Category Archives: Thinking Aloud

Sevenling: (That entry)

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That entry with stately Neo classic columns of two centuries ago
This courtyard with intricate Moorish tile work showing past Spanish influence
The balcony with geometric bas relief of American mid-century modernism

All coexist on a block hinting at the beauty of what it once was
On a crumbling calle of poverty and dilapidation of what it is
Within sight a renovating neighborhood of what will be again

Means nothing to those in a one room shack out in the back country

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Today’s form: Sevenling.

A Sevenling is a  7-line poem (two tercets and a one-liner as the final stanza) with these parameters:–

– Three lines that contain an element of three. This could be three connected or contrasting statements, a list of three names or details, etc. The three things can take up all three lines, or be contained anywhere in the stanza.

– Three more lines that contain an element of three (can relate to stanza one directly, as a juxtaposition, or have no connection whatsoever).

– Final line: a punchline, strange twist, narrative summary, or punctuation mark, of sorts.

No particular rhyme, rhythm or meter are required. Titles are also not required. If you do decide to title it, the title should be “Sevenling:” followed by the first few words in parentheses. The tone should be mysterious, offbeat, or disturbing, and the poem should have an atmosphere that invites guesswork from the reader.

Stop History Repeating

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Sunday morning was not some knuckle head popping off a couple of rounds in drunken celebration, but an intentional act to eradicate as many people as possible in a club of smiling, happy, dancing people for no other reason than the patronage of Pulse, where Sunday’s massacre happened, are known to be gay. It’s no coincidence Mateen’s attack took place where it did and when it did, he had been there before and knew he would find a lot of people there.

That he was on a federal watch list yet was able to purchase his assault rifle and handgun legally. This post is not about gun control. This nation still argues over the accessibility of guns and I will leave that there with them.

On its website, Pulse, describes itself as “a place of fun and fantasy.” It was anything but as Omar Siddiqui Mateen killed at least 50 people and wounded 53 others in what is the deadliest mass shooting in US history.  We have a history of attacks against the gay community – Roanoke, VA 2000, Atlanta 1997, New Orleans 1973, Stonewall 1969 – those are the major news making events, but there are countless others; some make the headlines, but the majority of the day-to-day-to-day conflicts do not.

The news reports are quick to report Omar Siddiqui Mateen’s Islamic ties; but his religion had nothing to do with his actions. They also report how he was born in New York – as though that should automatically negate his potential to hate gays; I wish. Omar’s father is quoted as saying he was shocked and saddened to learn that his only son is behind the carnage at Pulse. He does not believe his son was radicalized. Apparently, the final straw for Omar Mateen was walking along the street and seeing two men kissing.  So whether Mateen’s killings were a product of religious leanings or abject homophobia it is undeniably a hate crime. And that is where history repeats itself anew.

We repeat these histories through the generations in finding different ways to spread the same hates. Not always recognizing it for what it is until the damage is done. Still we try to do better. And for the most part we do succeed. It is why when the horrible things such as Orlando happen we do recognize it for what it is. We know that this is not our norm and we can/should do better.

That this attack occurs at a time when the country is celebrating LGBT Pride month, is another twist of the dagger in the collective hearts of those of us who mourn for Orlando.  In the wake of this, it’s a given LGBT venues across the country will be tightening their security in preparation for Pride celebrations.

While Mateen’s killing spree was focused on the LGBT community, it affects us all because what he did attacks what we hold most dear – the right to live freely, the right to live openly.  The right to go out and party without fear is a pursuit of happiness.

Whether one believes that the LGBT community is sinning against God or believes that people love who they love and it’s all good is not at the issue here.  Agree or disagree, that is fine.  We don’t have to like it, but we don’t need to hate it.

Omar Siddiqui Mateen damn sure did not need to repeat history, hating it to the point that he felt the only recourse is to murder these people:

Stanley Almodovar III, 23 years old
Amanda Alvear, 25 years old
Oscar A Aracena-Montero, 26 years old
Rodolfo Ayala-Ayala, 33 years old
Antonio Davon Brown, 29 years old
Darryl Roman Burt II, 29 years old
Angel L. Candelario-Padro, 28 years old
Juan Chevez-Martinez, 25 years old
Luis Daniel Conde, 39 years old
Cory James Connell, 21 years old
Tevin Eugene Crosby, 25 years old
Deonka Deidra Drayton, 32 years old
Simon Adrian Carrillo Fernandez, 31 years old
Leroy Valentin Fernandez, 25 years old
Mercedez Marisol Flores, 26 years old
Peter O. Gonzalez-Cruz, 22 years old
Juan Ramon Guerrero, 22 years old
Paul Terrell Henry, 41 years old
Frank Hernandez, 27 years old
Miguel Angel Honorato, 30 years old
Javier Jorge-Reyes, 40 years old
Jason Benjamin Josaphat, 19 years old
Eddie Jamoldroy Justice, 30 years old
Anthony Luis Laureanodisla, 25 years old
Christopher Andrew Leinonen, 32 years old
Alejandro Barrios Martinez, 21 years old
Brenda Lee Marquez McCool, 49 years old
Gilberto Ramon Silva Menendez, 25 years old
Kimberly Morris, 37 years old
Akyra Monet Murray, 18 years old
Luis Omar Ocasio-Capo, 20 years old
Geraldo A. Ortiz-Jimenez, 25 years old
Eric Ivan Ortiz-Rivera, 36 years old
Joel Rayon Paniagua, 32 years old
Jean Carlos Mendez Perez, 35 years old
Enrique L. Rios, Jr., 25 years old
Jean C. Nives Rodriguez, 27 years old
Xavier Emmanuel Serrano Rosado, 35 years old
Christopher Joseph Sanfeliz, 24 years old
Yilmary Rodriguez Solivan, 24 years old
Edward Sotomayor Jr., 34 years old
Shane Evan Tomlinson, 33 years old
Martin Benitez Torres, 33 years old
Jonathan Antonio Camuy Vega, 24 years old
Juan P. Rivera Velazquez, 37 years old
Luis S. Vielma, 22 years old
Franky Jimmy Dejesus Velazquez, 50 years old
Luis Daniel Wilson-Leon, 37 years old
Jerald Arthur Wright, 31 years old

#SayTheirName

“They are more than a list of names. They are people who loved and who were loved.”
— Anderson Cooper

“Love is love is love is love is love,
and love cannot be killed or swept aside.
Fill the world with music, love and pride.”

— Lin-Manuel Miranda

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#LOVEisLOVEisLOVEisLOVE

sol
Slice of Life Writing Challenge | Two Writing Teachers

Makes Me Want To Holler – Again

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zimmermanGeorge Zimmerman puts gun that killed Trayvon Martin up for auction

“I am honored and humbled to announce the sale of an American Firearm Icon,” Zimmerman wrote in his online description of the weapon.

Are you fucking kidding me?!

This man used that gun to take a child’s life. Clearly Zimmerman’s only remorse is the infamy the trial has awarded him because of it. And in case you miss my sarcasm, he has no remorse.

Every time I hear Zimmerman’s name I have to beg forgiveness for the thoughts that come into my mind.  The idea that someone will bid on it, will actually buy it – I cannot begin to express the rage that fills me anew right now.  I wonder what the jury that acquitted him must feel of their decision in light of this bullshit.

When people say Karma will get him, I generally nod in agreement. However, days like this, my faith in Karma and her twisted shenanigans wavers greatly and I doubt whether I will ever see that happen.  Should I be so lucky, I am not going to lie – schadenfreude will be on full force that day.

I also cannot help, but think that was Trayvon Martin a white teen, that Zimmerman would be seen as a Hispanic thug killing innocent kids in a family oriented community. Alas, a white man “defending himself” is how it goes down in the official records. Situations like this reinforce the idea of how little a black life is worth in some eyes, how Zimmerman’s auction devalues Martin’s life even further, to the point of blatant mockery.

What profit’s a man indeed.

The fact that Zimmerman is walking around a free man doing this. Yes, he’s an American. Yes, he is well within his rights to do this.

To the person who purchases it – if your intent is anything other than to destroy the gun so no one else will profit off Trayvon Martin’s life – you are par of the problem.

I wonder what the general mood would be if O.J. Simpson auctioned off the infamous glove.

 

Policing the Uterus

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http://www.nbcnews.com/news/asian-america/indiana-has-now-charged-two-asian-american-women-feticide-n332761

I literally saw red as I examined the above article.  I felt my blood pressure spike at the thought of this. I mean are you fucking kidding me?!?!

Granted laws make exceptions for when a woman has a miscarriage–but only if there is no human intervention involved. Had it not been for the shame of pregnancy, Ms. Patel did not receive professional medical attention until after the miscarriage occurred, and her situation grew dire, she likely would not be facing jail time.  The shame of the pregnancy kept her silent, that silence meant when she realized she was in the midst of a miscarriage, she tried to hide it. Her trying to hide it snowballed in this craziness here.

Because the Uterine Police, not just the law, also investigates miscarriages, and whether in a hospital or without medical assistance, it must be reported and a fetal death certificate issued. If the cause of death is unknown, it must be investigated.  If the woman can’t, or won’t, tell how it happened, then the Uterine Police can ask family members and friends how.

Even if a woman has made a decision to abort, but miscarries before she can act on that decision, experiences some heartbreak.  There is no best of circumstances for a miscarriage, it rends. Now imagine going through that physical trauma and then having the Uterine Police interrogating your family, your friends and maybe even your colleagues trying to dig up dirt to punish you for it. Because in this increasing culture of “Better the mother dead, than the fetus” not all states will recognize a woman choosing to save her own life when the fetus she is carrying can very likely kill her, such as the case with some ectopic pregnancies, as valid.

The Uterine Police will search your computer, your internet history, your online purchases to use it against you if it can.  Just ask Ms. Patel.

It is not a coincidence that this has happened to two Asian-american women. Their conservative culture making them easy prey for those in the Uterine Police, who could not care less about their right to their own bodies, let alone their right to privacy. They needed scapegoats to make examples out of and these two women fit the bill. And let’s call a spade, a spade here. This likely would never have happened to a white female.  Yet even that is rendered near irrelevant in this.

Because once again, this is mostly men, (ab)using the law, using their personal ideologies to control every woman’s uterus.

Every session someone tries to introduce a bill that would outright make abortion a criminal act.

This bullshit here is one step closer to it.

Those Things That Are Expected

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One
Day
Perhaps
When I’m sage
The old rocking chair
May have a place in my life when
I have gray hairs and the wrinkles aplenty you know
Those things that are expected then
Once I reach that stage
When I’m more
At still
Yeah
But
But
Right now
It is such
A long way off from
Those things that are expected then
For they most certainly do not apply to me now
Wherein the only things that rock
Are my jewelry
My music
And of
Course
Me

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napo2016button1
National Poetry Writing Month 2016 – Day 6

Today’s form adds up to the Fibonacci Spiral

The Fibonacci Poem, or Fib Poem for short, is a single stanza poem based on the first 7 numbers of the Fibonacci sequence 1,1,2,3,5,8,13. The first and second lines are one syllable, the third line two syllables, the fourth line three syllables and so forth following the Fibonacci sequence. It traditionally ends at seven lines (13 syllables), but some have taken it longer following the sequence.

The Fibonacci Spiral poem is a more structured poem with two stanzas.

The 1st stanza has 13 lines, the 2nd stanza has 12 lines. The last line of your first stanza is repeated to become the first line of your second stanza with no gap between stanzas. Repeat the syllable count to form the spiral for a total 25 lines altogether. If this confuses you just look below.

The syllable counts must be as follows:

stanza 1
1st line – 1 syllable
2nd line – 1 syllable
3rd line – 2 syllables
4th line -3 syllables
5th line -5 syllables
6th line -8 syllables
7th line -13 syllables
8th line -8 syllables
9th line -5 syllables
10th line – 3 syllables
11th line – 2 syllables
12th line – 1 syllable (word must be at least 4 letters)
13th line – 1 syllable
stanza 2 (remember there is no space between the two stanza)
14th line -1 syllables
15th line -2 syllables
16th line -3 syllables
17th line -5 syllables
18th line -8 syllables
19th line -13 syllables
20th line -8 syllables
21st line -5 syllables
22nd line – 3 syllables
23rd line – 2 syllables
24th line – 1 syllable
25th line – 1 syllable

The poem should be Centered.

Spring My Aunt Susy’s Satchel

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In winter people complain about the cold.  The deeper in winter it gets, the more people complain. It’s a given. However, there comes a point in winter, usually around Ground Hog Day, where I find myself complaining about those complaining.

It’s winter, it’s cold – uh hello – it’s WINTER – that’s what it does – get cold – duh!

Still, by mid-March I am just as happy as everyone else at the hope of spring being mere days away. And while the First Day of Spring brought light snow, and temperatures during the first week fluctuated wildly, we finally had our hopes of warming climes substantiated when last Friday came in all nice and cozy. Friday was also April 1st, a.k.a. April Fool’s Day and the joke was certainly on us.

The temps have steadily decreased from the oh so loverly 78 degrees of Friday to the whopping 43 degrees high expected for today.  I mean really now. By the time I walked in to work you could have easily convinced me that we somehow went back a month in time. The 30+ degree wind chill that greeted me this morning was just mean. Singing “Baby It’s Cold Outside” in April ain’t cool y’all. I was all set to hang up my winter coat for the next six months and this happens.  Clearly Ol’ Man Winter and the March Lion have not received their official GTFO memo from Demeter. Seriously, chick – hop to it already!

Yes, the deities of mythology and I tend to have major conversations when the weather is adverse to what is expected. Those of you who follow my blog may have already read posts referencing Ol’ Winter, the March Lion and Lamb, and Persephone and Demeter. Suffice it to say all of them had a major talking to from me this morning! From what I can read from my scattered friends online these past couple of days, very few of us in the upper parts of this North American hemisphere are happy with those fickle deities and weather personifications shenanigans.

I apologize immensely for all of you who suffer from allergies, but I am so ready for the annual floral orgy. When I start hearing the masses of you discuss (ahem- whine/complain/grumble -ahem) about your struggles I will know for sure that spring has arrived truly and is hanging around to stay, because right now my Facebook says this:

spring my

And I think that says it all.

By the way I don’t have an Aunt Susy – let alone her satchel.

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Let’s see how my fellow slicers are holding it up this week:

sol

Slice of Life Tuesdays | Two Writing Teachers

Our Father’s Time

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Finding the world in the smallness of a grain of sand
And holding infinities in the palm of your hand
And Heaven’s realms in the seedlings of this tiny flower
And eternities in the space of a single hour
Gordon Sumner | Send Your Love

I think hard when I scoff at life’s demand
Can I comprehend all that He has planned?
Can you? Do you even dare to ask?
It’s mighty and daunting task
It’s beyond anything that man can understand
Finding the world in the smallness of a grain of sand 

For what’s a hundred years of a life spanned
When on the very edge of time You can stand
We mere mortal like Luna simply wax and wane
With only trite things called words to explain
All the power and glory that is Yours to command
And holding infinities in the palm of Your hand 

As I glimpse the fleeting rainbow after a shower
I’m reminded that He is the Ultimate Plower
For the seasons cater only to One whim
Over galaxies that are but gardens to Him
In the palm of His hand yes the Heavens tower
And Heaven’s realms in the seedlings of this tiny flower

Oh the magnificence of The Father – Our
Time immemorial is but a page for Him to scour
It’s long past when Mother Nature’s blue eyes close
And beyond a phase even Father Time knows
For infinity’s but an instant for Him to devour
And eternities in the space of a single hour

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Feeling some Gordon Sumner (a.k.a. Sting) lyrics  in  modified Glosa form.

dverse
dVerse ~Poets Pub | OpenLinkNight #169

Minus One

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Two children – a boy and a girl are born seven  months apart. Their respective mothers  were good friends and neighbors a few houses apart. The kids grew up through grade school together, racking each other up, ratting each other out in turns, as kids are wont to do. Forced together due to their parents, a friendship that was sometimes rebelled, sometimes rejoiced, slowly forged as times  goes by.  If they were not in each other’s company, the running joke throughout growing up was they were invariably asked “Aren’t you minus one?”

Daughter: Mama, how did Daddy propose?

Mother: I had started dating Robbie Matthews and when it looked like it might be getting serious it pissed your daddy right off.  How dare I start to fall in love with someone else because he was taking too long? So few days before he is set off to war he shows up for dinner. And as we always went back and forth between his mama’s house and ours we thought nothing of it. He says almost nothing to me the whole meal, a dozen people in the house, it was normal – thought nothing of it. When he, your grandfather and your uncles go off as Mama, Sissy and I clean up – again thought nothing of it. A spell later he walks into the kitchen as I’m drying dishes and tosses something shiny at me. While I scramble to catch it he says “Listen you, so you know I’m heading out on Tuesday. I just done asked your daddy, so put this dang ring on ’cause you know I’m minus one without you and if I ain’t coming back to you, I ain’t coming back. I’m not having it.”  He then turns on his heel and starts walking out the door.  

Daughter: Daddy!

Father: Please! She threw a spoon so hard at the back of my head I nearly tripped. The whole time yelling “And you better come back to me ’cause I’m not gonna be minus one either – you hear me you bastard? Come back to me – I’m not having it!”  In front of her own mama nonetheless! So I picked up the spoon and brought it back to her, got down on one knee, put the ring on her finger, got my kiss and walked out.

He heard her.

It took a few decades, but that same boy and girl build, and live, a long life through a war, a marriage, a house, children, a move from rural to city life, more children and then grand children together.  It wasn’t always easy as they tried and survived each vow, comfort – honor – richer –  poorer – sickness – health. Yet other than the years he served the navy, they were rarely more than a week apart from each other.

Then one morning the boy woke up.

And the girl didn’t.

They had known each other since babies. Nine decades in this world together and for the first time in his life he walked on an earth without her in it.

Two mornings later he joined her.

I was within earshot when his youngest daughter rhetorically asked how he could pass in his sleep two days after his wife. I had the answer:

“He was minus one without her. He wasn’t having it.”

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At the next to the last funeral this week, this was the story I told, more or less, before reading the official obituary.

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It’s Friday – it’s Good Friday – let’s see what’s slicing for this holy weekend…

sol
Slice of Life Writing Challenge Day 25 | Two Writing Teachers

#JeSuisBrussels

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The attacks in Brussels, like the attacks in Paris strike a chord the world over. As a commuter the subway attack in particular frightens me.

One of the several pet names for my hometown is City of Bridges.  Most know at least two of the six major bridges, the George Washington,  Robert F. Kennedy, Edward I. Koch, Williamsburg, Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges.  What most people don’t know or think about, including my fellow denizens, is that for all of those bridges that rise over the waterways, only a couple of them have trains. That means buried deep in the ground under those same waterways are the tunnels of the NYC subway lines.  Thus my daily work commute involves crossing a river at two different points each morning and each  evening.  That’s four times a day a large body of water is above my head. And there but for the Grace, go I. As a person who does not know how to swim, I try very hard to not think about those times when my train is underwater. Thus why when I hear of attacks on subways, a part of me gets frightened.

Even if the terrorists strike on land, what is there to stop the tremors of the impact from  travelling down the length of said tunnel and causing the crack. The small unseen, unassuming crack that becomes the leak, that becomes the gushing river suddenly filling the tunnel faster than my non-swimming legs can run for it. If you have seen the 90’s movie Daylight, with Sylvester Stallone, that is my not-so-secret-nightmare.

Luckily, my lifelong New Yorker status, and my ability to mentally block things I can do nothing about enables me to travel to and fro in peace without (much) of a worry for such things.

Then Brussels happens, so far away physically and yet so close today …

My thoughts go out to the 30+ confirmed deceased, the many more wounded and the countless now scared the globe over as countries debate whether to elevate security threat  levels.

And for a moment my thoughts go to the train I need to take home this evening.

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Let’s go check out my fellow slicers:

sol

Day 22 of the 9th Annual Slice of Life Story Challenge!  

 

Just Enough

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Because I over book myself on occasion and this is one of them, I know if I do not post now it will not happen and that will have to be just enough…

I pray you have just enough sun
        to keep your attitude bright no matter how gray the  day  may appear.
I pray you have just enough rain
        to appreciate the  sun  even more.
I pray you have  just enough happiness
        to keep your spirit  alive and everlasting.
I pray you have  just enough pain
        so that even the smallest of joys in life may appear  bigger.
I pray you have  just enough gain
        to satisfy your  wanting.
I pray you have  just enough loss
        to appreciate  all  that  you possess.
I pray you have  just enough hellos
        to get  you  through  the final good-bye.
I pray you have  just enough of everything you need
        so you never know the feeling of having nothing.

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I pray you have more than enough of an enjoyable weekend!

sol

Slice of Life Writing Challenge Day 18 – Two Writing Teachers