Winners of Wordsworth’s Poe-Tree Contest

Wordsworth’s Poe-TREE Contest Winners

Apr 22

Happy Earth Day, everyone! We are celebrating by announcing the winners of the Wordsworth the Poet “Poe-TREE Contest!”

In the Wordsworth Poe-TREE Contest, students were asked to write a poem celebrating their favorite tree, following the model of Wordsworth the Mouse and his friends in the book Wordsworth! Stop the Bulldozer! The young mice in the story campaign to save the trees in their community by writing poems reminding all the neighbors about the special qualities of the trees around them.

Poems were judged based on creativity, poetic merit and how well they conveyed what makes the trees special to the students. The six contest winners will receive a copies of each of the three books in the Wordsworth series, a gardening tool kit and a Koa Legacy Tree from the Hawaiian Legacy Reforestation Initiative, donated by Hawaiian Legacy Hardwoods.

K-5 Division Winners:

Makayla Rose Molden

Makayla Rose Molden (age 6, Kapolei, Mauka Lani Elementary), untitled

The Mountain Apple tree is yummy to me.
The fruit is up so high to knock it down is a game I try.
I collect the fruit and make apple pie.

Eli Wolfe

Eli Wolfe (age 5, Honolulu, University Laboratory School), “Banyan Tree”

I like to climb the
Banyan tree
at Barwick.
I can climb to
the sky.
You should try it too
someday.
It is so fun.

Grade 6-8 Division:

Cindy Tsou

Min-Hua (Cindy) Tsou (age 11, Kapolei, Kapolei Middle School), “Red Maple Tree (Acer rubrum)”

A bright, scarlet leaf blew by.
A red lobed leaf fall and fly.
It can be red, yellow and even green.
Red maple trees makes a beautiful scene.
It grows in the north, with it’s flower blooming back and forth.
A red maple tree brings red, bright shines.
A red maple is of course, very fine.

Emerson Goo

Emerson Goo (age 12, Honolulu, Niu Valley Middle School), “Forest Guardians”

Sentinels at watch
Forest guardians holding
Treasured memories

Grade 9-12 Division:

Sophie Corless

Sophie Corless (age 15, Upper Saddle River, New Jersey, Northern Highlands Regional High School), “The Lemon Tree”

The cool sticky air clings to me;
my bare feet squelch in the grass
just after the rain shower.
The lemon tree stands in the back corner
towering over the garden, and has a prevailing presence.
Under the tree lies my step ladder,
with my initials carved in the leg.
The wicker basket dangles
on a tiny branch at my height.
I have my technique down,
twist and snap over and over again.
Even the bees and ants are fixated on my movements,
their fragile wings and tiny legs
seem to stop to observe.
Little droplets collect in the pores of the rind,
making my hand cool,
droplets of lemon juice ooze through the pores
and run down my hand to my wrist and to my elbow,
stopping and then dripping off.
By the end I am covered in a mixture of rain and lemon,
dried and sticky.
With every lemon I snap off,
the branch snaps back and sprinkles me with rain.
I swear I hear my sweltering forehead
sizzle against the cool droplets.
In the kitchen I squeeze every last lemon,
popping the juice into the pitcher with the yellow flowers,
along with a fistful of sugar and a splash of water.
I crack the ice tray in half, scooping out the cubes.
The first sip makes my face contort
into an uncomfortable position,
one you can’t avoid,
but the last is always the sweetest.

Zoe Edelman Brier

Zoe Edelman Brier (age 18, Allendale, New Jersey, Northern Highlands Regional High School), “Veins of Color”

I remember maple Leaf picking
with my father before the bus
came to ship me off
to a grey school building
with a grey blacktop
and grey windows.
The colors of the Leaves
were brighter than anything
I’d ever seen, standing out
against the blah of morning.
even through fog,
the Leaves shown like bright beacons
of change and hope for the future.
the Leaves would vein and crinkle
in red and orange and yellow,
mixing in a thin canvas.
My father would sit me on his shoulders
and have me reach the highest branch
possible to get the best Leaf
to press in a book that I still have
12 years later, the colors frozen in time,
unbrowned and delicate, red stains
clashing with the dark green of Leaf.

 

Congratulations to all our winners and to all the poets who entered our contest. Wordsworth’s message to you all: Don ‘t stop writing poems and continue to save our trees.  Give your favorite tree a hug!

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Haiku Caregivers

caregivers capture

the ah-ness of a deep breath

a haiku moment

There is a magical process occurring among the caregivers in our poetry support group as I write this.

Who would have thought a few minutes devoted to haiku writing would have turned into a haiku marathon. Within hours, emails  arrived with haiku poems  written by my caregivers. I am possessive here since they belong to my poetry support group.

Their  haiku poems which appear below, show what happens when a simple form of poetry is put into the hands of caregivers, post and present, whose minds have no locks. Just as they have taken every aspect of  caregiving with diligence, bravery and  love, they  have taken their pens to still another level of being artfully human. Caregiver Julia Couzens  insightfully called this  new adventure,  “the art of distilling the now.” Ah Basho, Shiki, Buson, are you smiling as you see how this art form has added still another dimension to caregiving: A haiku pause that takes only 17 syllables; a very affordable pause, time-wise,  in their busy lives, a pause that often takes them to other places.Here are a few from their incredible spirit…

          Caring for Papa

          Also working remotely

          It must be Friday

michelle

The door squeaks softly

 A sound “anybody there?”

 Morning has started.

                  penny

 On lap, poodle sleeps

 Head pillowed on typing arm

 Small “woof.” Email sent.

                   judy

At the computer

Haiku written and erased

Now, this one is done.

judy

 

         sealed she in glass

         decisions print inked  black

         spring “spectations damped

genie

 

Oh great banyan tree

With arms outstretched far and wide

In warm aloha.

diane

 

 

Find the yellow piece.

A gnarled hand responds slowly

And finds the right spot.

diane.

 

The lone turkey hen

Limps slowly, trying to follow

Her feathered family.

mary

 

 staring at computer

 groping for words of haiku

birds frolic in trees.

julia

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Move Aside, Van Gogh

 

Now tell me, which self portrait would you put on your wall?

Mira is a new friend of mine and I hope to meet her someday in person. I met her through my book Wordsworth Stop the Bulldozer. She has been giving Wordsworth a run for his pen with one poem after another and someday I may share some of her work. Her poems are as delightful, introspective and beautiful as her portrait.

To Mira

Move aside, Van Gogh

Mira’s portrait brings on smiles

In dreary winter.

 

To Van Gogh

You spell cold winter

Without the magic of snow

Smile, Vincent Van Gogh.

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Poetry Writing Contest

A reminder that the deadline for the  poetry writing contest sponsored by my publisher is nearing….January 15th. Here’s the original announcement:
Frances H. Kakugawa, author of the Wordsworth the Poet children’s books, and Watermark Publishing of Honolulu announce the Wordsworth the Poet “Poe-TREE Contest,” open to children in grades kindergarten through 12th grade. (Contest rules follow.)
In Wordsworth! Stop the Bulldozer! — the newest Wordsworth the Poet adventure released this month — a bulldozer has invaded the little mouse’s special koa grove where he often writes his poems. What should Wordsworth do?

His new friend, Akiko, has an idea! Wordsworth, Akiko and their friends have all written poems about the special qualities of the trees they see around them — mango trees, coconut trees, kukui trees. Can their poems stop the bulldozer?
To enter the Wordsworth the Poet Poe-TREE Contest, students can follow Wordsworth and Akiko’s example and write a poem that celebrates their favorite tree. Six prize packages will be awarded, two per grade division (K-5, 6-8 and 9-12). Each prize package includes a copy of each of the three books in the Wordsworth series, a child’s gardening tool kit and a Koa Legacy Tree from the Hawaiian Legacy Reforestation Initiative, donated by Hawaiian Legacy Hardwoods.
Send entries ATTN: Wordsworth’s Poe-TREE Contest to wordsworth@bookshawaii.net or to

Watermark Publishing

1088 Bishop St., Ste. 310, Honolulu, HI 96813.

The contest is open to all children kindergarten through 12th grade residing in the United States. Each entry must include the child’s name, age and grade, school, hometown and parent, guardian or teacher’s contact information and signature.

 

For complete rules, contest information and to download the entry form, visit http://blog.bookshawaii.net. Entries must be received by January 15, 2013. Winners will be notified February 1, 2013.
For those who are ineligible to enter the Poe-TREE Contest, or who aren’t inclined to write poetry, Kakugawa and Wordsworth have another way to celebrate trees: They invite readers far and wide to plant trees in their own communities. “It’s not only about trees being cut down where we
live,” Kakugawa writes in the introduction to Wordsworth! Stop the Bulldozer! “Our children and their children must have trees in their future to hug and enjoy and sit under in the shade. Trees also help keep us alive and healthy.”
Kakugawa has created Wordsworth’s Plant A Tree Society to recognize readers of all ages who plant a tree in Wordsworth’s honor. To receive a membership certificate in the Plant A Tree Society, readers must plant a tree for Wordsworth in their community (in the backyard or at school, for example) and post a photo of themselves with their tree on Wordsworth’s Facebook page (www.facebook.com/WordsworthThePoet). Photo submissions should indicate the variety of the tree and where it was planted.

 

Submissions may also be e-mailed to wordsworth@bookshawaii.net or mailed to Watermark Publishing. Photos will not be returned and will be posted online.
Watermark Publishing recognizes that not everyone can plant a tree in their own backyard, and has teamed up with the Hawaiian Legacy Reforestation Initiative to offer a solution: a program to plant Wordsworth Legacy Koa Trees on Hawaiian Legacy Hardwoods’ 1,000 acres of conservation land on the Hamakua Coast of Hawai‘i Island.

 

Groups or individuals may sponsor a Wordsworth Legacy Tree for $60. The purchase also includes a copy of Wordsworth! Stop the Bulldozer!, a certificate bearing the GPS coordinates of the planted tree, and automatic membership in Wordsworth’s Plant A Tree Society. Additionally, $10 of the sponsorship fee will be directed to a fund dedicated to providing Legacy Trees for underprivileged children. Wordsworth Legacy Trees may be purchased at http://legacytrees.org/watermarkpublishing.

 

1088 Bishop Street, Suite 310
Honolulu, Hawaii 96813
Ph. 808.587.7766
Fax 808.521.3461
http://www.bookshawaii.net

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November: Alzheimer’s Awareness Month:Post #4

The Forever Hurrah…….

As November, Alzheimer’s Awareness Month comes to a close, for caregivers and their loved ones, awareness  does not end,  not even after death.

Caregiving is like a river, but not  a free-flowing river, for there are obstructions from the bank, attorneys, the medical world, siblings, family, and the disease itself, among many unexpected “others”.  So we humanize care giving the best we can by  not adding our own obstacles.  And sometimes, we stand up tall, both caregiver and the one being cared for and we let our voices be heard.

 

                                The Steward’s Reply

 

The day approaches when beings

from beyond the stars come to ask,
“why should the likes of you,
defective and dangerous as you are,
be permitted to spread beyond
the light of your dying sun
and onto the wonder of the heavens?”

In reply, a single caregiver
stepped out from the cloud of humanity
as if to say, “We are the Stewards of Mortality.
In all the limitless expanse of your travel,
the countless species of your wondrous universe,
have you ever met the likes of us?”

 

                by Red Slider

               page 108: Breaking the Silence

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

                        Hey Alzheimer’s

 

Hey Alzheimer’s,

Sitting there so smug, gloating

Over the memories

You have stolen, the years we have lost.

Do I have a story to tell you.

 

You see, Alzheimer’s,

What you think you took, we kept.

Every memory we secreted away

In our children, our friends,

Our loved ones.

 

You could not rob us, though we forgot.

You could not erase us, though we could not write.

You could not silence, though we could not speak.

The stories, the laughter, the moments that passed

Into their keep, you could not steal

Into a night of silence.

 

Look at me, Alzheimer’s.

My life is restored, remembered, reconstructed,

With tools of love, dignity and laughter.

A house of memories is built

By my children, and their children

For generations to come.

 

So here I am, Alzheimer’s,

With family, friends, and loved ones.

What you thought you stole

Is still here. We are all still here.

So Alzheimer’s,

What do you think of that?

 

                        by Frances Kakugawa

                        Page 167:Breaking the Silence

 

 

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Poetry Contest

Posted by Watermark Publishers who recently released my Wordsworth! Stop the Bulldozer!

Author and Mouse Announce a Poetry Contest to Honor Trees: Wordsworth the Poet’s Poe-TREE Contest

Frances H. Kakugawa, author of the Wordsworth the Poet children’s books, and Watermark Publishing of Honolulu announce the Wordsworth the Poet “Poe-TREE Contest,” open to children in grades kindergarten through 12^th grade. (Contest rules follow.)

In Wordsworth! Stop the Bulldozer! — the newest Wordsworth the Poet adventure released this month — a bulldozer has invaded the little mouse’s special koa grove where he often writes his poems. What should Wordsworth do? His new friend, Akiko, has an idea! Wordsworth, Akiko and their friends have all written poems about the special qualities of the trees they see around them — mango trees, coconut trees, kukui trees. Akiko tacks poems to each tree and reminds their neighbors of how important a part of their community the trees really are.

To enter the Wordsworth the Poet Poe-TREE Contest, kids can follow Wordsworth and Akiko’s example and write a poem that celebrates their favorite tree. Six prize packages will be awarded, two per grade division (K-5, 6-8 and 9-12). Each prize package includes a copy of each of the three books in the Wordsworth series, a child’s gardening tool kit and a Koa Legacy Tree from the Hawaiian Legacy Reforestation Initiative, donated by Hawaiian Legacy Hardwoods.

Send entries ATTN: Wordsworth’s Poe-TREE Contest to wordsworth@bookshawaii.net or to Watermark Publishing, 1088 Bishop St., Ste. 310, Honolulu, HI 96813. The contest is open to all children kindergarten through 12^th grade residing in the United States. Each entry must include the child’s name, age and grade, school, hometown and parent, guardian or teacher’s contact information and signature. For complete rules, contest information and to download the entry form, visit
http://blog.bookshawaii.net
. Entries must be received by January 15, 2013. Winners will be notified February 1, 2013.

For those who are ineligible to enter the Poe-TREE Contest, or who aren’t inclined to write poetry, Kakugawa and Wordsworth have another way to celebrate trees: They invite readers far and wide to plant trees in their own communities. “It’s not only about trees being cut down where we live,” Kakugawa writes in the introduction to Wordsworth! Stop the Bulldozer! “Our children and their children must have trees in their future to hug and enjoy and sit under in the shade. Trees also help keep us alive and healthy.”

Kakugawa has created Wordsworth’s Plant A Tree Society to recognize readers of all ages who plant a tree in Wordsworth’s honor. To receive a membership certificate in the Plant A Tree Society, readers must plant a tree for Wordsworth in their community (in the backyard or at school, for example) and post a photo of themselves with their tree on Wordsworth’s Facebook page (www.facebook.com/WordsworthThePoet). Photo submissions should indicate the variety of the tree and where it was planted. Submissions may also be e-mailed to wordsworth@bookshawaii.net or mailed to Watermark Publishing. Photos will not be returned and will be posted online.

Watermark Publishing recognizes that not everyone can plant a tree in their own backyard, and has teamed up with the Hawaiian Legacy Reforestation Initiative to offer a solution: a program to plant Wordsworth Legacy Koa Trees on Hawaiian Legacy Hardwoods’ 1,000 acres of conservation land on the Hamakua Coast of Hawai‘i Island. Groups or individuals may sponsor a Wordsworth Legacy Tree for $60. The purchase also includes a copy of Wordsworth! Stop the Bulldozer!, a certificate bearing the GPS coordinates of the planted tree, and automatic membership in Wordsworth’s Plant A Tree Society. Additionally, $10 of the sponsorship fee will be directed to a fund dedicated to providing Legacy Trees for underprivileged children. Wordsworth Legacy Trees may be purchased at
http://legacytrees.org/watermarkpublishing
.

This land  once belonged to King Kamehameha I. The thousands of Koa trees that once covered this land were destroyed for ranching and farming. All Heritage trees planted will not be harvested and will bear the name of the person for whom the tree was planted.

Wordsworth! Stop the Bulldozer! joins Wordsworth the Poet and Wordsworth Dances the Waltz in the award-winning series of children’s books featuring the poetry-loving mouse, which have won among them “Best Book” awards from both Hawai‘i and California book publishers’ associations, as well as a Mom’s Choice silver award for Wordsworth Dances the Waltz, a book about families living with grandparents with Alzheimer’s disease and other dementia-related illnesses. Wordsworth! Stop the Bulldozer! is illustrated by Honolulu artist Andrew J. Catanzariti.

Wordsworth! Stop the Bulldozer! (ISBN-13 978-1-935690-30-6) is available in hardcover for $10.95 at bookstores and other retail outlets and from online booksellers, or direct from the publisher at www.bookshawaii.net.  Contact Watermark Publishing, 1088 Bishop St., Suite 310, Honolulu, HI 96813; telephone 1-808-587-7766; toll-free 1-866- 900-BOOK; fax 1-808-521-3461; e-mail sales@bookshawaii.net.

#   #   #

Wordsworth the Poet’s Facebook Page: www.facebook.com/WordsworthThePoet

Wordsworth’s Legacy Trees:
http://legacytrees.org/watermarkpublishing

Wordsworth’s Poe-TREE Contest Rules:
http://blog.bookshawaii.net/2012/11/20/wordsworth-poetree-contest/

Contact:  Dawn Sakamoto (808) 534-7170 or dawn@bookshawaii.net

Dawn T. Sakamoto | Director of Sales & Marketing

Watermark Publishing | Legacy Isle Publishing | 1088 Bishop St., Ste. 310 | Honolulu, HI  96813

dir: 808-534-7170 | main: 808-587-7766 | fax: 808-521-3461

e-mail: dawn@bookshawaii.net | web: www.bookshawaii.net

 

Follow us on Twitter: www.twitter.com/WatermarkHawaii

Find us on Facebook: www.facebook.com/WatermarkPublishing

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PoetCaregivers Part II

November: Alzheimer’s Awareness Month:

Linda Donahue, caregiver for her mother in Sacramento, shares three of her poems:

GRACE

 

Shouldering duty

like a dusty mule

bearing mother-lode

down the mountain,

now resigned,

now balking and braying,

raucous,

defiant,

I arrive at the door

to the Forbidden City

where the world hides

its demented elderly.

 

I don’t want to be here.

I want to stay home,

play with words all day,

finish a few refractory poems,

but, once again, postponement:

duty, guilt and mother-love

demand it.

 

Hesitating on the threshold,

wondering who she’ll be today

and who I’ll be to her,

half hoping she won’t know me,

I open the door and

walk down the corridor

to her room.

 

Mom sits in her rocker,

docile,

gaze unfocused.

Anxiety grips her

at the sound of my voice,

gradually giving way

to the shy hopeful smile

of a lonely child.

Are you here to see me?

she asks as I take her hand.

I nod yes, let’s go for a walk, Mom.

 

Comprehension blossoms in her eyes:

someone is here for her,

someone wants to walk with her.

I read the poem

of comfort and delight

on her face

and know nothing I write

could mean as much

as this moment of grace.

 

My poems can wait.

                       ©Linda Donahue

                         October 2012

WORDS OF LOVE FROM THE MEMORY CARE WARD

 

My mother was never demonstrative.

I don’t think she ever said she loved me.

Yet she was the vital pulse in my veins,

doing what she did on the periphery of my vision

so quietly and steadily that I rarely noticed.

Her domain was the routine, the mundane,

the boring, repetitive stuff.

She did what had to be done without complaint.

My eccentric, domineering dad eclipsed my mom

until she became almost invisible.

Even today I don’t know everything she did for me,

unseen and unacknowledged.

What I do remember is her patient, unobtrusive presence,

offstage but always there.

I took so much for granted:

ironed tablecloths and matching china,

clean folded laundry smelling of sunshine,

banana bread and buttermilk cookies baking,

applesauce simmering on the stove, never store-bought,

home-sewn Halloween costumes,

vases filled with iris and peonies,

all murmuring the words of love her mouth couldn’t form

and I couldn’t hear.

Now Mom tells me every day that she loves me,

that she couldn’t manage without me,

that I’m a good girl.

I’ve waited a lifetime to hear those words.

I could have heard them so much sooner had I listened.

I hear you now, Mom.  I hear you.

©Linda Donahue

March 2012

I WISH YOU COULD STAY

 

As usual at visit’s end, we walk together to the front door.

Mom’s headlong shuffling gait and flat affect

            announce Alzheimer’s, stage five.

 

As usual I give Mom a big hug and kiss,

            expecting her to turn around and march off to lunch

                        before I’m out the door, no memory I was there.

But today she holds me and doesn’t let go.

Tears etch briny channels down her cheek.

I ask what’s troubling her, why she’s crying.

She responds in a whisper,

            This is the last time I’ll see you, isn’t it.

            I wish you could stay.

Her quiet certainty sounds an alarm in my heart.

Startled, I promise her it’s not the last time,

            I’ll be back tomorrow.

But Mom doesn’t hear my assurances.

She focuses her gaze on my face, intent, penetrating,

            as if to fix my image in the darkroom of her heart.

 

As usual my brain rummages and fumbles for understanding.

Does she suspect she’s entering Alzheimer’s land of no return,

            leaving behind every loved one and familiar landscape?

Can she sense it’s the last time she’ll recognize me?

Is she the one who wants to stay?

Or has anxiety written another terrifying script

            and tricked her into believing it?

I’ll never know, she’ll never know, and it doesn’t matter.

Her earlier disturbing emotions are already forgotten.

As usual when I drive away, I wave with feigned cheer,

            knowing there will be a last time soon, if not today.

Soon, if not tomorrow, I won’t be Mom’s daughter.

My arm around her shoulders drawing her close,

            my warm hand thawing her bony blue fist,

                        will offer the solace of a stranger, nothing more.

 

As always I’ll grieve silently behind the smiling strength

            I conjure for her.

And love her still, even though she doesn’t know me.

                                      ©Linda Donahue

                                      July  2012

 

                                   

 

 

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Poet Caregivers for November

Alzheimer’s Awareness Month:November

Once a month, a group of caregivers and I meet at the Sacramento Alz office as poet/caregivers.

We sit around a wooden rectangular table  to share our intimate lives through our pens. Often, we share the seasons from our garden: figs, strawberries, blueberries, plums,  apples,peaches, zucchini, zucchini, zucchini during the Summer and Autumn months.

Sometimes there is complete silence in the room, as though there is nobody there, sometimes belly laughs so loud, I close the door to keep our laughter in. There are poems that bring the Kleenix out, poems that receive nods, “yes, I know what you’re saying.” We become poets, admiring images, metaphors and the beauty of language. But most of all, we are caregivers, using poetry to pause, reflect and to make sense of our lives as caregivers,  and to discover the abundant gifts of humanity hidden beneath the everyday-ness of caregiving. We also create new words if need be. And we learn from each other, how to be the most compassionate and knowledgeable care givers, without being afraid of truth. And there is complete trust as we open the doors to find meaning in this relationship between caregiver and the ones being  cared for. We are no longer suffering caregivers but poet/caregivers, creating art from among the “ruins.”

Mary Swisher, caregiver for her husband shares two of her poems:

 

A Daughter’s Lament

(the labor of becoming our own mother)

 

It’s as if the overcast day has

Blown this unknown Niobe of tears

Into our midst.

 

Silently she rains down her

Salty drops until it puddles at her youthful feet.

 

The first daughter tells her sorrow … “I left my mother

In “that” home, my sister hates me, it breaks my heart.”

 

Our Niobe gives an audible sob and we can feel her

Tears lap at our ankles.

 

The second daughter speaks “My husband can no longer drive

He could get lost … and he knows it.”

 

More tears, enough to put a monsoon to shame, and yet …

 

Another daughter has gone to work, left her mother-child

At day-care.

 

The deluge continue, tissues mound into a white mountain now

We are sitting in a sacred lake

 

Another daughter: “my brilliant husband can’t walk…on the floor

I can’t … too heavy and my mom needs more and there’s no money…”

She reads a poem, crying, out of breath.

 

By now we have become a Greek chorus

Buoyed on salty swells of tears

 

Our new daughter speaks

Amid gasping sobs, she cries, a desperate howl

For the mother she has lost, but still holds,

And will not let go.

 

     ©Mary Swisher Feb. 201

These are the days

I write bitter poems

These are the days

I scream

don’t cry, just

scream

hate the person I have become

wonder who I ever was

ever compassionate, understanding

full of joyous kisses

pranks and laughing fits

over some shared escapade

the person who wrote

love notes to tuck under his pillow

or his lunch sack.

Now I write angry words

That I hide, even from myself

I have become a liar, a plotter

mapping his days and mine to avoid

conflict…I agree when I don’t really,

I say “never mind” or “it’s not important.”

Explaining is like

my speaking Greek to a Greek,

I know so little Greek.

Everything becomes confusing

to the point where

I scream

NEVER MIND … FORGET IT!

and he says

FORGET WHAT?

      ©Mary Swisher

      October 2012

voices of other caregivers will be posted throughout November.

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Haiku Writing Workshop

Surprise, Surprise.

Scheduled to “teach” a Haiku Poetry Workshop at the Asian Pacific  Heritage Celebration at the  Foster City Library, I prepped the room by taping haiku poems by Basho, Shiki and Shosan on the walls. Imagine my jolt when I walked into the room and saw children and adults. I was expecting an adult only audience. I took a deep breath and said, “I’m going to direct the next hour to the children, so adults, I hope you’ll be able to rise to their level.”  Laughter.

It was the children who responded, disregarding the age differences in the room.  They turned into artists and described each of the images created by the poems on the wall.  ”Isn’t it amazing?” I asked, “that you are able to get such clear images in your head through three lines of words, 17 syllables. “

We wrote a group haiku so they would experience the mental process of writing a haiku.

The image was the most important, not the 17 syllables. Let’s get the image down first.

The lst draft had the following syllables 4-6-4. We returned to the draft and edited until we had the 5-7-5.  We agreed to go for the 5-7-5 form.

The children gave the lst two lines and one adult male added the 3rd.

His line read: Sound of a truck.

A youngster added, “How about changing truck to “engine.” And so the discussion began between children and adults.

I quoted Basho’s “Learn of the pine from the pine.” Everyone wrote one or more haiku.

They understood Basho…capturing the ah-ness of the moment without metaphorical language. They understood the preservation of a haiku moment by using words without personification. They understood how we learn of the pine from the pine.

When I left, a 9 year old boy was sitting alone, working on his 3rd haiku. An adult, whose eyes had shone like the children, plan to form a haiku group.

The workshop supported my stance on writing and reading. Why do we attach age or grade level to reading? One never hears of  a 20 year old reader.  Yet, we say, he is reading at the 4th grade level. Why do we attach age to literature? Why do we call them children’s books? Do we speak of a book for 30 year olds?  I’m often asked about the age level of my Wordsworth books. I merely say, “I’ve signed these books for unborn children to adults.”

In that room, there was no age.

( The latest study speaks of  our congressmen and women conversing at the 10th grade level. Tenth graders, ask for an apology for  this insult.)

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Poets for Change

My Professor and Me

An exchange of cards would have made it a Hallmark moment. Instead, we had poetry between us and it came to mean more than all the shelves of Hallmark cards.

I visited an old professor friend  who moved from Hawaii  to a care facility in Healdsburg, CA. I took a linguistic course from him at  U of Hawaii eons ago and we’ve managed to stay in touch all these years. He’ll be moving to the dementia unit next week. I was surprised to see the changes in him since I last saw him in Hawaii this past June. He remembers me only as a Poet.

I read a few poems that I had written and read at our recent 10,.000 Poets for Change event in Sacramento. Ted looked at me intensely, kept his eyes on my mouth as I recited each word.  I saw tears in his eyes.

“You are brilliant,” he said. “You must send these to the White House. You should be our Poet Laureate. How do you write these poems? They are wonderful.”

I wasn’t going to argue with an 88 year old professor. I had done enough of that in his class.

His niece told me later how he brushes off our past Poet Laureate Billy Collins poems by saying, “Frances writes better. She would be our Poet Laureate.”

Before I left, I kissed him and said, “When was the last time a beautiful woman kissed you?”

He  retorted, ” I’m still waiting. IF you see one,  send her to me.”  He held both my hands and said, “You are brilliant and I am so proud of you.”  I had to listen carefully because he was beginning to slur but I heard him all right.

I don’t think these poems will reach the White House, but here  are a few of them.

1.

When Will I Know Peace?

 

When will I know Peace?

“She is at Peace,” you told me

When my mother died.

Is that the only way I will know Peace?

When I die?  and you will say,

She is at Peace?

 

NO! I want Peace now.

I want to see it on children’s faces

All over the world.

I want to taste it, lick it, swallow it

Like chocolate ice-cream in August.

I want to hear it, I want to hear it.,.what is the sound of Peace?

I want to bathe in it, feel it wrap around me

Wet silk against skin.

I don’t want  it after I’m stiff and dead.

I want Peace now.

 

     *******************

          2                  

                   Voice from the Unborn

 

You promised me,  eons ago,

 A world, free of battlefields, soldiers, children

Abandoned  in fear and hunger.

You offered me Hope,  again and again.

A world, you said, where we will stand

Hand in hand, beyond  color, religion, gender, age,

 One race. One humanity.

 

You promised me a world

Free of poison in oceans, earth and air.

“You  are the future”, you told me,

Every election year.

“Come and be born in this world I will

Create  for  you.”

 

My brothers and sisters  who believed you

Are now old men and women, and  still they wait.

They wait.

 

Listen to my voice,  your unborn child.

Turn Hope into Reality,

Future into Today.

 

Stop using me, your  unborn child

For promises and meaningless  rhetoric.

The future is now.  I can’t wait  any longer.

The future is now.  I want to be  born.

Today.

 

 ********

3

Absence of Peace

 

Dept of Education

Dept of Veteran Affairs

Dept of Commerce

Dept of Energy.

Dept of Homeland Security.

Dept of Justice.

Dept of Transportation

Dept of Labor

Dept of Interior

Dept of Defense.

Dept of Defense.

( Peace! Peace!)

Dept of Defense.

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

4.

Sonny and Me

This is lifted from one of my short stories that will be published this Fall.

In this scene, Sonny and I, both 12, are on our backs, looking up at the sky.

“Eh Sonny,” I said, lying on my back, looking up into the sky, “Did you see Charlie Chaplin last night?”

“No, I’m goin’ this Saturday to see The Lone Ranger.”

“Charlie Chaplin was funny. He was so hungry, he boiled his shoes to make soup. He ate his shoe lace like spaghetti.  They keep showing the same war  news.”

I watched the clouds, white chiffon gowns of the wind, swaying against the clear blue sky, wedding gowns, lacy veils and silk trains, flowing and moving like brides down the aisles.  An ache of unknown source filled me to the brim. Sonny saw faces of fat Churchill and the Lone Ranger.

“Eh Sonny, I bet if Truman and Stalin got on their backs like this and looked at the clouds and the skies, they would think of peace, not war.”

“Yeah, this is better than sitting around a  table, that’s for sure. Hard to make war when you look up to  the sky.”

“Yeah, a Peace Conference outside in the fields or out at the beach. All the leaders on their backs like this, looking up at the clouds and feeling the wind on their faces. For sure, they wouldn’t make war.”

“And they shouldn’t wear shoes.”

“Yeah, and they better not have toe jam.” We lay there, laughing, wriggling our toes in the air, far removed from the war news .

It became obvious as the years went by, that no one heard Sonny’s and my idea of  the “Open Air Peace Conference.” War clouds with different names continued to float past us throughout the years.

from: Kapoho: Memoirs from Modern Pompeii

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