Excerpt
Blame Emily acknowledges Emily Dickinson’s persistence in writing a poem a day for a year, and my acceptance of a similar challenge. Not to be outdone by Emily, my year-long effort began, slowly, ever-nagging.
Each day, I was conscious of the need to “produce”; some days produced nothing. I decided I could be behind or ahead of schedule. Being ahead proved wonderful; being a week behind induced panic.
All went well until December and January when I hit a slump and had to prod myself. I was over half-way done; this was no time to quit. Thanks to the miracles of haiku and senryu, I was able to push through to April.
Thank you to my husband, Alan M. Cvancara, for providing the lure for this project through one of his “lessons” for High Country Word Crafters.
Friends, when told that I intended to “become” an Emily Dickinson, thought that I meant to be a recluse! For me, reclusiveness is not a criterion for writing. The world in its wonder, people in their eccentricity, and a quest for the excitement and taste of words keeps me worldly and in awe.
My year, 2007-2008, a celebration of my 70th year, exploded in words and made me aware of the daily possibilities for poetic expression.
April 27, 2007 Useless Book
“Bught me an atlas once,” says motel-operator Emil, “but I spend my summer’s here,” he leans over desk, scans credit card, issues keys.
He gets that far-away look in his eyes, pictures tourist-bound vistas, the smell of Monument Valley’s sunrise, purple and mauve hues that color Grand Canyon’s sunset.
“Wasted my money,” he says, “on that useless book.”
May 8, 2007 She’s missed
when she’s gone and “gone” has happened three times this year.
Not gone as most people go . . . to Arizona for the winter, summer in the Adirondacks.
She’s gone to the psych ward. Depression they say. Medicine’s out. Shock treatment’s in,
and she admits, “I miss me, too, when I’m gone.”
June 1, 2007 Fate on Display
Amongst the green of spring lie remnants of winter past: carcasses of antelope, deer, elk--giants of the wilderness fallen in disarray where April’s purple mustard blooms.
Ivory bones, exposed by raven and vultures, bleach in afternoon sun; new herds nibble tender grasses nearby. Can yearlings foresee fate, fate that blows death off the Sierra Madres?
We bury our dead, we know our fate . . . they graze by their dead, do they know?
July 14, 2007 on patrol
mother tugs up straps of teenagers pink tank top on cleavage patrol
~for Angie August 4, 2007 wrong words
she doesn’t know she’s spoken wrong but smarts from silence that follows eyes that don’t meet hers the cold shoulder
’til he finally airs the violation and she recalls the smack of her words
that day and the next into the third no warm nudges
’til eyes meet again fingers touch and pain melts away
September 1, 2007 “Hi, Tony”
We buried him behind the fence in the wild place he wasn’t allowed to wander.
A field stone marks his spot up slope from a game trail.
He wasn’t ready to die, to leave us. His brain held strong, his body refused.
And now we weed whack behind the gate, greet him each time we pass.
Grandchildren ask to visit where he lies. We all yell, “Hi, Tony,” to the air, to his kitty image purring in our hearts.
October 19, 2007 snow comes creeping
this morning the mountain’s enameled with snow not just the tippy-top but way down into the foothills
we’re still green no snow here not this time we have sunshine
but one of these mornings our turn will come
snow comes creeping
November 14, 2007 from first butt wiggle
old man sits on liar’s bench just inside west side walmart watches the world go by while wife shops
then SHE walks past wearing tight skin-colored pants that cling like rind one cheek moves up the other down in rhythm
he doesn’t miss the sight rheumy eyes follow each twitch and wiggle he might be old might be lame but still appreciates a good butt wiggle
and exhales a deep sigh
December 24, 2007 Noel’s Eve
On the eve of Christmas wind beset the city, toppled garbage cans, threw trash, swayed semi’s on a late night run.
Then softly, silently, small snowflakes challenged wind and won.
Fleecy flakes bloomed to mini-marshmallow size, cloaked the town with white hid the mountain, sheathed neighbors.
Snow peace on Noel’s eve.
January 19, 2008 who who-who
through the stillness of a snowy night
i wake to hear the question who who-who
here in my mountain village where owls don’t bunk down
who who-who repeats like an indian tomtom
a monotone at midnight a question in a vacuum
i with no answers listen to the impossible query
of a strayed interrogator
February 27, 2008 Wilderness Boy
His wings spread to the wilderness like a bird taking flight in the purple-green of a melancholy morning.
He, the only son of his parents’ clutch, they, the resident pair of suburbia.
He reaches beyond encroaching civilization, hears the twiddle of nature, presses into marsh fragrance, feels the crunch of leaves underfoot, probes heaps of vegetation, wallows in his migration from urban sprawl.
But, the magnet of the parent nest pulls and the young boy returns–but only ’til nature’s tug summons anew
this fledgling ready to fly.
March 8, 2008 sometimes the time comes
to quit pussy-footing around grab the bull by the horns cliché into action
and so she works magic words to convince the unconvinced that she’s right he’s wrong
she presents a logical argument he accedes to her wisdom but the climate’s
never right again
April 2, 2008 all fool’s day
he said they had two choices marry on valentine’s day or april fool’s day
they choose lover’s day
twelve years later flood waters over many dams he says fools that they were april 1 would have been appropriate
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