Let Hope Go

Uncurl those grasping fingers
Let hope go
Let that soft blanket slip from around your shoulders
Feel the breeze
It will chill you,
Or warm you,
Or blow you off course
Let hope go
Push aside that embroidered curtain
Look at what is out there
Things you've never imagined,
Or never saw coming,
Or always knew
Let hope go
Watch that iron-clad door open up
To all the possibilities
Or impossibilities
Or to nothing at all
Uncurl those grasping fingers
Let hope go

          ---Sappho---

I Still Hope

I still hope
yet how can I
as I fly over the cliff
soaring, soaring
not knowing
when I will stop
how I will stop
frenzied bodies all about me
clutching others in terror
others, spread-eagled,
unmindful of all
but the openness of space.
Whee! Whee!
       --Xena

What Hope?

In the springs and summer of my life
there were many hopes and dreams.
Some of them came true, others not.
But I lived life, a good life,
and the years went by--much too quickly.
Now, with time running down
I find myself in the fall of my life,
and my hope is that my life has had value,
because I have tried to fight the good fight.
          --Lucretia

Hope is a Dream of Tomorrow

Hope is a dream of tomorrow
filling the spaces with joy.
Hope is a cool breeze
on hot summer days.
Hope is a love
that keeps my heart soft and full.
Hope is a glowing sunlight
that keeps the darkness at bay.
Hope is peace and accord
in a troubled world.
          --Scheherazade


And from Emily Dickinson:
Hope is a strange invention
a patent of the heart
in unremitting action
yet never wearing out.
Of the electric adjunct
not anything is known
but its unique momentum
embellishes all we own

Hope (or the lack of)

Does anyone know where to find hope?
I wish hope would be
a commodity
you could purchase in a store.
A store called "Hope Eternal"
"Hope Springs" or just
"Hope for Sale" (or lease)
by the hour, day, or week.
If one could bottle hope for the masses,
like wishes from a
genie in a bottle,
they would have it made!
Sorrow, loneliness--but especially,
pain--can give rise to
abandoning all hope.
If anyone knows the secret,
please let the rest of us in on it.
          --Gypsy

Hope Sustains

Hope is what sustains our lives:
The political prisoner in his cell,
The parents whose child is ill,
The one upon whose life a veil
of depression has descended.
Hope sustains.
          --Isadora

When Hope Comes Back by Josh Healey

By Josh Healey on Nov 16Receiving the Mario Savio award in Berkeley – Tuesday, November 15 “When Hope Comes Back”
View the video at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FZcJpEOFTqQ

Well, that was fun. Powerful. And Occupytastic.

Last night, I was out on Sproul Plaza at UC-Berkeley, with over 10,000 people reclaiming the space for OccupyCal. I was there to receive the Mario Savio Young Activist Award, which had been scheduled for the same night across the plaza inside Pauley Ballroom. But with thousands of people outside demanding free speech and equal education on the very same steps that Mario Savio had once stood himself, the two events were beautifully combined, and I was able to give my poem outside with the people, right where it belonged.

View the video at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FZcJpEOFTqQ

When Hope Comes Back
(A Poem for the 99%)


when Hope comes back 
he will be more than a campaign slogan 
and a face on a poster faded red, white, and blue


he will not come from a presidential palace 
bought and paid for like a Citibank stock option villa


he will put not forget to put on his walking shoes 
and join the picket lines in New York
 the bread lines in Baltimore
 to shake the calloused hands
 of everyone walking by

when Hope comes back
 he might be named Barack
 but he won’t be named Obama

when Hope comes back 
he will be a Black Panther baby
 who speaks Spanglish
 and cooks Korean tacos
and does 180 sun salutations
to the soundtrack of Zion I
- yes, Hope is hella Bay

when Hope comes back
he will be a UFW farmworker
who loves his fields and his flag
more than he hates his foreman
he will be a runaway foster child
who forgives his parents
he will be an Iraq war veteran
who returns to protest in Oakland again
without tear gas canisters to his head

when Hope comes back
he will come back from the future
in a DeLorean like Michael J. Fox
and show us all the things we’d won
like people swimming across the Rio Grande
for fun rather than survival
and the only student debt being to our livers
rather than to our banks
and then Michael J would take us
for a ride back to the past
and show us this is not our first occupation
Flint, sit-down strikers in ’36
Alcatraz, American Indian Movement in ’69
Sproul Plaza, Free Speech Movement in ’64
and every semester since then that was worth a damn
and reminded Berkeley what it means
to be called Berkeley

when Hope comes back
he will be one of my students
East Asia meets East Oakland
brilliantly cross-continental
even though he hates the ocean
speaks with the wisdom of Buddha and Mac Dre
really, he is my teacher
and I think he knows it
and we’re both ok with that

when Hope comes back
he will actually be a she
because hey, that’s who actually gets shit done
she will be a librarian by day, a DJ by night,
an Occupy activist in between
she will be thick hair and thick hips
and if you try to touch either one
you’ll get a thick hand to the face


when Hope comes back
she’ll show us to burn down the banks in our
hearts and love without lust or profit or restraining orders

when Hope comes back
she will be an OPD cop,
then NYPD, then UCPD,
refusing to follow orders
putting down their riot gear
and picking up a picket sign
cuz when the cops join the 99% they actually belong to
that’s when the banks will have nowhere to hide

when Hope comes back
she will be a midwife
in tune with the moon and the womb
an ancient healer who knows every herb in the redwoods
ready to help us birth a new world
one without bombs or borders or Michelle Bachman
a planet of peoples free to honor the earth
and each other like the God
in whose image we’re still trying to evolve into

when Hope comes back
she will be here
right here, right now
on the streets and plazas and parks
of New York and DC
Milwaukee and Austin
Portland and Nashville
London and Manila and Cairo
San Francisco, Oakland, and Berkeley, CA
with the people and the hashtags
setting up her tent in the morning
paintings banners in the afternoon
attending ridicously long meetings in the evening
shutting down the port of Oakland
and reminding us all that yes,
Hope still lives here in America
she has always lived here with us

and now she is back before our eyes
marching head high, fist higher
and whispering to the millions amongst her,


“Thank you.
Thank you.
You’re bringing me back.
Take my hand,
feel my pulse joined with yours.
Trust my taste on your tongue,
my strength in your lungs,
and let’s see how far we can go
together.”

My House

A smile blossoms

as I walk toward

this house I call home,

then a sigh.

More than just shelter:

a safe haven, this house,

offering warmth and quiet,

a sense of safety.

I know her secrets.

Four years and no regrets.

She cares for me.

I care for her.

We play, we work,

we give, we take.

We know aches and pains, 

so we groan, then rest.

We're old, getting older,

We make the best of what we've got,

with gutsiness and pluck,

opening the door to come-what-may.

                     -Scheherazade

Clown in the Moon by Dylan Thomas

Today, I received a poetry postcard:

"Clown in the Moon" by Dylan Thomas

My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.

I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream. 

The House

The house in my dreams is familiar yet new;

I’ve lived here before, but forgotten some rooms.

There’s always a door that I open to find

some additional floor space.  I pull up a blind

on a garden that reaches way back to a wall

with another door opening into the hall.

I go around softly, discovering rooms:

a study, a workshop with rows of old tools,

a greenhouse, o’er run with a trellis and vines

a bathroom with deeply-welled tubs that are lined

with mossy green marks where the bathers have lain,

and I go around softly, again and again.

It’s a house of surprises, a place without time,

a house full of memories, not all of them mine,

and yet I belong here.  I am the house wife

in this house where I’ve wandered

my whole sleeping life.  
              --Agatha

Guest Poet: W.B. Yeats

Today, we sponsor a guest poet, William Butler Yeats. Here's a link to his poem "When You Are Old," read by Colin Farrell:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=42JPVCQ9EeM&feature=share

My Garden Face

Alone in the yard, I have on my garden face, 

although I can only imagine what it looks like, 

because there are no mirrors among the marigolds. 

I tie up a drooping vine, fill my bucket with weeds, 

rearrange a stack of bricks tumbled by the squirrel

in her haste to collect her ration of nuts

before the magpies wake up.

My jaw goes slack with heavy breathing.

Creases of concern relax, leaving faint

pencil-lines to mark their places. 

I pause and stare straight up at the sky, 

heavy with clouds and promise. 

Eyes glazed over with birdsong joy, 

I surely resemble the village idiot, 

delirious with simplicity.

               --Agatha 

Food, a Tradition

A food, a tradition:
the family gathers on Christmas Eve Day.
Cut those apples!
Stretch that dough!
If you're careless,
there's a hole.
Patch it up.
Breadcrumbs hot!
raisins, cinnamon, sugar, nuts, a lot.
Melt butter over all,
lift edge of cloth,
and begin to roll.
Strudel, apple strudel
(as in old Vienna).
          --Isadora

Head Down

Thirty degrees this morning and the

garden is still, chilled into silence. Birds

are holding their breath, hesitant to give

their side of the story. A sentinel cat

sits on the wall, scanning for tiny rustlings,

while the frosted grass holds still, wary

of giving clues to the whereabouts.

The sole surviving tulip leans

close to the ground,

keeping its head down, whipped

into submission by last night’s wind.

One velvety petal detaches into my hand.

I stroke its vulnerable pinkness

and think of new-born babies.

               --Agatha

White Chocolate Star

The prompt for this poem was "A food that inspires you."

Oh, delightful white chocolate star,

you tiny container of phenylethylamine

that wonderful natural monoamine alkaloid,

descendent of entactogens, anorectics, 

and psychedelics of yore!

You are the foundation of the 

chocolate theory of love and 

holder of rich raspberry splendor!

You modulate my neurons, 

make my heart race, and lift my spirits. 

My eyes light up when your chocolate-brown 

UPS chariot delivers you to me in 

your golden Godiva Chocolate box.

I ravish you!  
               --Agatha   

Minestrone

[Sung to the tune of "My Sharona"]

Oh my little hungry one, hungry one.

When you gonna eat-a my minestrone?

Oh it makes your motor run, motor run.

Smell it when I'm cookin my minestrone

Never gonna stop, slurp it up. Such an appetite.

Always get it up for the taste of the soupy kind.

My my my i yi woo!

M-m-m minestrone!

  

Come a little closer huh, will ya huh?

Close enough to look at my minestrone.

Keeping it a mystery, mystery

Add a cup of ditalini.

Minestrone!

Never gonna stop, slurp it up. Such an appetite.

Always get it up for the taste of the soupy kind.

My my my i yi woo!

M-m-m minestrone!

M-m-m minestrone!

Basil    onions    pepper

Carrots    chili powder

Salt     tomato puree

Kidney beans and barley! 

When you gonna visit me, visit me?

Come and get a bowl of my minestrone

Is it a tomato-y recipe?

Stirring up a pot of my minestrone

Don’t forget the freshest peas  

Fill up bowls for you and me

Serve it up with cheeses please

Minestrone!

Soak it up with breadsticks three

It's Italian, don't you see?

There's enough for weeks and weeks.

Minestrone!

Never gonna stop, slurp it up. Such an appetite.

Always get it up for the taste of the soupy kind.

My my my i yi woo!

M-m-m minestrone!

My my my i yi woo!

M-m-m minestrone!
          --Agatha

Pet Peeve

(for Jupiter)

He climbs the hillside in the rain

lies in the tall grass, perfectly still

watching, waiting, for as long as it takes

his mouth slightly open 

to still the sound of his breathing

When a dripping blade of grass makes 

a tiny movement in the wrong direction

his eyes narrow

his legs gather under him, ready to spring

after the pounce, he holds the prey steady,

bites the struggling prey

bites again, most cruelly, 

'til blood runs down his throat

and the struggling stops

My pet is peeved with me.

He wants a companion

A companion to hunt with in the tall grass

I tell him:

If only I were a cat, too,

I would climb the hill in the rain

I would lie in the grass with you

I would pounce and bite 

and bite again, most cruelly.

          --Agatha

How to Write a Poem

Consult the postcard recipe.

Pour a week’s worth of time into

a bowl of images.  Add a cup of

coffee and a pinch of rhyme.

Stir briskly with a pen or process

until smooth in your computer.

Procrastination will form on the

top.  Skim it off.  Season with

humor, hope, or desperation.

Frost it with a desire to belong.

Take it to lunch at Carol’s house

on Friday at 1 p.m.

Serve with love. (7-8 servings)
          --Agatha

A Long Converstation With Myself

How sweet, how nice
to be able to say,
“I talked to myself about that today.”
“I had a long conversation,
with myself, me and I
and together we mulled
and twisted and tried
and we came to consensus
and I see my way
and I can live with my answer.”
What a nice thing to say.
But think, how much better
to stand up and say
“I don’t talk to myself.
Instead I pray.”
“I’ve got a pipeline to God.
It may sound absurd,
but any thoughts that I have
aren’t mine; they’re His Word.”
They can’t argue with you.
They won’t fuss and won’t fight,
if your thoughts are God’s thoughts
then you must be right.
Don’t think your own thoughts,
don’t take credit or blame.
Tell yourself you talk to God
and that you speak in His name.
You will always be right
with the thoughts you’ve been told,
no matter how stupid,
each word’s dipped in gold.
So when you talk to yourself
pretend that you heard
the voice of God,
then you’ll have the last word.
--Sappho

Be Thankful

Be thankful if you were never called beautiful.
Later, as you watch your colors fade and your angles soften,
you will see your own beauty.
Be thankful if you made mistakes
If you learned anything at all from them
you are wise.
Be thankful if you were never found good enough.
It turns out that once you've forgiven them
you can forgive yourself.
Be thankful if your childhood wasn't always easy.
After you've learned life's lessons
you will find your innocence.
Be thankful if you didn't do it all when you had the chance.
Now that you have no chance
you can do what you want
Be thankful if you weren't the perfect parent.
Now your children can parent you while
you become perfectly childlike.
--Sappho

Crone Song

Crones are wonderful.
Crones are wise.
They look at the world
through ancient eyes.
Through ancient eyes
that have seen it all,
the comings and goings,
the rise and the fall.
The rise and the fall
of their chests as they breathe
and the tears in their eyes
when it’s time to grieve.
When it’s time to grieve,
only they can say.
That has to be
the price they pay.
The price they pay,
with aching bones
and broken hearts,
those wonderful Crones.
Those wonderful Crones
who show us the way
to cherish ourselves
and live each day.
--Sappho

It Can Work Out

A fault of character
seeded by cultivation,
trained by repetition,
activation by results.
To control; to be right
alpha dog vs. helping,
natural leader vs. ego trip,
“knowing” beyond borders.
The logic of its own
obsession to compulsion,
rewards the weakness,
proven over time?
To control is to feel safe?
Allow another
to live with discomfort,
let go.
--Sheherazade

An Answer To The Question

Some say time is
a silver and gold bracelet
with a trinket to mark each event.
Here is a tiny ring, there is a cradle.
But I say no.
Some say time is a rosary
made of black onyx and amber,
handed down from your mother’s mother.
A thing to be touched reverently, with guilty fingers.
But I say no.
Some say time is
a hangman’s noose
all rough and hairy.
A punishment to be feared.
But I say no.
I say time is
a looping string of worry beads,
rainbow colored,
made of polished rocks
and spider’s webs
and safety pins,
sea glass,
sticky notes,
precious gems,
rubber bands,
and sweet hard candies.
--Sappho

Rhyming Recipe

{Read to a rap beat}

Heat the oven to 325
Beat egg whites and put aside
A half-pound butter beaten creamy
Two egg yolks add to the mix
One cup ground almonds does the trick
One good teaspoon baking powder
Joined with two and a half cups flour
Mix it all, fold in egg whites
Squeeze it into a cookie mold
In fifteen minutes, they’re a sight to behold
Yo!
--Isadora

Panic

My chest is full of broken glass
and shattered mirrors,
sharp edged
chaos
Breathe
Let the colors come into focus
pink
crystal
silver
Breathe
Let the jagged edges align
into
pinwheels
Breathe
Let the pinwheels still themselves
and become
flowers
Breathe
and the flowers
are pressed under glass
Settled
into a window
with the sun shining through
----Sappho

From Back Here

From back here
the headstones are anonymous.
They could be anything;
birdbaths,
garden gnomes,
scattered thickly under the trees.
Another unseasonably warm day.
The sun shines through the bare branches
where the vultures roost
and the squirrels play.
The columns on top Red Hill
are glowing in the winter light.
The sky is blue,
melting from opal and pearl
to robin's egg, china, cobalt,
and indigo.
I'm too old to skip
so I jog a few steps.
I'm too tame to howl
so I smile.
      --Sappho

To Feel A Line

To feel a line
Drawn over the arc of a hip,
Is to feel the creation
Of beauty.


To feel a line
portray the curve of a breast,
Is to create sensuality
on a page.


To feel a line
Bowing into the arc of a neck,
Is to be captured
By pure joy.


To feel the beauty of a line
Is to be seized
By a moment of
Of absolute delight.
         --Scheherazade

I smell the...

I smell the breeze

I smell 5:00 a.m.

I smell the pricked-up ears

I smell the skritch-sktratch of claws

I smell the jump up into the compost box

I smell the squelch of rotting apples

I smell the furry black-and-whiteness

I smell the soft chirp of your mate

I smell you, skunk.

                        --Agatha

The Breaking Waves

In response to this postcard prompt, Zazu sang a song to us, in place of a poem. Here are the lyrics, by Felicia Dorothea Hemans (1808):

The breaking waves dash'd high

On a stern and rock-bound coast,

And the woods against a stormy sky

their giant branches toss'd.

And the heavy night hung dark

the hills and waters o'er,

When a band of exiles moor'd their bark

On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,

they, the true-hearted, came;

Not with the roll of the stirring drums,

And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come,

In silence and in fear:

They shoo the depths of the desert gloom

With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang,

And the stars heard, and the sea.

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang

to the anthem of the free.

The ocean eagle soared

From his nest by the white wave's foam,

And the rocking pines of the forest roared,

This was their welcome home.

What sought they thus afar?

Bright jewel from the mine?

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?

They sought a faith's pure shrine.

Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil which first they trod:

They have left unstained what there thy found,

Freedom to worship God.

Tracking My Glitches, or Where's a competent file clerk when you really need one?

This poem was written in response to the prompt "Tracking my glitches."

Preface: Arthur Conan Doyle’s character, Sherlock Holmes, says that the brain is like an attic: when it’s full, you can’t put anything more in unless something else comes out. I think the brain is like a filing cabinet with unlimited drawers and file folders.  Everything is still in there, but, as I age, I have more and more retrieval problems, perhaps due to increasingly-sloppy filing.

  

Describing my participation

in some recent recreation,

I sometimes choose precipitation,

perspiration, palpitation.

My filing clerk is on vacation.

Requesting facts on the last earthquake,

I’ll ask about a chocolate shake

or a new class I hope to take,

and so my query is a big mistake. 

My filing clerk is on a break.

Here, Fido, Dogbert, Rover, Hammy!

Come get your dinner, Tiger, Pammy!

Whatever your name is, it’s uncanny.

You cats—whoever: Oh! Jupiter! Sami!

My filing clerk dealt a double whammy.

Telling friends about the ways

scriptwriters fooled the Code of Hays,

instead of Ben-Hur (Heston’s play),

I name Ben Gurion, BenWa, Ben Gay.

My filing clerk has gone away.

From A to Z, there is confusion.

Perhaps I’ve suffered a contusion,

or do I need a brain transfusion?

My retrieval skills are an illusion.

My filing clerk is a word Malthusian.*

          --Agatha

*Malthusian—Thomas Malthus (1821) theorized that population tends to increase at a faster rate than its means of subsistence, and that unless it is checked by moral restraint or disaster (as disease, famine, or war), widespread degradation inevitably results.

My Double-Wide

I'm happy inside

my double-wide.

It's just the right place for me.

Some folks want more,

like a house by the shore,

or a mansion by the sea,

but I'm happy inside

my double-wide.

It's just the right place for me.

I don't try to hide

this double-wide.

I've painted it so you can see

it from outer space,

this bright yellow place,

next to an apple tree.

Yes, I'm happy inside

my double-wide

It's just right for me, you see.

My double-wide

is my joy and my pride.

It's where I want to be.

It's got room enough

to hold all my stuff

and room for my honey and me.

We fit here inside

this double-wide.

It's where I want to be.


          --Sappho

Directions

[The prompt for these poems was to create a set of directions to the poet's own house.]

(Recited to the tune of “Take the A-Train”)

Please, don’t take the A-Train

or the Chatanooga Choo Choo.

Just, go north on Hiline,

then a right on Chubbuck Road will do.

Turn, left on Johannson,

take the first right you come to.

That’d, be my Monika Manse, son,

hidden behind tall bushes of yew.

            --Zazu

Come one, come all from South or North 

at "Exit 69" go forth

head West like Lewis did on Clark

beware the snake, the tunnel dark

when you emerge, a straight-up shot 

the First Nash Bar--you're getting hot 

past library, plumbers, the old saw mill

    (that's just thrown in to confuse you)

Tacoma redskins hold the hill.

You're centered now.

            --Agatha

But Then

Suddenly

a flash

a cold shudder

a blinding light

I see the truth

I am a speck

clinging to a spinning ball

hurtling through space

All is lost

There is no hope

I see the truth

But then

Suddenly

a soft breeze

warmth

the smell of sagebrush

I see the truth

I am one of a multitude of specks

clinging to a beautiful blue spinning ball

hurtling through wide open star speckled space

I have nothing to lose

I hope

I see the truth

          --Sappho

I Protest!

This postcard was the inspiration for this poem by Xena.












Wars and rumors of wars
I protest!
Torture and other horrors
I protest!
Corporations who think that they are peoples
Money-grubbing churches with their gilded steeples
I protest!
Discrimination against females
I protest!
Rhetoric by Palin/Bachmann she-males
I protest!
Abuse by the clergy of our children
Execution of those who used a cauldron
I protest!
In fair weather or in foul
I protest!
For all good causes, I will howl!
I protest!
I protest!
I protest!

Fireworks

These women are like fireworks

I've stood in the dark and

I've peeked at them through my fingers

They sizzle and hiss

like sparklers

They go off

like roman candles

I want to get close enough to reflect their colors

feel their heat

smell their sulfur

but there is danger there

I look at them

but if I get too close

they might see me

I listen to them

but if I get too close

they might hear me

I want to know them

but if I get too close

they might know me

            --Sappho

Life Goes On

This poem was inspired by the above postcard.

Life goes on, it's said,
then it ends.
And, if we are lucky,
in between
we have love and friends.
               --Lucretia

Sonnet for February

Hopeful earth dappled
with white snow in a
gray-brown world,
yet crocus push forth
and smile.
Misty blue skies,
crisp, bleak rays of sun
no warmth, no relief,
yet snowdrops push forth
and smile.
Barren trees, spiny branches
bend in the wind
icy air, chills
yet daffodils push forth
and smile.
Shorter days
pass in single file
bringing hope
as tulips push forth
and bring smiles.
-----Scheherazade

A Poet is a Small God

[These three poems were written in response to the prompt: "A poet is a small god."]

The poet is a small god

only when his words

illuminate

a universal truth.

            --Zazu

Is a poet like a small god?
Is there such a thing as being a little bit pregnant?

Do I, a pretending poet,

want to be a small god?

Why not a large god for me,

a larger person than poet?

Wait! What is the definition of god?

I must know before I decide.

One who rules? One who decides?

Give me a break, dearie!

The only god who rules, who decides

is MONEY and those who hold it.

Please don’t insult my intelligence.

Besides, I’m only practicing to become a poet.

            --Xena

Artistic awareness
original imaging

sudden glancing

as a visual artist

relentlessly frmes

Imaginings in creating art

the poet entices inklings

notions and impressions

into sound.

The perfect word

The adjective

finally bringing

an insight that says,

“I know,” “a-ha,”

“That’s it!”

A new wakefulness

actualized

into being.

Deepening alertness

Illuminating a theme

Held as riddle

with playful candor, or

deliberation.

The Poet hears

the pulse

of an idea

into words.

          --Scheherazade