Decisions. Day 6 of #VerseLove and a Sijo, Korean-style Poem, Composed for the First Time, Simply Because I Own a Waving Cat from Japan

Maneki-miko - waving cat, keyojin - lunatic, macaronic - fusing languages for context

A little update on my world right now. Car smashed. House stripped of siding. Long weekend. Plans to do Syracuse for Kanyea's baby shower and family. Car still not done. Contractors need me here on Saturday for when they think they'll finish. Four more weeks of the semester. Recommendation season already in place. Still waiting on a couple more revisions for Writing & Pedagogy. House a mess (all items had to come off the walls for the construction. 

Semester more of a shit show than all of the shit shows of yesteryear put together. People walking. People leaving. People forced out. Confusion. Empty hallways. CWP-Fairfield work still full force (families signing up on the regular). Reports in stereo of faculty morale being down. I've made several life transitions and I'm not sure I have it in me for another one (although it's more and more tempting each and every day.

But I am thankful for #VerseLove and the fact that yesterday we were challenged to write a sijo, a Korean brevity poem of between 42-45 syllables (usually 3 lines). Although I practice being concise and sharp, I am an English language guy and love to play excessively. I think, however, this was a good prompt for me today...I need to zero in on what is most important. The Japanese waving cat (that is solar charged) acts as a metronome in my living room. I use it to keep tempo of my life (hence, the poem).

Here's to Friday. Here's hoping my car is done before the weekend. Here's hoping the insurance people will extend a rental over the weekend. Here's to finding calm.

#VerseLove is an Absolute Treasure for Teachers Who Write and Writers Who Teach. I am Exploding with Gratitude from Yesterday's Opportunity to Host a Challenge.

Yesterday, I had the honor to host the 5th day of #VerseLove, and I drew on my undergraduate days of Ruth Stone and her tremendous impact. Each and every class she offered was a gift and her investment has stayed with me for life. As I write on the site, in KY I started a tradition of Poetic Drive-Bys were kids were invited to leave a poem for another to discover. For a couple of years, I've loved running into a mail woman a few miles from my home who come for Karal, always with a dog biscuit and absolute joy with the fairy friends she meets. She was a perfect individual to write a poem for, and I can't wait to gift her with this when we run into her once again. 

More impactful, however, was the number of poetic responses my poem received. I couldn't help but tear up reading so many gifts written for others, especially in heart-felt, magical ways. This is the gift of language, the power of words, and the joy of the assignment. 

What gifts are inside of you?

Deliveries

~b.r.crandall

You don’t belong to us,
these porches of boxes,
driveways, & sidewalks –
yet, you bring stamped smiles
to our criss-crossing streets,
always carrying that satchel of language
over your shoulder:
sales, news, bills, birthday cards –
a correspondence of snails
assigned to chase Paul Revere.

We see you in the morning
working with packaged purpose,
eyes on lookout
for fuzz-nuggets
yanking idiots like me
at the end
of their ropes.

You might as well be my mom,
aunt, therapist,
reader of Tarot cards
who explained to me that death
is just like Publisher’s Clearing House.

Karal asked me to write you this poem
in exchange for the milkbones –

Joy, she says, comes from a delivered gesture.
Yours, hers, mine.

That’s why I let her lick
the envelope.

Another #VerseLove Challenge & I Wrote a Rather Crappy Poem. Play with Language, Noun the Verbs & Verb the Nouns. Well, Okay

When morning prompts arrive, I never know how my brain will respond, but thinking about wording, I thought of the colon: it's use of listing, necessity for naming, and ordering of thoughts. I then wondered what the anti-colon would be, and immediately thought of turning 50 and doing the ritual I've heard about over and over again. Yes, always memorable. 

And it became a poem. Probably inappropriate but fun to write (from the list I made).

: ahs, cope ee

~b.r.crandall

empty us feel

polyp-preparatory-pinched

nutty seed no-goes do,

grainy whole fruit, nope, woo

liquid-clear

broth-slime, 

grape-gripped

lemon-limed 

italian-iced

remote find.

bed-lined, case-in-just

towel-draped, eyes crust

dough-boy

doobie-do, 

abdominal, hurricaned,

turbulent, boo.

turd-shower, stool-power

roof-collapse, poo-sower 

I be uncharted

Bristol flower

floodingly foul, 

fool, I is 

toilet, I spew

midlife, gonna goo

whale hole, blow-blew

intestinal conduit

i is muck, 

emptied

(internal)

albeit, yuck.

probed be me

alienated I

scoped

coped

but

(phew)

cleared

Bry

And today I get to host the prompt: gifts for the world. More to come. Apologies for the off-colored wit. But it is, what it is. 

Great Appreciation for Yesterday's #VerseLove '23 Prompt By @Joyteamstars. Playing Around with an Unusual Word

I never know what I'm going to find when I awake each morning with #VerseLove and the daily prompts. Yesterday morning, I was thrilled to receive one from my West Coast inspiration, Stacey Joy, who wrote an epic haiku with her word, Ubuntu. For real. We know that word. I was going to go with Schadenfrëude, but at the last minute went with Uhrwurm. We all have those songs that get stuck in our heads. So, I gave that at try. 

I posted it on EthicalELA and received a message from Stacey that she wanted me to perform this so she can hear me. I said, "Let me see what I can do, so I quickly made a movie in my office. Truth is, the song that has been stuck in my head for weeks, but wasn't there yesterday when I was writing was, Bieber's "My mama don't like you and she likes everyone." Maybe in a revision. 

I'm off to the have The Hulk's door refurbished and the collision center...and then to teach. In the meantime, my attempt at being a social media sensation. 

Pour Yourself a Coffee and Wipe the Sleep Out of Your Eyes. #VerseLove '23. Sunday Mocha with Friends

I inherited from my mother, who inherited from her father. We ain't morning people. I don't mean that as a defense, or offense, or anything but what it is. I wake up and grunt, groan, and slide into my day. It takes me a while and the last thing I want is to be talked to in the morning. I need until 10 a.m. until I am social.

That is why Dr. Kim Johnson's Sunday prompt of having coffee with her threw me for a loop. That was the prompt....if the two of us were out for coffee, what would we have to write. Well, I followed my gut. And this one is for mom (and poor dad). They should get it just fine.

Mug Shot

~b.r.crandall

Sorry to be Squidward,

but I just birthed a cow.

 Calf-inated please…

No, I don’t typically do these morning rituals…

can’t espresso myself this early.

No rise & grind for this Star-bucker.

Simply one, miserable cup of coffee —

the depresso who doesn’t give a %#$@.

My bad. No Folgers in my cup. 

I shouldn’t have told you 

where you could dunk your donut, exactly,

(but I didn’t appreciate your glazed 

ring-toss around my middle finger, either).

I know. I know. I know.

You expected me to sing,

“You are so brew-tiful to me,”

but there’s been a latte on my mind lately,.

Alarm clocks. Eye boogers. Adulthood.

Sorry if this mochas you sad.

It’s just I was up all night coffee and sneezing 

(allergic to the tree sperm of April).

No. No. Don’t say that. It’s me, not you.

I’m not a morning brew

and you already knew I was a crotchety, 

cantankerous crab when you met me.

(I’m still afflicted with the sham of sunrise).

Got it from my mother —

you have no idea how many heads

my father’s had chewed off

while scrambling his eggs.

I mean, if we were meant to pop out of bed,

wouldn’t we sleep in toasters?

Yes, I’ll have another cup.

2nd Day of #VerseLove & Thankful to EthicalELA for Another April of Poetry (This is the Month Ahead)

A few years ago I signed on to participate in Sarah Donovan's #VerseLove, an open-write opportunity for the month of April. I look forward to it every year, because a poem a day is 30 days of joy. Glenda Funk offered writers the chance to write a Haibun Poem, which is a Japanese form of writing a restricted narrative, followed by a haiku. I've never written one of these and somehow channeled the day friends of mine brought me to a dispensary in CT after the state legalized the sale of marijuana. I didn't know what to expect and time spent there simply cracked me up...especially with how professional the experience was. It cracked me up that a crew of adults were wide-eyed and curious about what this all might mean.  

I enjoyed the challenge, even if the subject might be off-colored from what I typically write. I absolutely love 

Been a Minute

~b.r.crandall

 

I used to watch rain gather in puddles. Short, historical biographies of Hans Riegel and copper kettles…the mindlessness of dead-end jobs — gelatinous genius of sugared, Tanzbären dreams.. “It’s dispensary, not suppository,” she corrected. “We're a take out…not a push in. May I suggest Mirthbridge Forest for cartoons and Dance of Dragons before heading off to bed?” Proud, elegant efficiency, unlike the DMV. 

 

I want want to feel, want to feel like I did those days…April laughter is needed to bring flowers to May.

 

calm, hushed halcyon,

feathered in kaleidoscope -

I remember youth.

Here's to a month of #VerseLove

Shhhh! It! It Happens. And It Can Always Be Worse. It Is What It Is. This Too Shall Pass. Time Does That To Us. Bumps in the Road. Dents on the Car.

I never park on the street, but I had a dumpster delivered yesterday so put my car on Mt. Pleasant to make room for the truck. He needed to back in. I put The Hulk on the street, ran up to take a shower, and headed outside to drive to campus for the day. The neighbor across the street, however, was waiting for me. He didn't look in his rear view mirror and when he saw no cars were coming in either direction on Mt. Pleasant, he backed down the driveway, turned his wheel, and smacked right into the side of my car. He was devastated. "You never park there."

I was like, "These things happen, more often going backwards than forwards. At least we weren't on I-95 and no one was hurt"

The morning, nonetheless, ended up being a series of insurance companies, phone calls, and the necessity of wait time. It won't get tended to until next week and the car is still drivable. These things happen. The car is paid off. I wasn't in it, and he was okay. His bumper has minor scratches. Insurance will do what it's supposed to do. 

And hungry from fasting, I simply went on with my day because it's all I could do. Today is the Men's Final Four. I have faith in the Great Whatever. Counting blessings and totally understanding that these things happen. It might put a monkey wrench into my week and holiday weekend, but I can't sweat the little things. It's life. 

Happy National Poetry Month! It's April. There's so much writing still ahead.