March 2010

Now that the healthcare bill has passed, there is much uproar on the net. One of the boards I had read had a post that this was "the saddest day in American history". Really? This is it? The day a parent doesn't have to tell a kid to wait a little longer to get eyeglasses or their teeth fixed? An elderly person decided it was cheaper to buy Depends over the bladder control meds. Where's the dignity in being an American? If I had to truly point to the saddest day it was this month 7 years ago and we learned that "shock and awe" is not really a strategy.

I wrote these poems on March 19, 2003 11:30 pm, as the invasion would begin March 20, 2003 . The first poem is what I imagined it would be like to be an Iraqi in Baghdad, just waiting for the war to start. There were interviews with citizens on the radio - debating whether they would stay or flee. I always wondered about on particular family that stayed. At the time, my daughter was 2 and she'd get frightened by low flying jets from the naval air base. I could comfort her easily knowing it would pass. I don't know what that mom in Baghdad was doing. I usually edit my poems perpetually. This one I kept it unpolished.

We have fear
to pull over our heads at night
to shut out the prying eyes,
the fingers that crawl through the blinds.

We have fear
to protect us from the
Invisible Evil that
may fall from the sky

or hurt as we breathe.

let the fear harden our lungs
so it may not let out the
cries of anguish,
the turmoil we feel inside
should be hidden.

Tell me how one strikes
upon a city
that sleeps.

A city in a stupor
of silence

Do you feel stronger and braver
knowing you have concrete targets?
Had someone thrown the first punch
and you fought back with that awesome
left hook,

I would understand.

I would know where it came from -
a fire inside sparked.

Yet how do you light a fire
when there is only ice in the air?
Sand in your eyes?

We cloak ourselves in answers
knowing what we do not know
but say we do.
Is it all Right?

We will find out tomorrow
if...

New Blog Site

As an FYI, I've created a new blog site extracting my poetry and writing-centric blogs from this one. You'll still find everything on "Indigo Bubbles", but now you have "Dancing Leaves."

Butterfly On My Leg

Butterfly On My Leg

It was when I sat in the darkness
of my own anger at my loss
that I suddenly noticed the soft and subtle flickers.
White wings came together like an angel's hands in a greeting.
The black eyes studied me.
She moved with steady steps on my calf.
Could I not feel anymore?

I did not move as I looked down. I could feel each footstep.
The wings were translucent, shimmering with
silken fibers. Yet they were opaque.
I wanted to see.
I wanted to feel.
I need to hear.
I strained and did hear the little one's words to me.
Fly with me.
I explained I couldn't.
I must remain to guard my losses.
Her voice beat consistently.
Fly with me.
I told her I could not.

She flew higher and floated to my ears.
She told me of succulent lavendar and heathers,
the inebriating scents of the green grass,
and being quenched by the dew warmed by the rising sun.

She said she understood. She knew.
It was only when she left her cocoon
was she able to savor the lushness of life.
The dark confines were cozy and safe.
But, hunger raged. The fatigue.
The desire to break out, stretch her wings and senses.

She began with a tiny punch.


*~*~*~*~*~*~
This was a writing prompt in my poetry journal - "Imagine a butterlfy lands on your leg."

Tribute to The Handsomest Drowned Man In The World

I've been reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez lately, and it's impossible not to be inspired and in love with his stories. Here is my interpretation of his short story "The Handsomest Drowned Man"

Entangled in Seaweed

Somehow, in the course of their normal days

without anyone realizing, they lost their

dreams. They were simply tossed

over the cliffs

with all the other loved and spent objects.

It was so uneventful. They didn't even know it.

They slept hard sleep, awakening to remember

only what was not done.

The women lost their softness,

while the men packed away their strengths

like wool blankets found in June.

Their bodies blurred into continuous days.

When the dreams happened to wash onto the shore,

the children did not know how to greet them,

as they had never been introduced.

Though the dreams lay entangled in scales and seaweed,

everyone took a risk to welcome an Unknown,

but possibly familiar.

They revived embers that barely glowed

and gave them a place to nestle, breathing into the fire.

A light of brilliance,

of all things enormous, wondrous and lustrous,

shone upon them. They wallowed

and followed in a sensuous and ethereal world,

that promised a Tomorrow.

They held their new found dreams above their heads,

allowing themselves to be lifted.

Their feet no longer touched the ground.

Bubbles (My Poetry) Eclipse

I had a great reading at Robin's Bookstore last week where I was one of the 3 featured poets in the Philadelphia Poets Journal's Annual Ethnic Voices event. It went really well and I was inspired to share more of my poems on this site and in future poetry events.
Here are two new poems:

Eclipse

When the moon finally
asked the earth to dance
he gazed into her oceans as
she locked her eyes upon
his marble beauty.
They leaned in closer
and blocked the sun and stars.

Moonlight

Moonlight just happens.
It's a naughty, decadent light
that breaks the rules.
There are brazen lines of blue and silver
luminescence where there should be shadows.
Not the clear yellow light of the sun,
but droplets from the wanton satellite.

Annual Philadelphia Poets' Ethnic Voices

Annual Philadelphia Poets' Ethnic Voices

This will be my first public reading of my work. I'm still trying to decide what poems to select, since this is a multicultural event. Most of my work isn't related to my ethnicity, but to other influences.

If you're in town, please come and be part of my cheering section!

Bubbles (My Poems): Pottery Barn Days

Pottery Barn Days

These precious people live in homes with soft creamy linen slipped sofas
and clear glass cylinders brimming with white seashells
on the Espresso end tables.

The Ivory and Havana Dark Weave furniture enjoy the
clean ocean breezes, immune to the rage of elements.

They eat heartily at clambakes. Tables set
with colanders in a nautical blues and reds,
plump lemons for the lobsters and white pails to collect the shells,
and bottles of Pinot Grigio knotted with sand-dollars.

The catalog says it brings family back together.

Leaves That Fell In The Middle Of Spring.

We saw the leaves fall this spring.
Wasn’t the tree always going to be lush,
adorned with green buds and white blossoms?
All the others were.

Why, the leaves are life of the tree!
They dance and sing with the wind,
and they tickle the young buds until they laugh.

We don’t know why, but the leaves loosened themselves.
It was too early.
Not fair.
No, it cannot be.
They had not felt the June sun nor tasted the August heat.
The young buds need their shade to grow
into delicious fruits of September.
They must stay.

The tree tried to hold onto them
“Just a bit longer.”
And, even when the stems were thin
the pain to cling was too much,
the leaves still believed they would stay
and keep the branches warm.

Along came a calm April breeze, which circled her arms
around the leaves. Quietly cradled each leaf and
carried them afar.
They were free to float and frolic.
They missed their tree,
but had another journey to follow.

The tree stands with a wide, open embrace.
If you listen to the rustle of the leaves in May,
you’ll hear the whisper of the melody they left behind.


In memory of leaves that fell this spring

- Dr. Padmaja Shinde 1966 – 2007

- Boney Dhar 1964 - 2007

Bubbles (My Poems): Greater Expectations

Greater Expectations
I would be led by a trail of dead flowers
through the woods
to where I needed to be.

Red leaves dripped from the trees.
The decay crunched underfoot,
setting a pulse
as I dashed
to freedom.
Mud and grass thickened my soles
and the bark grazed my arms,
releasing my blood.
The mossy air grated my skin until it pricked,
but sweat trickled down my face.
Like the Ferryman, the forest asked for a toll
and I gave until I was bare.

I looked to the sky for guidance,
but the trees extended formidable arms
to shield the moon from me.
It did not matter. The scent of independence
was leading me.

I kicked rocks from my path.
I felt empty and clean.
There was a wail in my ear,
the past will always be.
And so let it be.
I bore no Orpheum desire to look back.
A fire burned in my chest, igniting the way to
greater expectations
that I deserved.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wrote this a few years ago for a writing exercise - Use the words "trail of dead flowers" in a poem. I actually saw a trail of dead flowers in my office that someone had accidentally dropped. So, I took it up a few notches. Any deeper meanings to this poem? I had the image of a slave running away in my mind. However, it could apply to anyone running towards freedom (e.g., a victim of abuse). I've actually used this poem to preface a short story that I'm working on. It's inspired a totally different interpretation in a story about a mother/daughter relationship. (The characters are great, the language is real, plot builds up, and then there's no climax. Just a fizzle. Need to revisit that story and revive it though.)

Bubbles (My Poems): Stepping Over the Mist

A lovely lady had whispered to me

tiny secrets she held
in her bosom. She pulled the slip of white
from her white chest, soft billowing
flesh. I must let you know.

This is so important and I hope you will remember.
I assured her I would.
She whispered with the freshness of summer
and sweet scents of roses in her hair pummeled through my senses.

How can it be? I asked.
Is it so simple?
Yes, she said. You must not worry.

For now you know.

There was something that
told me
you would come my way
walk down my path

and perhaps ring my doorbell
Should I answer it. I do not think I should.
Could you leave the flowers on
the steps and the kisses through the keyhole?

Bubbles (My poems) For the Third Anniversary of the US Invasion of Iraq

I wrote these poems on March 19, 2003 11:30 pm, as the invasion would begin March 20, 2003 . The first poem is what I imagined it would be like to be an Iraqi in Baghdad, just waiting for the war to start.

We have fear
to pull over our heads at night
to shut out the prying eyes,
the fingers that crawl through the blinds.

We have fear
to protect us from the
Invisible Evil that
may fall from the sky

or hurt as we breathe.

let the fear harden our lungs
so it may not let out the
cries of anguish,
the turmoil we feel inside
should be hidden.

Tell me how one strikes
upon a city
that sleeps.

A city in a stupor
of silence

Do you feel stronger and braver
knowing you have concrete targets?
Had someone thrown the first punch
and you fought back with that awesome
left hook,

I would understand.

I would know where it came from -
a fire inside sparked.

Yet how do you light a fire
when there is only ice in the air?
Sand in your eyes?

We cloak ourselves in answers
knowing what we do not know
but say we do.

Is it all Right?

We will find out tomorrow
if...

Bubbles (My poems) This Afternoon

Come to my house for a warm cup of masala chai.
Not a powdered Starbucks mix,
but a tawny brew of foamy milk, water and
teas, harvested on the green hills of Ooty,
picked by women swathed in cotton saris.

I’ll lace it with a blend of spices
made from my mother’s recipes.
A gingery grind of
cloves
cinnamon
cardamom
pepper
and other spices you didn’t
know could even be added to tea.

I’ll serve you in pastel Ikea mugs
on a Pflatzgraff tray.
It goes well with ginger snaps and
khari bisquits.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Editorial: I don't understand how Chai Latte got coined. It's so mismatched - Asian and Italian words to describe an American concoction.

Bubbles (My poems): Art Begets Art

Yesterday, I was fortunate enough to attend a women's writing workshop at the Pen and Brush in New York City. For me, it was a day to feed my soul - I had a chance to write and interact with exceptional people, all who share a passion for writing. I definitely came away feeling elated and optimistic, and found wonderful support.

The Pen and Brush is an amazing place to be and full of inspiration. It's a historic brownstone and they have an exhibit of women's artwork around the room. Since we were there from 9 to 5, the sun cast light and shadows. I saw the paintings actually breathe with the changing light.

We did two writing exercises that tasked us to view a piece of artwork in the room and let it reveal itself - actually "reveal you to you." So, for a change from the motherhood posts/poems that I have been recently posting, I found myself writing about me. (Yes, I remember her!)

The third exercise was to draw conclusions from the first two poems.
I was thrilled to find images of these two beautiful pieces online.


Exercise one: She, Me.

(Inspired by Nikki Moore's "She" a collage of torn magazine paper)

Pieces of you and others

make me.
Dress me up, tell me who
I should be,
wearing hats, wearing boots
draping myself in all that
is around me.

But really, my soft curves,
curvier, linear
interior lines
are my true self. And
if you care to step closer to
me, you'll see the hues of me.
I am not
just one shade, but
colors that glow
and fade
and sparkle
and change.


Exercise 2:

(Inspired by Min Sin Kim's "Room 502")

If you sit long enough,
You will become one of them:
Helpless, hapless statues.
Embraced by a stale air,
unable to reciprocate,
only hesitate.
You will be paralyzed by your anger,
holding for an eternity what
you need
to throw now.
Your soul will become
a cool polished stone.

There is a light, you see.
A window. Jump
through it.
Take me with you.


Exercise 3: Gather the pearls, the necklace will come

A grain of sand
found itself into an
Oyster. It irritated.
It burned. It let her know
it was there.
The Oyster wanted to
rip it out. Let it free.
But, she liked it.
In time, her shell hardened and
she grew into it.
she felt the irritating sand was
gone, and a smoothness bubbled
Inside. It lolled about the folds of
her belly and her heart,
but it stopped short her mouth.
When would she be able to release it?

Bubbles (My poems): A Child Is Not a Poem. A Poem Is Not a Child.

This is a metaphor.

How do you learn to spell?
Blood, sky & the sun,
your own name first,your first naming,
your first name,your first word.
- Spelling by Margaret Atwood

Your first Naming.
Naming your First.
Feeling the power and
privilege of raising a human
Child
to grow into a human
Adult.

One who would make decisions
based on answers
you provided and birthed in
hidden memories.
The burden of parenting
is not in the nightly
Awakenings.
The physical demands of motherhood
can be handled
She was created by an invisible hand.
yet she will be raised under my
Words.

Do I know the words?
Aren’t I still seeking to form
the vowels in my mind that build the world
into words I can consume?
Yet those consonants are like thorns in my throat.
I cough up words and hope
they will spring themselves into an umbrella
for my child to use in downpours.

Bubbles (My poems): Step by Step

Why didn't they tell you how
complicated it would be
when they handed you a little girl,
aflush with life and your blood,
a swaddling of soft white cotton with
black marble eyes that never leave you
though they dart about you,
looking to see more.

Why didn't they tell you that
you are her mother
and she will turn to you for everything -
how to be a girl,
to be a woman,
to be a person of her own,
even though you are still learning the steps yourself.

She will look to you to show her,
but then she’s also going to shut

you out when she thinks she knows everything
and then you have to watch her
walk alone...

She may make the choices you taught her she wanted,
or will you watch her go astray
or will she shut the door
and keep you from seeing

her repeat your mistakes,
because she thinks she knows the answers

just like you knew everything
when your mother tried to tell you.

****************************************************************

Speaking of motherhood, I read recently an observation. When father is converted to a verb, "fathering," it means providing a sperm (e.g., he fathered 2 children and adopted 1). When mother is converted to a verb, "mothering," it means so much more (e.g., she questioned her mothering ability) The word itself conveys feelings of warm laps and convenient shoulders for tears, nurturing of the body and mind. So, again, the mother bears the bigger burden.

However, "mothering" is one letter away from "smothering." - So, please keep that in mind!

Bubbles (My Poetry)

Bless me, Dr Agaston, for I have sinned.

Her question was innocent,
yet alluring.
Would you like some chocolates
from Switzerland?

How could I say no?

Rows of perfectly round
brown balls of sugar
and caramel, lined in a
tawny rainbow beckoned me,
hailed me as a friend, though
I had ignored them.

With precision and delight of exploring
the unknown, I selected a cocoa thrill.

As I broke into the dark bonbon shell,
my mouth stirred with sensation
of sinful succulence.

This was beyond human design.
Truly a cosmic collision
birthed the truffle. The heavens,
earth and spirits had combined
to be able to deliver the
feathery filling spilling
from a solid sphere.

The soft cream clutched its other,
wanting to be whole.
I obliged.

Another chocolate ball rolled from
its paper throne into my palm.

Bubbles (My Poems):

Friday Evening Ramblings

Crimson nights upon the floor
Tell me more
Tell me more than
I know. And when I don't
want anymore, then I shall
ask you for more
and you shall
oblige me
by telling me stories
and poems
and limericks
of yore.


The second star to the right
The stars from afar,
what are you trying
to tell me?
Whisper into my mind
and set me straight
onto the path that leads me to the
sun.

Bubbles (My Poems):

The Wails in the Autumn Wind
Ensemble,
they are a splendor.
Alone, they crumble and
bare their fragility.

Unaware they are torn.
Some fly
Some float
All fall.

The tree stands
Arms outstretched
Palms empty
Fingers aching to hold
You left me, it cries

We didn’t want to,
they rustle.

Autumn

The lush trees Nature weaves
wither and shrivel
into reddened leaves

Ensemble, behold the sight.
Alone, it crumbles
Silent, dry and light.

These are 2 poems I wrote years ago. They're actually two variations of the same theme. I think that was the year that Autumn really depressed me. I'm definitely a spring and summer girl.

Now that it's November (and 70 degrees in PA!), I thought it'd be fun to share.

Bubbles (My Poems):
A Glass Of Wine, Please

And, what kind of wine do you have, she asked.

Swirl the robust Bordeaux. In its embrace, fly to the warm hills of France
Sniff the Shiraz and evoke a borrowed memory
of a didjeridoo echoing through an Australian sunset.

Remember when the Chianti had challenged
the Burgundy to duel and
the jugs had burst? Very good year though.

And, have you seen the Cabernet and Beaujolais?
He tipped his hat to you, while she
lifted her ruby skirts to curtsy.

She smiled. She knew them well.
She had been taught
to bridle and honor the passion of the Reds.
With a sip of a Merlot, she could hear
the strumming gypsy music
outside that restaurant in Piazza Navona.
And a second sip brought her to an intimate table for two
at a boisterous Bennigan’s.
Another glass would be that night best left forgotten.

Tonight she was alone.
Not a soul to share her carafe.

She longed for the green freshness
of whiteness
of lightness
and the dewiness
of her youth,
being held captive in an opaque fruit.

A sip would kindle a spark
smothered by time, and stir the flames
to ignite memories
to meet the new woman she has become.
Would they recognize each other?
She thought they would.

She watched the Pinot Grigio turn a pirouette and
release the essence of spring and fruits,
while the Reisling stood sweetly as a sunflower.
The Sauvignon Blanc whirled the scent of
summer morning grass to her.

She felt a tap on her shoulder.

The Chardonnay had sauntered to her
with a quiet step.
Be not betrayed by my coolness.
Under a golden cloak, I hold an edge,
a snap to inspire your senses.
Smokey evenings, vanilla afternoons.
You know me well and I know what
makes you glow.

And, he kissed her,
incensing her with his spirit forever.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
After writing this poem, I realized I really love white wine and have been drinking red for so long because other folks are drinking red. So, all summer, you could find me with a glass (or two) of chardonnay or pinot grigio.

I needed to see my poem again because I had 2 glasses of red the other night (cabernet sauvignon, I believe). It was a rainy day, I was feeling slightly under the weather and a warm red seemed so appealing.

And, I zonked out. That's what I forgot! Red wine makes me sleepy!

Need to stick with what really works for me.