Poem in Your Pocket 2022: "Nebraska"

As fires raged around our community in the fall of 2018, and people found out we were heading to Nebraska, the most common question I received was "Why Nebraska?" Isn't it just corn and tornadoes? Although stereotypes might (sometimes) be based in truth, although we have yet to experience a full-blown tornado since arriving--just a couple of warnings, this place is starting to grow on me. I spent my last two years of high school in the Midwest, and I like it. True, I miss the mountains, and I miss the beach, too. There's just something about the skies here, though.

Lately I've been trying to explore some of the literary history and poetic experience here in the state of
Nebraska. What I am finding is encouraging. So as I have searched for a poem for today, I wanted to find something that represents part of my experience with the cornhusker state. Side note: I still have not converted to Big Red.

A recent favorite, as witnessed by last year's post, is Ted Kooser. However, I decided to find something newer, a poet I had not read before. In Nebraska Presence: An Anthology of Poetry, edited by Greg Kosmicki and Mark K. Stillwell, I unearthed many gems, but I ultimately decided to go with "Nebraska" by Kelly Madigan Erlandson.

“Nebraska”

This is a place for things that take time. Long histories
that need to be unrolled and laid out across oak library tables,
with a hard-backed book set on each corner to keep them pressed open.
Here, we understand that shadows fold their wings and settle down
in midday, tucked underfoot like a coyote den the unschooled never
notice. We can see a fire in the next county, the smoke a thundercloud
of blackbirds twirling for fall, grouping and regrouping themselves
as though to remember something already lost, washed out
and splayed in the wet clay of the creek bed. You can drive
an entire afternoon here and not see a person, but all the way
the meadowlarks will be opening the doors of their throats,
letting out music like milkweed seeds delivered downwind.
You might start counting those birds after awhile, picture them
as mile markers on the telephone wires, wondering if you’ve seen
the same one over and over again. We have more stars here, so many
that strangers think there is something wrong with our sky, that it’s
fake or that Sioux women have beaded our night with constellations
not seen in Minneapolis or Memphis, fresh ones that we can give
names to as we lie on the hood of the car. We can call one Mountain
Lion Reclaims Ancestral Home, after the cougar who roamed up
a wooded thicket into Omaha this fall, ranging until the zoo director
shot him with a tranquilizer dart. Here we can keep naming star puzzles
until the threat of sunrise blues the black space above us.
This is a place for things that take time, the long stitching together
of soft spots in the heart, the wind across the Missouri River Valley
scooping loess into hills unlike any others on this continent,
seeds stored in the cellar of the prairie for a hundred years
patient for fire, unable to crack themselves open without it.
This is a place where disappointments deep as aquifer
can spill themselves out, fill up and empty again, as many times
as the wound requires. This is a place where a person can heal,
or choose not to heal. We have both kinds.
                                                                                  --Kelly Madigan Erlandson

If you want to play along, Here are the rules:

1. Find a copy of your favorite poem...or one that tickles you fancy today...or one that actually fits in your pocket. Finding in on your phone is okay, but it's always more human if you have transcribed it yourself and fold it up and put it in your pocket.

2. Carry your chosen poem around all day, ready to be shared. Don't forget to share with me!

3. Share the poem with people (friends, neighbors, complete strangers) throughout the day.

4. Soak in the awesomeness that is poetry!

5. Check my Instagram (@joeaveragewriter), Twitter (@joeavgwriter), or Facebook for the video of this year's poem!

If you want even more fun, check out my chosen poems from years past!

Little Poems to Celebrate!

 I have been thinking how I wanted to celebrate National Poetry Month this year, and I told myself, "Self, we are not going to simply wallow into Poem in Your Pocket Day (April 29) and do nothing more." So I looked around through some old notes and I found these four little creations that I scribbled with my daughter on New Year's Eve 2019. Brooklyn wanted to write and draw with me before midnight, and this was the result. And somehow, they never found the light of day until now. We called our creations Cardboard and Crayon 'Ku. I joked about opening an Etsy shop. Maybe I still should. (Not really.)

Okay, no Etsy shop.

Whatever your poetic tolerance or potential (not directly correlative), take some time and celebrate a good poem today (not necessarily these). I'll be back later with something else.

Regaining a Bit of My Groove through Painting and Poetry (Inspired by Sunsets)

 Part I:

As you may or may not have noticed, I have not done too much writing lately...at least much that I have shared. And I think that my lack of production, coupled with lack of time dedicated to writing or other creative endeavors, has shaken a little of my confidence...or at least my creative confidence.

Part II:

Over the past two or three weeks I noticed an influx of sunset pictures on social media, too. And then I started noticing them again as I have had to run kids back and forth to rehearsals, to jobs, to the dentist, or to find a COIVD test. And I kept seeing them--all distinct from the previous day. Then the sunrises came, too, as I drove to campus each morning. For several consecutive days I drove blinded by beauty. My mind drifted through all sorts of metaphors regarding life, death, resurrection, the afterlife (and breakfast). It's a wonder I did not crash.

Part III:

Last Tuesday I was in charge of an activity for the 14-15 year old young men and women at church. Since Brooklyn falls into that age group, I asked her. She wanted to paint. Great idea. So I forced myself to create. I admit it was a struggle to come up with an idea at first, especially since I kept running back and forth with supplies for the teenagers (and they blasted the soundtrack to Disney's Encanto louder than should ever be played. Sidenote: (I am sick of Bruno!)

Part IV:

Right before I left the house, I saw an amazing sunset over the rooftops of my neighborhood. That became the inspiration for my amateur painting. After it was finished, I felt that it needed a poem, so I worked on that for the past few days. Now the desire to write and create and play is coming back!

Part V:

"Glory to Come"

Preparing

for His night shift,

the Master daubs the remnants

of today’s palette

over the blue-gray canvas,

sloshing purple and pink;

and with the waning light,

He rinses His brushes

through the clouds,

momentarily

spilling orange gold

around the edges.

 

The slipping sun winks

before sinking to black—

one last promise

of another masterpiece

to come.

Part VI:

As always, critiques and criticisms are welcome.

 

Christmas in July

“Christmas Crazy”

 

One Christmas, I got snagged

in the current of holiday shoppers,

pulled under and swallowed

by a swarm

scavenging the remains of

trendy trinkets, rooting through

bargain bins,

pecking and picking

over remnants of deals already closed out;

endless rolls of wrapping screamed

louder than the toddler trailing

behind her mother’s cart overflowing with

Christmas crazy—

 

It careened around a corner,

out of control,

rickety back-left wheel spinning absently,

and crashed,

triggering an avalanche of

expletives and baubles,

the gift-wrapped gaudiness

spilling across the not-too-recently

waxed tile—

 

The tin-speaker droned overhead;

the din of holiday havoc

paralyzed my senses:

individual samples of non-cheer now

in Aisle Two served in tiny white baking cups

for your convenience.

 

So I left—my cart

and my soul

empty—

for a more stable scene.

 

Deserting the hive behind

the automatic sliding glass doors,

I drove to an empty lot,

windows down,

gazed at the few simple lights

warming the blueblackness of the winter sky,

and exhaled private

exultations and alleluias—

a prayer to peace.

photo credit: Calwaen Liew on Unsplash

 So...I started scribbling the ideas for this poem about a year and a half ago, but a couple of weeks ago I felt the need to pull it out and either finish it or be finished with it. I'd love your feedback, but want to  remind you that I haven't poemed for a while.

Also, here is my traditional claim that I am going to start posting more content in the future. Believe it or don't, I'm still going to do it. Anyone want to hold me accountable?

Poem in Your Pocket Day 2021

It's here! The day that I almost religiously pay homage to my blog. Maybe my pilgrimage should occur a little more frequently, but despite my negligence and my writing sins, can I share a poem with you? #pocketpoem

I encountered this back in January, and I instantly knew that it was the one this year. Ted Kooser has recently become one of my favorites. Since Nebraska claims him, there are more Kooser poetry collections in the local library than any other poet. I'm just glad I remembered where I put it before it went in my pocket.

“Pocket Poem”
 
If this comes creased and creased again and soiled
as if I’d opened it a thousand times
to see if what I’d written here was right,
it’s all because I looked for you too long
to put it in your pocket. Midnight says
the little gifts of loneliness come wrapped
by nervous fingers. What I wanted this
to say was that I want to be so close
that when you find it, it is warm from me.
 
                                                                --Ted Kooser

If you want to play along, Here are the rules:

1. Find a copy of your favorite poem...or one that tickles you fancy today...or one that actually fits in your pocket. Finding in on your phone is okay, but it's always more human if you have transcribed it yourself and fold it up and put it in your pocket.

2. Carry your chosen poem around all day, ready to be shared. Don't forget to share with me!

3. Share the poem with people (friends, neighbors, complete strangers) throughout the day.

4. Soak in the awesomeness that is poetry!

5. Check my Instagram (@joeaveragewriter), Twitter (@joeavgwriter), or Facebook for the video of this year's poem!

If you want even more fun, check out my chosen poems from years past!

Poem in Your Pocket 2020-Quarantine Edition

Hey. Can I share a poem with you? It's Poem in Your Pocket Day. 
#pocketpoem
#shelterinpoems

First, if you are not familiar with Poem in My Pocket Day, here are the rules:

1. Find a copy of your favorite poem...or at least one that you like...or has touched you recently...or whatever. Digital is fine, but it's more human if you print a copy or transcribe it by hand.

2. Carry it around in your pocket (at the ready) all day. You shouldn't have to search for it on your phone every time you pull it out.

3. Share your chosen poem with people throughout the day.

4. Relish the poetry of this world!

My selection this year came as I was contemplating my career move. I left the public school classroom to teach at the university level. Since then I have had several former students reconnect with me via social media. And so...this:

"Teacher Dreams"

Some nights
students return to me
like salmon to their spawning bed.
They shake my hand
and sit across from me
and tell me what they have done
what they will soon be doing.
I remember all their names
and just where each one sat
in my classroom.
Still, when they tell me
what they learned,
it's not what I remember teaching.

--Cecil W. Morris

(https://www.britannica.com/biography/Joe-DiMaggio)

This "teacher dream" conversation, as Mr. Morris phrases it, in my experience, is more of a reality than a dream. I have taught countless lessons to thousands of students over my twenty years in education, and I firmly believe that what I put into my lessons and what students receive is different. If I am prepared, each one of them will take what he or she needs as an individual for that day. That is why, as the great Joe DiMaggio said, "There is always some kid who maybe seeing me for the first [and I'll add last] time. I owe him my best."

(Oversimplified) Constructivist theory dictates that students will construct their own meaning from their personal experiences and social interactions. They will connect the new material presented to them to their own life experiences and learn and grow.

Sometimes, a student might be presented with adverbial clause exercises, reflective journal prompts, or even Shakespearean sonnets. And although she may not understand iambic pentameter or scratch out more than two lines about what she did over summer vacation, she still learns that she matters, she is safe, and she has ideas worth sharing. That is what teaching is all about--making a difference, building relationships, helping students learn for themselves.

I have had this conversation with many students at many levels. It is all worth it.

Check my Instagram @joeaveragewriter and Facebook pages soon for the video version of today's poem! 

It's Amazing How Inspiration Strikes

“See”

witness

random shocks of purple

poking from the rocks, splashes of red

and yellow fire-petals providing relief

for the variations of brown on gray stone,

green on gray scrub;

splotches of rusty lichen speckling

the landscape, spattered patches of life

dropped from god’s paintbrush

inhale

a breath of bitter sage and dust

with a dryness—pine-sweet tinge—

a touch of storm on the horizon

note

the flicker of tails darting in,

tongues darting out of crevices,

the flirtatious tit-twit-chitter of a chipmunk,

curious why any creature would

dare the daytime

dried as the water paths carved

both deep and superficial into the features

of the Earth’s face

hear

life breezes whisper secrets

of the tempest

lurking, festering behind the impenetrable cliffs

overcome

after years of lightning strikes

and wildfire wounds, like the wilderness

regrows, resprouts—sprigs of faith and endurance—

I, too, refresh,

exhale, releasing outward, taking notice

of the desert’s solidarity,

its struggle,

its beauty

reflect

on winding trails, trials spiraling tighter,

leading my dusty steps higher until I work out

the rock lodged between my heel and

           

my soul

I penned bits and pieces of this poem (30 May 17) as I hiked along a trail in Fremont Indian State Park with a group of amazing, adventurous young women, including one of my own daughters. I lagged behind not because I am fat and old but to make a few observations that most of the girls and other leaders missed. The next day, I pieced the words together sitting in a camp chair waiting for them to return from rafting a portion of the Sevier River. It wasn't until several weeks later that I was able to puzzle out the format.

A Poem That Took a Long Time to Emerge

Honestly, this was messy. I started brainstorming this piece toward the beginning of last school year (September 2016?) when my colleague Chris and I stood peering out the window of our hallway during a passing period. However  I couldn't find the right voice. I throttled three or four muses who refused to speak to me. It came together slowly, and I habitually constructed waaaaaaaaay too many images, and I went through multiple constructs and drafts and finally, with the help of several friends, I was able to filter out a lot of excess symbols and sounds devices to come to what it is now...still not perfect...but it's enough to convey my observations that day.

 “Colliding Fronts”

A Shel Silverstein poem came to life

where the rain ended on the sidewalk,

the visibly invisible demarcation line between sun

and storm dividing the wet from the dry distinctly across the

cracked, black asphalt: waters running left,

dry land remaining right, like the second day of Creation.

Roiling clouds smashed into the invisible wall—

a stark division between gray and blue— and passed through

an unseen sieve and started to dissipate,

sun-streaked cotton unraveling as it spun farther east,

leaving the lot, the ballpark beyond soaking on the left,

the right keeping the bright light from the attic to itself.

The forecaster’s neatly patterned weather lines leaped

from the green screen of Channel Two and established boundaries

in the parking lot—a  backdrop to the shifting, changing weather patterns

manifest in a lone ninth grade girl trudging the hallway,

her swirl of inner storm partitioned off from the blue skies and carefree

clouds she so badly wanted the world to see.

"Hope Where I Least Expected"

I was digging through some old writer's notebooks that had collected on a corner of my desk--a special spot where I deposit things to sift through later. The Internet went down the other day, and so Later came sooner, and I explored the stacks, finding various projects that had been started, a few brainstorms of others that I'd like to start charging up, and even a few partially-worked pieces. One of those was this Bring Me poem that 7th grader Tyler C. asked me to help him shape after selecting an object from the field behind the school. He asked me if I could share the creation with others. That was about four or years ago, I think; he's at the high school now (for now).

I guess I should keep my promise:

"Hope Where I Least Expected" by Tyler C. (and Joe Average Writer)

(http://www.alamy.com/stock-photo/dead-dandelion.html)

Dying Dandelion,
shriveling up like a 
hopeless twig in a fire
stubbornly striving to thrive
where others left you
for dead,
forgotten and forlorn,
spread
and spring up new
despite field of hate
and despise;
bring me a sign
that life goes on.


(Maybe there's a metaphor for what I found as well.)

Misty Metaphor

Apparently I have shared this on many other outlets, but have failed to post it on my blog, so here is are a poem and a photograph (both by me):

There's something

poetic

about the fir in the front yard

donning a shroud

of fog and frost

at the rolling of the calendar

year—

an enigmatic omen

of the imminent year

lingering before silent snows

sweep away the veil of vapor

to reveal its

intentions before

midnight.