What Do I Need to Do?

This is Raven.

Her hair is purple and blue.

She has a birthmark on her forehead,

her third eye,

which blinks at me when we cross the street.

She is beautiful.

Her voice sounds like the windchimes

in our cherry tree.

All I want to do is listen.

*for Evan

This blog has been dormant for a long time. I was a different person the last time I wrote here. And I have a lot to say about that. When I started this blog the irony of its name never even hit me. I thought I was talking about buttons. The antique buttons that I had started collecting a few years prior to make jewelry with. Back then I loved a store in NYC called Tender Buttons. I was fascinated by all of the stories behind those tiny spherical works of art. Plus All Buttond Up looked cool as a logo. It never occurred to me that I was describing myself. Duh. 

I was all buttoned up. 

But not anymore. And I'm going to start writing here again. I want to tell some stories about the past 45 years. I'll be 46 in February and I've learned a lot (haven't we all??), especially in the last 10 years. I got married at age 25 to a wonderful man. I had 2 beautiful boys who are now almost 16 and 13. I had 4 miscarriages. I paid for a lot of therapy sessions. I left my wonderful husband. I met a wonderful woman and fell in love. I married her. We rode a tandem bicycle 1400 miles this summer. That sounds ridiculous. I am laughing out loud. 

I'll tell you all about it, in no particular order and without worrying about deadlines or rules. For now, I'll still be writing quietly. I won't be posting a link on Facebook or directing traffic here. If you find my writing, great! If no one reads it but my wife, that's fine, too. I simply want to start exercising my writing muscle again. I'll push the button when I'm ready. 

I'll start with this piece I wrote in Maya Stein's Quick'n'Dirty Poetry class last month. (She's my wife. She's a great teacher.) 

I pushed the stroller quickly through the Magic Kingdom, calling over my shoulder for him to hurry. I had read that the best spot to see the fireworks was just over the bridge in front of Tomorrowland where we would have a perfect view of Cinderella’s castle. Another tip I had industriously read while pouring over the guidebook in the weeks before we left. If we sat in the in the perfect spot, a woman dressed as Tinkerbell would whiz directly over our heads to begin the show. I could hardly wait to see the boys’ faces when she flew across the sky seconds before the first firework lit up the night. Hurry, I said again, and broke into a run. 

But an hour later Charlie had cried himself to sleep in the stroller and Evan was laying under a bench playing with his Buzz Lightyear toy, missing the whole point of coming back to the park after dark. Overstimulated by too much sun, too much sugar, and the late hour, the magic of Disney had completely worn off for everyone but me. 

I sat there in the dark watching the bursts of color wondering what they would remember from this trip when they got older. Would it be like my own memories of the pilgrimage my family had made here the year I was twelve? Me and my little sister fighting in the backseat of the hot, airless Chevy. The teardrop camper in the campground my mother and father thought was a charming alternative to a hotel, but which also didn’t have air conditioning to combat the 104-degree mid-August heat. 

When my father and I reminisced about that trip recently he said all these years later he still didn’t understand why they had driven us seventeen hours to Florida for me and my sister to beg them to let us spend practically the whole week swimming in the campground pool. Something we could have done back at the Jersey shore for free. 

I think I understand it better now, he had given me the Magic Kingdom, but I wanted something more. Or maybe it simply wasn’t magic that I needed.

A Memoir of Bewilderment

You’re making a mountain out of a molehill, she said.

But it was the mountain, birthed from fog and thunder

which held me captive, then bent me under.

Right there in front of us,   (we cannot see it until we see it)

  a hard stop on the road, a strange confounding caress.

How did we end up here surrounded by this mess?

I ask her to speak to me in Hebrew,

wanting only to hear words I do not understand.

I love you exactly as I can.

Day 301: Listen

Your answer is the thing you see in the mirror,

the animal under your feet in the morning.

Listen to the flower breathe.

It is quiet, but it is still growing.

366 Days: I was born yellow

I was born yellow.

Like the bones of a dinosaur

dug up and studied

piece by piece.

Here you can see: 

he was an herbivore

he ran slower than the others

he probably swam

he smells like ancient smoke and dust

he was a coward.

I honor this mustard-colored fossil 

each year on my birthday

commiserate his fate

knowing my life will end in a blaze of sun also.

And that I am a coward, too.

366 Days: If You Really Knew Me

If you really knew me you would say I am quiet.
If you really knew me you would say I am loud.

If you really knew me you would say I am brave

If you really knew me you would understand shame.

If you really knew me you would be shocked.

If you really knew me you would love me.

If you really knew me you would know the horror of abuse.

If you really knew me you would say I am a good mother.

If you really knew me you would want to know more.

If you really knew me you would tell me however I show up is okay.

If you really knew me you would ask me questions.

If you really knew me you would want to open me up with a can opener.

If you really knew me you would not allow me to be alone.

If you really knew me you would be worried.

If you really knew me you would be proud.

If you really knew me you would see ugly scars.
If you really knew me you would be wounded.

If you really knew me you would know that I lie. 

But more often I tell the truth.

If you really knew me you would ask me to dance. 

If you really knew me you would sing out loud with me.

If you really knew me you would want to marry me.

If you really knew me you would know I never back down from a dare.

If you really knew me you would be angry.

If you really knew me you would wrap your arms around me. Tight. Tighter.

If you really knew me you would unfold.

If you really knew me you would call me a soldier.

If you really knew me you would say I am loyal.

If you really knew me you would be bold.

If you really knew me you would taste bitterness.

If you really knew me you would jump through hoops.

If you really knew me you would want to be my friend forever.

If you really knew me you would tell me to stay.

If you really knew me you would love better.

If you really knew me I would love better.

366 Days: Take What You Need

Take what you need.

Erotica in the poetry section.

Morse code paintings that spell spill love.

Mistakes.

Poetry by telephone.

Stained glass truth.

Rivers of freedom.

Clapping hands. No,

better yet, a standing ovation.

Spotted pigs with wings.

A yes to everything.

Pull down the book from the shelf.

Ride the highest thermal.

Leap. Yell.

Punch the keys.

Take exactly what you need.

366 Days SWF: Seeks Friend For The End Of The World

She must be:

Prepared, like a Girl Scout.

Courageous.

Smart (cunning and wily).

Considerate.

Kind.

Friendly.

A rule breaker.

Stylish, because if we’re going down we better look good.

Wise and fair.

Strong.

Able.

A good dancer.

Joyful.

Confident.

Impractical.

Irreverent.

Trustworthy.

Ready to laugh at all times.

A wishful thinker.

Want to make the world a better place

(in case we get a do-over.)

366 Days: Rare Alignment

Sometimes we are graced with a rare alignment

the tipping of an axis point, subtle

secondary evidence of efficiency,

a spectacle seen once and only once

in our brief lifetime.

Suddenly, a curve rather than a straight line,

cairns appearing then disappearing again.

A suspension of one reality, while slowly

our bones and muscles shift into new spaces.

Expect a new sequence of angles, trust

this rearranging of your capacity for love.

366 Days: I Won't Forget

Love the ghost woman
who lives lightly there
inside of you
like a cool velvet-green lake.
Skim stones on her surface
circle wide around 
the child you hold too tightly.
Enter the disintegrating shelter
on a timbered trail,
devour the porcelain windowpanes
celebrate the mountains of freedom
you chose.
Answer with a blush.

366 Days: Roots (Day 135)

Roots
The springtime rain is falling
and the road is filled with longing.

I realize, this is such a worn cliche.

But when you love with wild abandon

sometimes you are left standing

underneath a wilting apple tree.

The fruit falls bruised and battered.

Your fragile heart is shattered.

But the roots, the roots will set you free.

366 Days: Still Here, Still Writing

Childhood, 1934

Do you remember our childhood?

There was the empty schoolyard.

There was a gnarled dogwood tree, white blossoms,

smell of brushfires scenting the air.

It was hot that summer,

sweltering, you bent before me

writing secrets on the dusty ground.

Late evenings cooled off.

Daddy brought us ice chips

and laughed at the chickens, clucking and pecking.

Yes! How could I forget this? Yes!

We were girls together.

Dripping beads of water, tasting dust.

We saw the sun going down. Going down.

Watching our mother’s back

as she waltzed away.

Forgive her.

Forgive us.

366 Days - Waking From A Dream

I dreamed we never knew each other

but instead of oblivion,

I wandered dimly lit hallways

searching for a trace of you

fragments of bone or drops of blood

proof you had paced these floors beside me.

An orderly offered me cold compresses, strips of gauze

and slices of stale bread

when all I really wanted was a glass of wine.

Wine that tasted of sterling silver and sea salt,

smoky anise and stone cherries.

I lay down on a raft

waiting there silently

until he struck a match and pushed me out to sea.

366 Days: night sky haiku

The moon is joyful

waiting for us to notice

pregnant with her hope.

366 Days: ten ways the day converged in the hollow of a tiny spoon

Bicycles spinning across the water.

Architecture rising to our attention.

Bathing in sunshine.

Laughing at dogs while freedom towered above us.

Daydreaming.

Merry-go-rounds.

Water to wine.

Sun setting on a verdant secret garden.

Sweet cream.

Moon gaping between gnarled oak branches.

366 Days - I Will Fix You

I Will Fix You

All your broken parts,

the loose springs, the rusted gears

the key that doesn't fit perfectly in the lock.

I will oil your squeaky wheel

and tighten your spokes.

Fasten your seat belt.

Remove the spot

blot the stain

clean the mess.

I will heal the old wounds

rub the salt out

lick them clean.

Wipe your tears.

Affix the band aid.

Solve your mysteries,

resolve your quandaries

and amend the memos.

I will shake out the cobwebs

erase the memories

polish your past.

I will breathe new life into you

when I take your breath away

with my kiss.

366 Days* The Tell-Tale Heart

My son imagined out loud what it would be like

if we were forced to squeeze our own hearts

to stay alive.

He quickly decided he would drink

from the Hudson River,

grow himself a third arm that could do the work for him

while he built forts,

slew dragons.

I figure I would just get tired,

bored of the endless motion, pumping again and again.

Eventually I would lose interest in the process

drift off in some other direction

chasing a more amusing destination,

realizing too late my breath had slowed.

Expired.

* Allison and I are still here, still at it, still chipping away at 366 days. Day sixty today and it feels like a hell of an accomplishment. We have written something every day, even if it's terrible, even if not one word is acceptable or decent or printable. But we have showed up and engaged each other and inspired each other and some days, some days I suck in my breath and feel the hair stand up on the back of my neck and I read her words and think, "THIS. This is why we are here." The guts of life. The dread and the hope. The pain and the pleasure. The absolute mystery of it all. We are writing down our bones. Writing to make it make sense. Writing to save our lives.

366 Days - Fire

My babysitter set herself on fire.

Not while she was watching us,

but years later. When we had already moved.

She was nearly grown up by then,

still lived in the house next to a field of milkweed.

I heard she poured a can of gasoline

over her head,

sat on her bed,

lit a match.

I can imagine the pain.

Not the physical pain,

because who can imagine that?

But the burn of words unspoken

cries for help like kindling,

small twigs and dry leaves, blowing.

Sparks of anguish melting

in the heat of a summer’s day.

Desperation igniting that way.

Sometimes when I smell smoke, I think of her.

Remember the corn

she would pop on the stove,

removing the top

watching two girls clap and twirl

as the snow-white kernels

fell around us like rain.

366 Days - FIMO

FIMO

I made an impression of myself in clay tonight,

a self-portrait of sorts.

My maleable alter ego.

I wish it was so easy to shape-shift,

to make myself into something I am not.

Raven haired

green eyes instead of blue

confident

patient

courageous

enchanting.

It’s often difficult not to catalog my faults

my daily blunders

and imperfections.

The alien was my best attempt

at disclosing my true self--

a sometimes imposter--

a foreigner in my own body.

366 Days - Don't Be Tossed Away

So it is very deep to be a writer. It is the deepest thing I know. And I think, if not this, nothing--it will be my way in the world for the rest of my life. I have to remember this again and again.--Natalie Goldberg

I figured I'd better check in. I mean I made this big pronouncement about writing a poem a day for 366 days (I think I said 365 but this is a Leap Year so lucky us, we've got an extra day this year) and then . . . nothing.

But it hasn't been nothing. It's been 12 days and I've written a poem every single day. And it's not easy. In fact some days it's darn near like pulling teeth. I find myself whining to myself, "What was I thinking? I have nothing to say. I can't write for shit. I can't think of a topic. Aaargh." And then, I write.

In Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg tells us, don't be tossed away. Don't let the little voices in your head sway you from your goal. Don't be tossed away. Understand your mind and don't listen when it comes up with a million excuses and insecurities. Don't fear failure or success. Just do it. Don't be tossed away.

I was already in the habit of treating my writing as an exercise. After 3 semesters at The Writer's Studio in New York I have learned that not everything (in fact most of what I write) is not precious. It's just an exercise. It's helping me learn to be a better writer. By studying writing, by reading as a writer and not as a reader, by practicing writing, I am becoming a better writer. Maybe I've used one line that will speak to me again. Maybe I turned a phrase differently and another poem will blossom later. Maybe there is simply one word I can use as a springboard on Day 244. My mantra is always, it's just an exercise. Anything else is a bonus.

Another bonus is that I've already found myself looking at the world differently. I mean, I think I've always been the kind of person who notices and appreciates the little things, but now I do so even more. I stop myself multiple times as I glide through my day and wonder, "That's interesting. How would it feel to write about it? What would my first line be? What would my last line be?" I find myself looking at my world more closely, valuing the smallest moments, welcoming a deeper acknowledgment of life and the way I choose to honor it through my writing.

And so I will keep writing so that I won't be tossed away. Here's one I thought I'd share. . . .

I Am Not This Poem

These words do not define me.

They do not even exist, really,

abandoned quickly on the page.

I you we are merely a moment

in time

in space

Carl's blue dot.

These words are a river

coursing through my universe

in a hurry to meet your horizon.