Reds

Video: "Duck & Cover"

See Jane. See Jane hanging upside down on the monkey bars. The red ribbon in the lace edging of her ankle socks matches the red ribbon in the lace on the ruffled spankies under her rumpled plaid dress. All the tomboys wear spankies - to keep the real boys from seeing their real underwear. Jane thinks it’s rather silly though since they look just like underwear, only made of slightly heavier cotton and decorated with garish look-at-me ruffles. But Mother insists “Jane, if you are going to do cherry drops at recess, you must wear spankies.”

Jane swings quickly, flips once and lands feet-first on the asphalt. Her bruised legs and skinned knees are evidence of her previous unsuccessful flips. Once, she even landed on her head, but that was way back in September when the blacktop was still new and soft. Now Jane and Tracy and Donna practice everyday, at every recess (except on rainy days of course when the entire class is forced to stay inside and play Duck Duck Goose.)

After recess, as the children settle obediently into their seats, Mrs. Blackburn pulls the heavy curtains across the wall of windows, cheerfully announcing, “Today we’ll be learning about the Russian menace.” The projector hums and clicks. Dust particles dance in the single ray of light. A cartoon turtle whistles an insidious tune that will stay with Jane into adulthood, manifesting its wisdom in myriad strange ways. Duck and Cover; then, the shrill cry of a civil defense siren; Duck and Cover; and the movie screen turns white. Mrs. Blackburn opens the curtains and instructs the students to practice hiding under their metal desks.

Crouched on the floor, Jane studies the marbled pattern on the asbestos floor tiles. It reminds her of the brown and pink crayons she melted and mixed together under a magnifying glass last summer. The turtle says the bomb is 10 times stronger than the sun. Jane wonders if she weren’t under her desk, would she melt like a crayon too? And if she melted next to Bessie’s son would they make a pretty marbled pattern? Then she remembers that Dad once said the races aren’t allowed to mix. The bell rings.

That evening, Jane plays Barrelful of Monkeys on the family room floor. She is lying on her tummy, legs bent at the knee, her ankles swinging above her and a pile of red plastic monkeys tangled in front of her. She hooks the arm of one monkey to another forming a chain of two, then three. She tries again and again to add a fourth, but with no success.

Mother is on the telephone; her cigarette glows red in the evening shadow. She is talking long distance to her sister. She tells Aunt Sue that Dad’s secretary is divorced, and blonde. “A bombshell” Mother says. The headlights from Dad’s car travel across the family room wall like search lights. Mother hangs up the phone. She takes a deep breath and announces “Bessie, Mr. Pavlovsky is home now. You may put dinner on the table.” She puts on her crimson lipstick just before Dad walks through the door.

“Hey, Dollface, what’s for dinner?” he says as he grabs Mother’s waist and kisses her clumsily on the cheek. “You’re late” she replies as Jane runs up to him and wraps her arms around his waist. Under her breath, Mother adds “and you smell like Vodka.”

Sac News & Review

One more poem in the Sacramento News & Review - just a little sweet thing..
http://www.newsreview.com/sacramento/Content?oid=869909

Six Sentences

Wooo Hooo! One of my prose poems was published at Six Sentences! Check it out - it a really cool blog. http://sixsentences.blogspot.com/2008/09/gardener.html

Meadows such as this

There will come a day when meadows such as this will be locked behind pre-cast concrete walls. Only sanctioned artists and licensed poets will be allowed to wander - quickly though. “Please be quick” the uniformed guard will say as the others pass through the barbed wire gates. “Please, get your inspiration and leave – quickly - before anyone takes notice.”
No time to waste. No time to linger, lollygag or dawdle. No time to hum the sibilant symphony of birds and insects. Nor nibble sour grass and bramble berries. No time to watch the trees sway and notice how the leaves sparkle like a disco ball as the sun bounces off ever changing surfaces. Nor admire, with ardent intensity, the structure of Queen Anne’s lace. No time to lie on the grass and float with clouds and sparrows until the backs of knees begin to itch. No time to crush aromatic leaves between the fingers and sprinkle them like breadcrumbs on the path.
No, absolutely no time for nothingness! There are charts to compose, time lines to be drawn, assignments to be written. And this poem is due at the Ministry of Humanity in precisely 18 minutes.

Vesica Piscis

The smallest stone falls – –

Into the silent river,

Into the Sacred River.

And so the ripple begins.

A dragonfly, wings aflame,

A flute aloft, a flutter,

A seraphim, a whirlwind

That bends the reverent Reeds.

Where the circles commingle,

Grassy ring, water ripple,

Two creates One, Earth Spirit

Flesh – Vesica Piscis.

Poet Fish bubbling babbling

Overflowing water words

Tongue struggling tail thrashing

Inhale! – his invocation:

O River Voices resound

From Stone and Bubble and Wing!

Our – smallest – action

- Changes – every thing.

The Transverberation of Saint Theresa

Barefoot on a balcony she sang
I am!
And the amber meadows sang
I Am!
And the purple mountains sang
I AM!
And the sky (as if waking from an etherized dream) sang
I AM YOU TOO!
Baptized in Infinite Singularity,
Now she knew.

…
But tell me, Saint Theresa,
When it’s time to wash the sheets,
When ecstasy turns to laundry,
And your “Now” is just another spin cycle,
Do you still hear the singing sky?
…

There are times, Mr Prufrock,
When ragged claws scuttle me (gasping) to the seabed.
There, in the lullaby of the seaweed dances,
Downy drowsy drowny death
Washes over me.

In those times, Mr Prufrock,
I am a heartbroken Ophelia,
Unheard, still here.
Looking up through the watery lens,
Unheard, still here.
Searching the sky,
Unheard, still here.
Dim and distant,
For just a glimmer,
Unheard, still here.
Unheard, still here.
The urgency of my beating heart
Transverberates my ears
And I remember.

In those times, Mr Prufrock,
I have a choice to make:
To suffer slings and arrows,
Or to face my stuttering fears
(No, no, not now!)
And rise above my sea of troubles.
And I remember now…
I once squeezed the universe into a ball.
I am Lazarus come from the dead.
Rising in a flurry of bubbles to the surface,
I am not drowned - I know NOW!

Sunflowers on Road 98

once
a field of little suns
each a joyful
reflection
of their God
with verdant
arms raised
(Lord praised!)
happy little holy men
seeking the light.

late
august and
heavy headed monks
clutch certainties
in bloated misshapen eyes
cowled brown
bowed down
withered
impotent
they wait for harvest.

Forget-Me-Nots

She walked down the shadowed hall into the kitchen and flipped the switch. “Why did I come in here again?” she muttered as the fluorescent light flickered, then glowed, illuminating the worn Formica counter tops. “Funny how you forget the simplest things between the living room and kitchen…” What was it she came in here for? Tea? That did sound good; it was a bit chilly tonight. She filled the kettle with tap water and turned on the burner. “But that’s not what I came here for…” she said as she opened the cabinet and took down her grandmother’s tea cup.

The cup was decorated with fine gold tracery and clusters of hand painted forget-me-nots. Its creamy porcelain was so thin it was translucent. It was priceless. In 1917, as the Tsar and Tsarina were being forced into exile they bestowed gifts -objects from the royal household- to their loyal servants. Grandmother had been the Tsarina’s chamber maid for most of her young life. Later that year when the Bolsheviks returned to the city to round up the remaining Tsarist sympathizers, she bravely smuggled the precious tea cup out of Russia hidden in her valise.

Sophie’s tattered slippers scuffed along the vinyl floor as she headed for the kitchen table and sat down. She poured the hot water into the cup. Inhaling the spicy orange bergamot steam, she was reminded of sitting on her grandmother’s lap. “Never…” The old woman had said in a thick Slavic accent, “never, never forget, Sofochka, you are princess … here.” Even now, Sophie could still feel Baba’s knobbled parchment fingers softly tapping her chest.

Sophie looked down at her own aging hands, now cradling the tea cup. Her spidery veins and liver spots seemed to mock the cup’s delicate design. She never understood Baba’s comment about being a princess. Just the babbling of a broken old woman she guessed. But the warmth from the tea cup eased her arthritis and the romantic vision of High Tea with the Tsarina made her life seem a little less ordinary.

When she was finished, she carefully washed and dried the cup, returning it to the cabinet. She re-entered the living room and spied the cold fireplace - kindling and logs at the ready. “Matches!” she exclaimed. She walked down the shadowed hall into the kitchen and flipped the switch.

This is why I'm here...

"Red House" (http://redhousecc.blogspot.com/ - the sister blog to this one) is what I do. I'm an architect. I went to architecture school some twenty odd years ago, earned my architectural license twelve years ago and continue to practice architecture to this day. It's a great profession - I can make my own hours, I enjoy doing it and I'm paid well. I love working with my clients, helping them focus and create their design vision. I love that as an architect I get to be part businessman, part artist, part engineer, sometimes a financial planner, politician, lawyer, historian, teacher, occasionally even a marriage counselor - and since I work for myself - IT tech, administrative assistant, and janitor! But the best part of being an architect is that I still get a kick out of watching my designs turn from ink on paper to wood studs on concrete footings.

But truth be told, I think I've been put on this earth to write. So here it is - my writing blog.

More to come....