure.

The plow came to rest here long ago,
its steel teeth now dull from disuse.

Horses stand idle in the shadow of the barn,
swatting at memories of sweat and cruelty.

Fresh turkeys are spoiling in the sun,
their feathers now dense and unruffled.

Fat-backed hogs sleep like the immortal dead,
living mummies surrounded by their spoils.

And our children flit across the fields like glitter,
sweeping the farm in magical dust.

87017-cowsPhoto credit:, via flickr // CC BY 2.0



All I Want Is …

Here’s another poem from April 2009. That was such a hectic time in my life, I’m surprised that I managed to write anything!

All I want is …

A quiet place for me to write …
A quick retreat from everyday life …

From a washer laden with mildewed socks,
From little boys writing on my car — in chalk,

From dust and dirt and trails of ants,
From missing coats and wrinkled pants,

From a leaking roof and endless rain,
From muddy paws and a stopped-up drain,

All I want is a quiet so deep
That I can pen this poem and get some sleep.

Evolution of the Poem: at the barre …

pia04937orig1Recently, I was combing through old poetry, and ran across an early draft of my scifaiku poem “at the barre …”, complete with a list of markets that had rejected it.

Now, I love the completed version of this poem, which reads:

at the barre
the graceful arms
of a spiral galaxy

— first appeared in Rattle‘s Issue 49, Fall 2015, Tribute to Scientists

And I was excited when this scifaiku won an award, placing second in the 2016 Dwarf Stars Award given by the Science Fiction Poetry Association.

But the poem didn’t start out that way. In fact, the early versions were downright terrible.

My inspiration for this poem came from my daughter, who was taking dance class at the time. One of the ballet positions – fourth, if I’m remembering correctly – had one arm curved over her head and the other curled around her front. She reminded me of a spiral galaxy.

So, I began to research spiral galaxies, and discovered that their arm positions determine whether they are classified as spiral galaxies or barred spiral galaxies. The shape that reminded me most of my daughter was barred – an SBc.

I thought this was a nifty comparison, and conjured a row of little galaxies standing in front of a ballet barre. Such a lovely image should be easy to put into words, no?

This is an early draft of my poem (yes, I actually sent this out):

spiral galaxies —
intergalactic dance troupe
in “b” position

Um, yeah. It’s my poem, and it doesn’t even make sense to me.

But I knew I liked the concept, so I hung in there and kept editing. Barre was a lovely word to use because it both evoked the ballet and gave a nod to barred spiral galaxies. Once I put that word in there, I could take out the line about “b” position (the “b” stood for barred anyway), and I didn’t need to use the word dance. Elimating that clunky verbiage allowed the poem to flow from there.

So, please, my poet friends, hang on to your poems that speak to you, even if they start out rough. Haiku or scifaiku, in particular, can be deceptively tricky to write. Some short poems practically write themselves, but not this one. “At the barre …” needed distance, perspective, and research to come together.

Photo credit: That’s spiral galaxy Messier 81 above, as imaged by NASA/JPL/Caltech/University of Arizona/Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics/NOAO/AURA/NSF.

Have you painted your rock today?

  When my daughter was about two, she was invited to a party with the big girls up the block. She was so excited! One of the craft projects led to the girls decorating a rock.
Now, there’s nothing exciting or special about this rock. It is plain, smooth-faced gray stone, the kind you might find all over your neighborhood, especially if you live near me. I happen to like rocks, and this one has done little to pique my geologic interest over the years.

But I was wrong about it. This stone is special to my daughter. Princess brought the whole force of her creative self upon this rock. She painted it, spread glitter on it, and glued gems to it. For five years now, I have kept this craft masterpiece in my kitchen, on the window ledge by the sink, so I can look at it when I am doing the dishes. It reminds me that things aren’t always what they seem – and that my perspective might be quite different than someone else’s.

If we are honest with ourselves, I think we all have a plain grey rock in our lives. Something that you – and maybe only you – are excited about. Maybe it’s your new fuzzy socks or a song you like. Perhaps it’s an art technique or an artificial intelligence algorithm. Whatever it is, it’s something that makes your heart sing. Something that makes you feel creative and alive and special and chosen.

Too often, I think, we let other people’s views of what we should or shouldn’t like or do color our actions. Others see our passions or interests as plain grey rocks instead of the fine igneous masterpieces that they truly are. And instead of fearlessly throwing ourselves into our passions like only a toddler can do, we walk away, a little sadder, the world less bright than before.

Now is the time to reclaim your passion. Have you painted your rock today? 

Waking Up With Adam

It occurred to me 

that we all wake up

one morning with Adam

in the Garden of Eden –

that moment when you realize 

things aren’t quite

what you expected.

So many promises

unfulfilled, broken 

mangled bodies,

earthquakes and heartaches,

this myriad of misery

that comes with acceptance

of the human form.

It is our daily choice 

to rise forth from the ashes,

accept the crossbeams

of work and worry,

love and fear,

to go forth and be fruitful,

multiply our happiness

as best we can.

Friends for this journey are key –

the ones you can text

a single swear word

in the dead of night,

and your phone pings

with hearts and (((hugs)))

and you realize that maybe 

– just maybe –

a little piece of Eden

has followed you home.

For my Grandmother, at Christmas

I still miss her
bizarre gifts —
the strange ornaments,
half-price lotion,
those odd embroidered towels.

They remind me of a time
when my grandma
could fix anything I had broken —
betrayed trust,
shattered confidence,
scattered pieces of a fragile heart.

She never once wavered
over the task at hand.
When asked, she always helped —
as long as I gave her
a wide roll of my time,
so she could wrap me
in love.