Weekend miscellany

Someone texturized the ceiling of my bedroom with plaster.

Which color of ink would I use if I wrote this sentence by hand?

I read about healing and chakras today after a friend wrote me a note asking about chakras.

I intoned the vowel sounds, a, e, i, o, u….this is not IPA.

i did two loads of laundry, emptied the dishwasher, filled the dishwasher, scrubbed down the kitchen counters, listened to the birds and crickets, went out on the deck and admired the white wisp of clouds stretched out against blue azure, caught up on the weeks tv season premieres, and looked for books that I missed.

I thought about my health as I recovered from exercises for my underutilized legs and grieved for the ease of neck movement now of days nearly forgotten. My right shoulder decides to remind me that it still exists.

I listened to the CD my sister so thoughtfully sent to me for my bday.

i tried to listen to the news and then asked, why?

I read poems written by a friend of a friend and decided to make this list.

Goodnight, sweet William, wherever you are.

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World Poetry Day

How curious, today is World Poetry Day…this was declared by the UN in 1999! Very funny. Every day is pretty much poetry day for me. Here is a short poem by Richard Wright, who wrote many haiku. Published a whole book of them actually…which I purchased and seem to have loaned to someone. So, here are two that I was able to find and like ever so. #readwritespeakthinkseepoetrynow 

I am nobody:
A red sinking autumn sun
Took my name away.

A sleepless spring night:
Yearning for what I never had
And for what never was.

-Richard Wright, from “Haiku: This Other World,” by Richard Wright
(Arcade, 1998)

Inaugural Poem – “One Today”

Inaugural Poem – “One Today”

The Inaugural Poem. 

Read by the poet, January 21, 2013

“One Today”

-Richard Blanco

One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,
peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces
of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth
across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.
One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story
told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.

My face, your face, millions of faces in morning’s mirrors,
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:
pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,
fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows
begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper—
bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,
on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives—
to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did
for twenty years, so I could write this poem.

All of us as vital as the one light we move through,
the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day:
equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,
the “I have a dream” we keep dreaming,
or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won’t explain
the empty desks of twenty children marked absent
today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light
breathing color into stained glass windows,
life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth
onto the steps of our museums and park benches
as mothers watch children slide into the day.

One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk
of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat
and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills
in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands
digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands
as worn as my father’s cutting sugarcane
so my brother and I could have books and shoes.

The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains
mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it
through the day’s gorgeous din of honking cabs,
buses launching down avenues, the symphony
of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways,
the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.

Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,
or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open
for each other all day, saying: hello, shalom,
buon giorno, howdy, namaste, or buenos días
in the language my mother taught me—in every language
spoken into one wind carrying our lives
without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.

One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed
their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked
their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands:
weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report
for the boss on time, stitching another wound
or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,
or the last floor on the Freedom Tower
jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.

One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes
tired from work: some days guessing at the weather
of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love
that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother
who knew how to give, or forgiving a father
who couldn’t give what you wanted.

We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight
of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always—home,
always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon
like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop
and every window, of one country—all of us—
facing the stars
hope—a new constellation
waiting for us to map it,
waiting for us to name it—together.

And with that, the first immigrant, first Latino, the first openly gay person and the youngest ever chosen became the U.S. inaugural poet.