The only rule:
keep the chain intact.
I didn’t know
in the grade school gym
it was a way to practice
meeting all that would try
to break us apart,
practice being bombarded,
practice calling in our fear.
Red Rover, Red Rover
let sickness come over.
Once it felt like a game.
Now—oh friend.
Hold on to my wrist.
I’ll hold on to yours.
Posts Tagged ‘childhood’
Red Rover, Red Rover
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged childhood, friendship, game, sickness on April 27, 2021| 2 Comments »
Ode to the Bic Lighter
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged childhood, fire, light on February 10, 2021| Leave a Comment »
My first lighter I found in a parking lot—
a smooth red plastic tube that fit
in my pocket. I knew playing with fire
was dangerous. I knew I wanted
to learn how. I remember trying again
and again to get the right purchase
with my thumb on the serrated sparkwheel.
I rolled and rolled until my skin was raw,
until at last the brief flame sputtered then died.
It wasn’t long before it came second nature—
the smooth flick needed to produce a spark,
the slight pressure on the red tongue
to maintain steady flame.
I learned how it burns
to be lit up too long,
but once you know how to make light,
how easy it is to bring it with you
everywhere you go.
This poem is published in the wonderful ONE ART Poetry Journal
In the Basement of the Old Stone Library
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged book, childhood, library, reading on November 17, 2020| 6 Comments »
Off the hot street and down
the narrow stairwell,
I entered the smell of books—
a musty scent of paper and ink.
How I loved entering the stacks,
shelves taller than I was.
Loved running my hands
along hardcover spines
wondering at the worlds inside.
I was allowed twelve thin books,
that meant twelve chances
to travel to realms where monkeys
stole hats and the Whangdoodle snoozed.
Twelve chapters in which I
was no longer an awkward girl
but a baker in an old village
or a mouse in an attic befriending a girl
who was something like me,
or at least like the girl I wished I could be,
a girl who was brave, a girl
who couldn’t help but stumble
every single time
into happily ever after.
Things You Didn’t Want to Play
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged childhood, loneliness, play, writing on October 2, 2020| 6 Comments »
Like Monopoly. Because you always ended up landing on Boardwalk
where the red hotel meant you owed two thousand dollars
and all you had were mortgaged railroads. Or like checkers,
because really, what was fun about moving small plastic disks
diagonally and hearing the other kid say, “King me.” And soccer?
Only because your mother made you because she wanted
to be coach. You did want to play school, but no one else did,
so you were the principal, the teacher, the student,
giving yourself homework, grading it yourself. Writing in red
in your best cursive at the top of the page, “See me.”
You didn’t want to play basketball, because no one else
ever chose you for their team. Even though you were tall.
And you were chosen last for volleyball, too. And t-ball.
And Red Rover. And dodge ball. Is it any wonder your favorite
way to play was to visit the junkyard and find treasure?
Or to walk along the lake to look for flowers and worms?
Is it any wonder you learned to love playing alone
in quiet rooms with an empty page and a pen?
There was no way then you could have known
that it would save you—no, you just thought
you were playing the only way you knew how,
walking through the only doors
you knew how to open yourself.
Those Bright Lights
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged childhood, ferris wheel, innocence, Pewaukee on July 13, 2020| 3 Comments »
That was the summer
they drove the Ferris wheel into town,
erecting it in the park—
and James Taylor and Carly Simon
sang to each other over the radio
and people paid money
to throw ping pong balls into small jars
for the chance to win a goldfish;
to throw darts at balloons
for a giant teddy bear.
The park smelled of beer and grilled corn
and from the top of the ride,
I could almost see the whole town—
down to the five and dime and up to the cemetery.
Those were the days before I knew words
such as mercy or duplicity or forgiveness.
The cotton candy melted on my tongue in sharp crystals.
The Ferris wheel was gone the next day,
my pocket full of tickets I couldn’t spend.
Remembering the Bozo Bop Bag
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bozo, childhood, poem, poetry, resilience on February 20, 2019| Leave a Comment »
My brother thrilled to pummel and punch
that red-nosed clown again and again—
an inflatable plastic sack with a round weighted base—
and always the clown returned to standing.
Forty years later, I still don’t want to punch anything,
wish, instead, I could be more like that red and blue Bozo,
could roll and twist and spin each time
life knocks me over, and though I wobble,
though I bob, I would defy the laws of physics
return to standing, yes I would,
and find a way to smile.
Before I Could Read, There Was the Day
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged childhood, literacy, poem, poetry, reading, tree on November 1, 2018| 2 Comments »
The day is quiet and
the light is strong and I sit alone
in the V of the weeping willow
in a place where the sun can’t reach me
and no one can see me.
I pull off the bark in thick rough slabs,
and the day is drowsy and the light
is long and the bark feels rough
in my four-year-old hands,
but I flip it and find it is smooth
underneath where it touches the tree.
Yes, the bark is smooth, like my dress,
like me, and I move my fingers across
the soft side, surprised by the secret writings there—
meandering marks that slither and wriggle
in cursive spells, some language only
the tree can tell, that only I can read.
And the day is page and the light
is song and I am not at all alone,
perhaps there is writing inside me, too,
the bark thrilling in my hands.
How Long Has It Been?
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged childhood, doll, love, poem, poetry on November 12, 2016| 2 Comments »
They sit on the shelf now, mostly,
or have moved into boxes of memory,
those soft cloth dolls we once cradled
and cuddled and dragged from bed
to the yard to the car to the store.
They went everywhere with us,
their small yarn eyes always open,
never narrowing in disapproval,
never turning to shine on someone else.
Their plump cheeks eternally blushing,
their smile never uncurling
into disinterest, never snarling
into disdain. We could tell them
everything—about the girl
down the street who jeered
that our plaid pants were too short,
who sneered at the way we ran.
We could tell them about
the blue monster who lived in the closet,
and how he sometimes slipped out
to crawl beneath our bed.
And they listened. And smiled.
And let us hold them and suck
on their hands—or their hats—if that’s
what made the night feel safe.
They never whispered mean
words about us to their friends
while we were off at school.
Sometimes, it’s true, they would
disappear. That’s what all
beloved things do. And then,
days later perhaps, they’d be found
under a pillow on the couch or out
beneath the willow tree sitting
in the dirt beside the shovel and pail.
Now, it is we who have disappeared
into the world of harder things—
keys and doors and ceilings,
and women with words
like sticks and men with eyes
that seldom meet our eyes.
We are too old for dolls.
Still, there is in us, perhaps,
the faded longing to hold something
soft, something so familiar,
something so well loved,
so absent of cruelty
it makes us feel capable
of loving utterly, unguardedly again.
From My Kitchen in Colorado
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged arrival, childhood, poem, poetry on August 13, 2016| 1 Comment »
Long before we could see
the smokestacks rising above
the rooftops of Madison,
my brother and I would shout
from the backseat,
“I see Oscar Mayer!”
Though we had never been in,
it was the building where
our grandfather worked
and its gray flues meant
we were close to Papa’s home.
I remember wanting it
bad enough to create
the vision in the distance.
“I see Oscar Mayer,”
I’d say, and my brother
would say he saw it, too,
and my mother or father would
explain it was still an hour away.
Five minutes later,
my brother would insist
he could see it for sure,
and then I’d see it again,
and an hour would pass this way
until finally the dark smoke
rose on the horizon
and we’d shout in unison,
“I see Oscar Mayer!”
It still happens sometimes,
I want to arrive somewhere
so badly I can see it
though it isn’t there,
or more likely I have no idea
how the destination will appear and so
I declare myself far away,
though I don’t really know.
Decades ago the Madison
plant was closed,
though my brother still writes
sometimes to tell me he can see it.
It was easier then—
we knew exactly
what we were looking for,
knew it so well that
I almost think
I can see it from here.
In Fact, Her Life Depends on It
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged childhood, hermit crab, hiding, poem, poetry on April 21, 2015| 4 Comments »
For most life on the planet, being hidden is the default condition.
—Michael Dickinson, biologist
The little girl is not like the hermit crab,
though both live by hiding, finding small
spaces where they can retreat and occasionally
poke out a well-armored claw for transit
or feeding. It’s natural to all living things,
this impulse to survive through concealment,
only this girl, who has tucked herself under the bed,
her soft body curled into itself,
this girl, though she pinches
at anything that draws close,
she desperately, urgently
wants to be found.