Saturday Morning

outside: snow.

in here:
angry woman poolside
smacks her husband's arm:
'i should throw your fucking phone
in the trash.'

through the glass we watch
bus shelter girl
          mummified against the cold
          dancing like it's disco
not snow
dropping down
from slate grey skies.

angry woman's son
drops his game
forms a pudgy fist
and belts dad.

smiles for mom:
'i hit him too!'

dad shrugs it off. doesn't even
look up. this is--
apparently--
the way life is.

'you don't hit,' he says
to nobody, to the boy.
'hitting is for parents,
not for children.'

'then don't act like
such a child,' she says.
end of conversation.

the dancer keeps on dancing.
we watch her instead, smile
and look away from
the small train wrecks
of everyday life.

snow keeps coming down:
music
for the outside world.



I like to open my notebook and people-watch while I'm waiting poolside for the boys to finish swimming lessons. Sadly, I don't always like what I see. ~Feb. 11/12


~tom shea
www.trioarjento.com
www.facebook.com/trioarjento
http://trioarjento.bandcamp.com/album/love-lets-go

13 - A Memory Fragment (for S.M.)

the new schoolyard was no
deeper
just wider. i
trudged. 13.
lost in my shoes.

eyes downcast, i
was the one
who saw that purple ribbon.

because i was the shy one
i was holding it
when she noticed it gone
from her hair.

if i had been a bolder
braver 13
we might not have danced
that fall.



Thanks to Jeff Griffiths for teaching my Writers' Craft class today, for this activity, and for dredging up this memory. Thanks to S.M., wherever she is, for the dance.

Empty Hands -- Car Poem #1

Every semester I do this activity with my Writers' Craft class. We write descriptive paragraphs in prose about our earliest memories of a car, our current car, and our dream mode of transportation. (Sometimes we do beds--works just as well, if not better). Then we print 'em off, chop 'em ruthlessly into fragments, and reassemble the fragments into poems that have to match randomly chosen titles.

It's a great way to surprise yourself: when the poem is done, I often say "I can't believe those are my words--I would never have said that." But there it is.

We sometimes write not to express what we know, but to discover what we do not yet know. I like this one, because it has a sense of openness, a sense of joy and optimism. If this is the me that I do not yet know, I think he's moving in the direction of even greater happiness.

Potato - Leek Soup

Potato-Leek Soup

4 fist-sized potatoes, cut into chunks (I wash but don't peel them)

3 cups cleaned, chopped leeks (just the white parts)

1 stalk celery, chopped

2 large carrots, chopped

4 tbps. butter

3/4 tsp. salt (or to taste)

3 cups vegetable stock or water

2 cups milk

optional herbs: thyme, marjoram, basil

Put potatoes in soup pot with leeks, celery, carrot, butter and salt. Cook over medium heat, stirring frequently, until butter is melted and veggies are coated (about 5 min).

Add stock or water, bring to a boil, then cover and reduce heat to a simmer. Cook until potatoes and carrots are soft (20-30 min). Add water if it gets too low.

Add milk, then puree until velvety smooth.

Add optional herbs (or not!) and fresh black pepper.

Reheat until just hot--try not to boil it after the milk has been added.

unfurl

february tastes like parsnips.

your tired gray body says the days

are too long, too dark, too full

of business. 

          the slump and roll

of shoulders, the slow fall 

forward through each evening 

towards the arms of sleep;

the drag of feet; the stale smell

of defeat that clings like grease

to your dinner plate.

all these signs of the lateness of things.

all these hints that the spring

is overdue.

your lips are chapped. your skin

itches and flakes away.

your hair rises electric around your head,

a halo for the patron saint of 

all that can be endured. you are

bigger on the inside

than you are on the outside.

you are ready to emerge.

curled tight at night: fiddleheads

and ferns asleep in forest beds

arms wrapped around yourself

knees drawn tight to keep the chill

away from your heart, your soft

and loving stomach, away from the seeds

you carry inside you:

you wait.

one day soon march will arrive

smelling of iris and spotted lily, tasting

of garlic mustard and leaf rot.

you will unfurl, embrace the world;

arch your back and smile to feel

the sunshine again.

you will remember

that you are 

          real.