Nails and Magnets

I have a 'date' tonight and I'm ambiguous.  Not about the guy, about the process.  My last relationship ended four years ago, and it has been a drought ever since.  No asks, no on-line perusing.  I've long ago stopped looking at left hands for tell-tale signs of singlehood or the dreadful alternative.  Oh, that sounds bitter.  Maybe that is because I enjoy being a table for one.  A single gal in a seemingly double world.

But there is a guy who came into my magnetic field a couple of years ago.  He was in my memoir class.  This class meets for eight-week segments, albeit sporadically.  We are a casual crowd of writers.  We write and share details of our lives and recent adventures with relatively perfect strangers.  I am very used to that.  I sit in church basements and meeting rooms three times a week and do practically the same thing.  It's called Al-Anon.

From his looks and his words, I could infer he is a real western gentleman.  Rugged. Outdoorsy.  Handsome.  Flannel or western shirts and boots.  Yep.  Boots.  That footwear I can no longer tolerate due to rheumatoid arthritis.  But damn, they look good at the end of his Wranglers.  He recited a piece on rafting some river and that confirmed it.  He is a west of the Mississippi kind of guy.  A Coloradoan.  Maybe a rare breed.

One day in yoga at my local rec center he showed up.  Now I was intrigued.  A writer and a yogi?  Someone who wouldn't pooh-pooh my literary efforts as frivolous or depressing.  (My poetry is a tad dark) A man who I could perhaps share that part of my life with?  This was an awful lot to think about just moments before downward dog and savasana, so I turned back to the teacher and paid attention.  After all, yoga is about me and my mat.  Not about me and my overactive imagination and fantasies and the guy in the back of the room.

That was a while ago, but I remember a hug and expressions of surprise that we both lived in proximity to the rec center.  I allowed a bit of heart softening and then he stopped going to memoir class.  I stopped seeing him at yoga.  I let it go.  Not meant to be, and all those other cliché sayings hanging on therapist's walls everywhere.

He did however share a nice poem he had written with me via e-mail.  I am the self-proclaimed poetess of our memoir class.  It was a great ditty about horses and riding, and bandanas and petrichor. Remember that word: Petrichor. I looked it up and it means the sweet smell of the earth after a rain. A great word, perhaps even a romantic use of language by the poet.  I gave a bit of feedback and off to the ranch he went for several summery weeks.  I am not kidding.  Did I say he was a dude?

A year and half goes by and nada.  Nothing.  I don't see him much and communique via e-mail has ceased.  No exchanging of poems.  Nil.  It's OK.  He is handsome but if I had a hat I wouldn't hang it on a guy anyway.  Then he reappears at memoir and I must admit, I felt a bit of pitter-patter.  At this age, it could have been A-Fib, but I'm going with the emotional heart symptom.  He comes up to me after class and tells me he liked my reading.  Yep, its a pitter-patter.  He also tells me I seem stressed, which is an accurate assessment of my life at that moment.  I am further impressed at his intuition and sensitivity. Nonetheless we part ways.

A few weeks later the word petrichor appears in my Merriam-Webster word of the day email.  That was a word I didn't know existed before this cowboy sent me his poem.  I take it as a sign to reach out to the wrangler.  I forward the email and tell him seeing the word petrichor in my email had me thinking of him.  I struck a lode.  He replies and I reply and we are actually having an electronic conversation.  A few emails later and we have agreed to see an improv show at the Mercury on an upcoming Friday evening. Tonight.

I share a couple of my newer poems with this man and he responds with thoughtful comments.  Here's an excerpt of one of the e-mailed poems:

My poetry.  Nothing more than a vessel

Holding my heart full of nails

Jagged words

His reply hints that I should be careful getting to close to a magnet.  Hmm.  Maybe a little pull on my heart would be good for my soul.  I am definitely interested.  He's nice looking and nice.  I am beginning to think he is either introverted or shy.  I wonder if the first move will be in my court for anything to progress.  I am a pretty forward person in many arenas, but to put myself out there to pursue a guy?  I'm not too sure about that.  Don't men chase women?  What year is it?  Do I have the energy to do anything about this?  Am I being open, honest and willing?

Meeting 'organically' as such is a delight that has drawbacks.  Without filling out an on-line profile the excavation of information could be a long archeological dig.  Coffee or tea?  Age, religion. political affiliation, job history...  I know he has a daughter and two grandbabies. He has a woodshop in his garage (I divorced my husband to reclaim an indoor parking spot), and drives a truck. He lives pretty close-by.  That's about it.

Will our 'date' to an improv show be a series of small talk snippets?  Will we connect in a way that the conversation and the silences are equally comfortable?  Will he drink and then want to drive - compelling me to call an UBER and never see him again?

Here is what I would want a man to know about me before diving into my pool.  I have RA and it can be limiting, but I do my best to lead a full life.  I am a cynic, a skeptic and sarcastic.  I am quick witted and can be sharp tongued, but also know when to hold back.  I love my kids and grandkids more than anything - I do much for them - and that isn't likely to change.

I love to exercise and take long walks, but I amble slowly.  I don't mind if my hiking companion goes ahead of me and circles back every once in a while.  I stop to look at bugs and hug trees and talk to little kids.  I am a dog person, but am happy to not have the responsibility of having one in my home.  I can pass on cats and birds confined to cages.

I am a vegetarian and a great cook.  If a way to a man's heart is through his stomach, I should have arrived long ago.  I don't comment on other's food choices, and won't tolerate judgement about mine.  I like coffee and tea.  I am politically left, but not so far as to fall off a cliff.  I'm retired and want to stay that way, so I am not paying for a guy's way to anything.  Let's 'Go Dutch' is fine by me.  Spontaneously treating me is a bonus point for manners and old-fashioned traditions.

I don't celebrate gift-giving by a calendar.  I may forget it is Christmas but buy you something I see at a random time.  I like small, thoughtful gifts.  Never buy me jewelry.  Books are great.  So are funky socks.  My next birthday is a milestone.  I'll let you know if my thoughts on gift giving change this coming year.

I think Starbucks is ridiculous. So is avocado toast.  I volunteer sporadically and am generous to causes I think do good works.  I am a compassionate friend, but at the same time find myself liking people in general a bit less as the years go by.

My parents are dead, my siblings do not live close, my kids don't mind my business.  I stay on my side of the street, try to keep my front porch clean and like to live and let live.  I go to Al-Anon two or three times per week.  It is my religion, my spirituality, my therapy, my fellowship.  Just don't ask me anybody's last name.

I like to be on my schedule, but am willing to flex.  I respect alone time.  Mine and others.  I try not to gossip.  I write a lot of poetry.  I spend much of my day typing, tapping, texting, and transmitting.  Anything someone says or does may appear in a blog.  Maybe this guy deserves a heads-up in that department.  I'm already doing it and we haven't even gone out yet!

Back to magnets and nails in my heart and attraction and softening...  Let's see how tonight goes.


Time to Write,

Jane

I Miss You

I'm doing what I can to not morph into a couch potato during the pandemic.  My addiction is food, and I could (and sometimes do) spend all day on my chair; the Denver Post, books and magazines strewn on the ottoman.  To counteract the bon-bon temptation, I have a routine that I adhere to on a daily basis.

Each day I write morning pages or do the crossword puzzles in the paper.  I am beyond grateful to Buddy who plops the Post on my porch each morning.  I know his name and address because every year around this time he slips a thank you note into the paper and in return I mail him a holiday card with a check enclosed.  I firmly believe everyone should be dependent on tips at least once in their working lives.  The perspective gained will increase your generosity and compassion to those who rely on our kindness.  Nothing bugs me more than being out to lunch - remember those days? - and my companion griping about the service when they've never balanced a cocktail tray or burnt their fingers on a smoking hot plate.  All with a smile and a yes ma'am. 

I thought I would miss the library more than I do.  The stacks of books I've hoarded over the past few years have been dusted off.  I'm becoming an armchair expert in mindfulness, pop psychology and Judaism.  There is a good chance I could go a couple of more years before running out of reading material.  For the past five years I did depend upon the public library to be my document printer.  For a mere ten cents per page I didn't have to make room for a machine, buy ink and unstick paper jams.  But COVID changed all that and HP came to the rescue with a unit that only cost a Ben Franklin, with cartridges being delivered as needed to my doorstep.  Just another reason to stay inside.

The gym...  what can I say about my 14-year love affair with the YMCA?  When I was in the throes of my divorce, I had a choice; drink copiously or start working out.  I chose the latter and proceeded to lose my ass and then I shed 50 pounds!  Instead of bar hopping on a Friday night, I found myself swimming laps in the chilly pool of the Colorado Springs Downtown Y.  When I started three laps seemed an eternity - but the reward of a leisurely steam amplified my efforts.  I miss my thrice weekly dips.  I've even written a poem about how I equate a natatorium to church:  (no need to be impressed - I write about the mundane and the miraculous all the time)

Neptune’s Nepenthe

 

Sunday morning

Church of Poseidon

Strive for that mile

Feels good to dive right in

 

God in the aqua

Surrounding my soul

Eases my body

Help me be whole

 

Underwater worship

Lane divider as pew

My kind of religion

Aquatic venue

Breathe, hold, release

Do it again

Head in the water

Feet in my fins

 

Neptune’s nepenthe

Three times per week

I can listen in water

I can hear my God speak

Another component of my daily routine is land exercise.  I enjoy yoga, dancing Nia, mat Pilates and walks around the neighborhood.  Luckily, I only live ten minutes from Little Dry Creek trail which hooks up to the Highline Canal, a 71-mile trail that begins at Waterton Canyon and terminates near Denver International Airport.  No need to get in my car and burn gas in order to burn calories.  Getting out in nature, albeit an urban oasis, is good for my soul.  I envy my friends who go into the foothills and hike in a Denver Mountain Park or JeffCo Open Space.  Either they are braver than moi when it comes to public bathrooms and port-o-potties or they do way more Kegels than I willing to commit to in these post-menopausal years.  I have a one-hour time limit to be out of the house these days.  The only limitation to outdoor adventures is my bladder.  

I suppose what I am saying is that adaptability may be the key to survival during the mismanaged mess the country (and world, to be fair) finds itself in.  For years I've told my offspring that flexible people rarely get bent out of shape.  Maybe that's an inside yoga joke, or maybe it is true.  I try to go with the flow most days - swimming against the current is too hard and I simply don't have the energy for confrontation anymore.

I could lament about all the activities that are off limits - museums, galleries, concerts, in-person Al-Anon meetings - or I can radically accept that this is life in the present moment.  The here and now.  One helpful, at home, by myself activity that I have consistently engaged with the last several months is meditation.  Each day I sit for fifteen minutes or so and am guided by a gentle, watery voice through these stormy days and tumultuous seas.  It is calming.  It has lowered my blood pressure.  It gives me something to do for one-quarter of an hour. A few years back I stumbled into Mayu Meditation Sanctuary and despite not living nearby I invested in a membership because it resonated with me.  This 'calm in the city' facility has since closed, another victim of the times.  The meditative footbaths were my favorite part and I suppose I can attempt to duplicate that at home.  But some things are best left as a warm memory, so for now I will pass on the reenactment.  I also purchased a 31-day meditation and writing prompt program that I listen to and then pen a poem or some sentences.  

The renewal notices still come in the mail.  Denver Botanic Gardens and The Denver Museum of Nature and History to name just two,  Last fall, before the pandemic, I had already decided to let some memberships lapse and concentrate my efforts and donations on literary efforts.  So, I steadfastly maintain my status with Poetry Society of Colorado, Poetry West, Lighthouse Writers Workshop and most recently Grub Street.   Now I look at these other pleas for continued support and vacillate between not knowing if I will ever enjoy their offerings again and the possible demise of important cultural institutions.  Should I, or shouldn't I?  I am sure many of us have these same thoughts.  In some ways my charitable giving has increased, especially to Jewish based local organizations.  This is an important area of my life that deserves focus and thoughtful consideration.

Many years ago, my then husband gave me a fridge magnet that read "Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most".  It made its way into the trash as soon as his head was turned.  I took it as his passive-aggressive way to let me know he thought I was 'crazy'.  And maybe I was.  A working mom of three with an obviously dispassionate mate.  If I had that magnet now it might be displayed on the refrigerator alongside photos of grands, wry comics and random recipes.  But is it true?  During COVID is my mind what I really miss?  I've taken many positive steps to keep my sanity during these uncertain, stressful days.  I Zoom into Al-Anon two times per week.  I reach out to friends through phone calls and note cards.  I've already mentioned meditating.  I also video chat with a therapist every ten days or so.

Let me reframe that quote.  "Of all the things I've lost, (due to COVID) I miss people!".  Especially those of you who take the time to read my blogs and poetry.  Thank you for letting me pour my heart out - it means everything to me.  I still have my rose-colored glasses and I hold on to the hope that there are better days ahead.  So, until I can have lunch or a walk with you, or until I can hop on a plane and visit...  Until I can exhale and you can inhale and I can inhale and you can exhale - together, unmasked and safely - know this:  Thanks for being a part of my life.  L'Chaim!

(Now I just need to get off the couch and stay away from bon-bons!)

Time to Write,

Jane

 

 

111 Days.

Apologies to my blog.  I've ignored you most of 2020.  That is not to say I have not been writing.  I was and I am!  In April I participated in a poem-a-day challenge to celebrate National Poetry Month.  Indeed, I wrote every day and did post some of the (hopefully) better ones to my FB page.  May brought me to a daily meditation/writing prompt program that I purchased on-line.  I did not diligently write each day, but the program is mine (and the clouds) to keep, so I can tune in and write whenever I like.  Also in the beginning of Q, one of my favorite yoga teachers invited me to a 21 day meditation challenge which included non-creative writes.  So, all in all, I can reflect and say YES!  I have indeed been writing.

Now we are at the end of June.  This month was LitFest, presented by Lighthouse Writers Workshop.  This year the festival was delivered via Zoom.  Initially I was hesitant to plunk my money down to stay at home; shouldn't they be offering a whopping special since I won't be using their electricity and toilet paper. (no longer a hot commodity, but still a necessity!)  Something I knew, but confirmed in Q is that whatever I resist, I should embrace.  I have a tablet and always thought that I was a hard book in hand kind of reader.  But with libraries closed and my personal collection being almost exclusively non-fiction, I took the leap, downloaded Hoopla and am giving e-reading a try.

A while back Nia, my preferred exercise and dance practice, launched NiaTV.  Here again, I was of the ilk that I don't need to watch a video in order to dance.  I go to the Y.  I love my teachers and fellow dancers so much I've written poetry and prose about them.  Now, unable to go to the Y, and with Nia HQ offering a free trial, I took the leap (arabesque?) and signed up.  My morning routine consists of a warm-up by moving furniture around to create a space in my living room to jazz-square, cross-front and shimmy.  Plus I enjoy a few unexpected bonuses, one being I can dance on demand and the other is dancing on carpet is sooo much easier on my knees.  Who knew?

For me, a routine is a component of my sanity.  Thus, each day looks pretty much the same.  Coffee and a morning write, often on my front porch, no matter the weather.  Exercise to the TV - yes TV - because I figured out how to duplicate my laptop screen onto the TV.  No squinting!  And since Nia includes Floorplay, and yoga is up and down (kind of like temple/church) I can put my laptop on the floor and never strain my neck to see what I am supposed to be doing. 

Before I know it, two meals under my stretchy yoga pant waistband, it is afternoon.  More reading, maybe some mindless TV, or an Al-Anon meeting, a phone chat or two, more writing....  you get the picture.  Somehow the day passes, nighttime falls, and then I get to wake up and do it all, or nothing,  again.

Occasionally I sneak in a trip up the highway to see the kids and grands.  But with everyone going back to work, this is going to become less frequent and more heartbreaking.  I'm in a double risk category and take the cautions to Q seriously.  As my mom would have said "this too shall pass".  Yes it will.  When?

So blog...  I am back.  I will endeavor to fill some pages, if for no other reason then to document these difficult times.  And to process the range of emotions I roller-coaster on a daily basis.

Time to Write,

Jane

Almost One

If you popped over here from Facebook - thank you!  I couldn't format on that platform and this short piece has a message  - a hint if you will - to the subject matter of the poem. 

Almost One

...but still I have this
Dilemma.  Where is the box
Big enough to hold my grief

How do I seek
Nepenthe.  Magic potion
Elixir.  Cocktail of
Altered consciousness

Where is relief
Easing of heartache
Soothing of pain
Smoothness of emotion

Schoolchildren should never be
Concerned with two things
Being hungry and being shot
Moms raise babies.  Not targets

…but still I have this quandary
Where is the box to
Banish bereavement
Expel maternal anxiety

The Power of Poetry

Travelling is not the joy I remember it being when I was a child.  Back in the sixties we took a family trip from New York to Miami, Fl.  This was my first time on an airplane, and boy was I excited!  I even remember the mustard yellow skirt and sweater set I wore on the plane.  The 'stewardesses' gave my siblings and me plastic wings to pin on our clothes, a deck of cards to amuse us, pillows and a blanket.  That wool suit, purchased in Gimbels, proved to be a sweltering choice of outfits upon deplaning.  Nonetheless, our meal was served on a real tray with metal silverware, our drinks were in glassware and the flight attendants were all smiles.

Recently, en route to Florida,  I arrived ridiculously early to the airport.  I checked myself in, and tagged my own bag.  This doesn't save me the long line to drop off my suitcase with an agent.  The bag I paid extra to schlep myself - hello?  Skycaps? - is weighed without a hint of a smile.  NEXT!  Next for me is the security line, a line for the train, lines for the loo...  By the time I grab a coffee and get to the gate, I am amazed how much time has withered away.  I'll be on the plane in no time - just to wait again!

It's OK.  I still marvel at the technology of getting on  a jet in one city and getting off in another.  In less than four hours I will be at my sister's on the east coast.  But the joy of flying has dissipated greatly over the years.  Yet I had a magical, marvelous experience on my flight home from Melbourne, Fl. recently.

When I had checked in through the app 24 hours before my flight I received a shitty seat assignment.  It wasn't until I was standing in that bag drop-off line that I noticed, because I didn't look the day before.  What I don't know won't stress me out.  But I'm waiting in what is of course the longest, slowest queue and thinking of how maybe being really nice to the agent will reward me with a better seat.  Luck and karma were on my side and I went from a middle seat in the way back of the plane to a place in front, on the aisle.  Score!

After a quick supper and several trips to the ladies room, I am in the waiting area of the gate.  Deep breaths.  I'll be home soon.  I'm seated next to a young man, who is with his dad.  I'm guessing the kid is 10.  He reminds me of my former neighbor, Jovon, at that age.  I strike up a conversation with the young man, he is hesitant to talk to a stranger, but warms up as his dad and I chat.  I learn his dad lives in Florida, his mom in Denver and his dad is taking him back after a long Christmas break visit.

The gate agent announces a delay due to a mechanical issue, always reassuring... NOT.  Then they decide to load us up and I'm thinking my brief time with this kid has come to and end.  Remember how I got my seat changed?  As we board the aircraft the dad, the kid and I find ourselves sitting in the exact same positions as at the gate.  I don't believe in coincidences.  I think of them more as God tapping me on the shoulder and telling me to pay attention.  I smile and sit.

We're told that even though we're all in our places, we are not quite ready to go.  A trim piece needs to be repaired, trips off and on airport property must take place to get the parts, security has to be followed...  we're in for at least 40 minutes or so on the plane, at the gate.  People are grumbling, but I decide to make the best of it and take out my writing pad.  I glance at the young man next to me and ask him if he likes poetry.  He shakes his head - uh-uh.

I tell him I am a poet, and ask him if he'd like to hear one of my poems.  I tell him I saw a space launch and returned to the beach the following day to write about it.  I read him this poem:

Launch

by Jane Hillson Aiello   01-20

Blastoff was quick
An upward star
Shot from earth
To the heavens

Falling stars down-sweep
Across the milky
Midnight universe

Flames and thrust
Blurry, yet concise
Propulsive marvel
Technological twinkle

God painted the sky
With tiny drops
Of sparkling light

Man gives us
Engineered force
Elusive destinations

Fire dot dissipates
I inhaled stardust
Exhaled molecules

Remembered how small
I will always be

He seems receptive, so I ask if he'd like to hear another.  He responds affirmatively and I tell him how my cousin told me to put a seashell in my pocket at the beach, and I wrote this poem just for her:

Linda’s Seashell

by Jane Hillson Aiello January 2020

Wherever she goes
There’s a shell in her pocket
From a beach far or near
She is never without it

When she feels chilly
Her hand closes around it
Remembers the day and
The place where she found it

If she’s worried or anxious
The shell is quite near
Running fingers over scallops
Brings her back to where

She was walking so quiet, on the
Day that she chose it
And it’s still in her pocket
When she chooses to hold it

A talisman, a worry stone
A vintage fidget spinner
It is priceless and precious
And it’s always there with her

It’s a memory, a promise
Of more beach days to come
If you look in her pocket
You’ll always find one

Then I take a leap and ask him if he's ever written a poem.  No is the reply.  So, I ask if he'd like to.  YES!  I gently prompt him to tell me about his visit with  dad.  He informs me about the Holiday party he attended, the presents he received for Christmas, the kick-boxing class with his father and I am writing it all down. Then I show him how to re-write those rambles into stanzas, quiz him to come up with rhyming words to make the poem work, and voila!  We have written an eight-line (four couplet)  poem to commemorate his trip.  He is wide-eyed and I feel pretty good too.  I put my name on the bottom of the page, tear it out and tell him that one day he will remember an old lady on a plane taught him how to write a poem.  We both smiled and laughed.  Finally we take off.  Waiting time is never wasted time.

Sometime into the trip, I raise my eye mask to check the time and sip some water.  The young man, whose name I still do not know, asks if he can have my notebook.  I give it to him and doze back off. It's a late night flight and with the delay I am tired.  I had no idea what he'd do with my pad, it was filled with notes and personal essays and poems, but I trusted the ask.  When I readied for landing, he handed the pad back to me and he was beaming.

This delightful young man, who had just penned his first poem had drawn me a picture that he said was based on my "Launch"  poem.  "See the rocket?"  "See the ocean?"  "See the beach?"  Yes I do!  And I also see your name is Angel, and thank you for the drawing and thank you for signing your name.  That is what an artist does.  And you young man are a wonderful artist.

Finally on the ground in Denver, everyone is sleepy and shuffling about, gathering items from the overhead, checking our surroundings.  A young mom travelling with two little boys, maybe ages three and five, if I had to guess, smiles at me and I smile back.  She hands me a small folded wad of paper and says this is for you and please wait until you get home to read it.  I simply say thank you.

My friend picks me up at this ungodly hour.  I am quiet.  I am reminiscing about my trip and the flight on the ride back to my apartment.  I am so tempted to unfold the paper and read the message from the mommy who sat one row up from Angel, his dad and me.  But I wait.  I suspect it is magical, a gift of sorts, and I want to honor her wishes.  By the time I am home (and dealing with a beeping smoke detector - could that battery dying have waited one more day?) I'm too exhausted to even think about anything but my bed.

Over coffee the next morning, in the chair where I have written much prose and prose, I unfold my note from a stranger:

 Maybe travel is a bit magical after all. 

 And that is the power of poetry.

Time to Write,

Jane

Ah. Youth Poetry.

I'm a double rebound to Denver and the metroplex.  I lived here in the late 70's / early 80's.  In 1998 I returned to the metro area for one year, living in Lakewood, before heading south to Colorado Springs for a long stint.  The summer of 2015 found me 'burbing it in Centennial, almost Littleton really.  And I've been here ever since.

My first foray to Denver as a newly expired teenager were the days of poor.  Housing was cheap, roommates were easy to find, beer was the Silver Bullet.  Entertainment wasn't too high-brow.  Celebrity on Colorado Boulevard or the Alley at Cin City.  My now ex, then boyfriend, and I would take long drives into the mountains for a day's enjoyment, stopping at places like the Elusive Wapiti or Little Bear for a bargain burrito or burger.

It wasn't until I had children that I considered purchasing memberships at arts and cultural institutions.  That year in Lakewood had me splurging on The Denver Botanic Gardens and The Butterfly Pavilion.  We'd go for backpack Saturdays at the Denver Art Museum and checked out the newly arrived venue of Ocean Journeys.  It was the planting of a small philanthropic seed.  Join organizations to support them, as well as not stress if a fussy kid or hunger pangs forced an early departure.

Fifteen years of southern Colorado living had me joining The Fine Arts Center and enjoying intimate shows at Theatreworks.  These were probably the busiest mommy and working years of my life.  It seemed I had less time and more money.  I yearned to enjoy the amenities a fair-sized city had to offer, but girl scouts, and football, and class parties ate into the little free time I had.

But this living in the south suburban Denver area has me indulging in memberships of all sorts.  I joined The Denver Art Museum, The Denver Botanic Gardens and the Denver Museum of Nature and Science.  Initially I loved going for an hour or two, here and there.  Then Denver got busy, then busier, and exploded into a hot mess of transplants.  Every trip to nurture culture was an exercise in patience.  One Mother's Day my friend Gail and I circled the parking lot of DMNS so many times we were singing "Arthur's Theme" - getting caught between the moon and NYC.  We finally made our way into the lobby and the line would rival Disney at Spring Break.

My last trip to the Denver Art Museum was for the Dior exhibit.  First we were herded into a holding pen, while waiting on headsets.  Then we were put into another claustrophobic space to be oriented.  Then we were let loose in the gallery, where I was pushed out of people's way and had my heels 'bit' by strollers the size of loveseats.  I lasted 14 minutes.  Which came to one dollar per minute at the member rate of admission.  An email to membership addressing my concerns was ignored.

These three memberships all come due in the fall, and guess what?  I have decided not to renew any of them.  I have made a conscience choice to support literary endeavors in 2020.  For me that means renewing my membership in The Poetry Society of Colorado and Lighthouse Writer's Workshop.  I paid for an extended membership of Poetry West, based in Colorado Springs.  I've only made it to one workshop, but I intend to attend more as time and motivation allows.  Recently I donated a Ben Franklin to a youth poetry project.

I've been writing since Mrs. Whidden introduced the poem Trees by Joyce Kilmer to my third-grade class.  No one ever encouraged me to write; poetry was presented as an obscure endeavor.  A code to be cracked.  Asking kids to decipher haikus and couplets did nothing to further my interest.  It was organic, though I didn't know that then.  It seems a natural fit for me to support youngsters and young adults to express themselves through word art.

My renewals for myriad artistic institutions came due this fall.  And since procrastination is my nature, I just tossed them aside to have a think about continuing to contribute.  I'm a word artist, literary lover and poetry appreciator.  Shouldn't my hard earned retirement dollars go to causes that are close to my heart?  Less obscure than the puzzle that (for me) is visual art?  Don't get me wrong, I love all art forms - including tattoos, though I don't sport any!

Since my granddaughter lives close to The Butterfly Pavilion it seemed a good fit to join there.  I've been twice with her already.  It is a lovely, mellow outing for J'ma and Miss P.  But that pleading pile of renewals is still on the desk, awaiting my checks.  I am opting out for now.

If I decide a trip to the DAM or DMNS or the Gardens is in order, I'll just fork over the daily fee.   But I suspect I'll skip the trip and stay home and write instead.

Time to Write,

Jane

Maybe it's me...

I am a frustrated poet.  Not because of so called writer's block.  Or an inability to conjure subject matter.  Contrarily, I am never at a loss for poetic ideas.  Just look at the world!  My grandchildren constantly provide great prompts.  Reading poetry and craft books are also muse worthy.   Listen to conversations.  By the way, that is not considered eavesdropping, it is research & development.

My angst is a bit external.  Circumstances beyond my control, but in my purview.  Specifically, it is the way my poetry is 'professionally' perceived.  I am a member of a statewide poetry society and they sponsor both member only and open contests.  When I first became a member of this society I was excited to enter a contest for a mere five dollar investment.  I looked forward to the judges comments as a way to better my work.  I grew wary when comments seemed generic - they used to be read aloud - and so many poets seemed to have glaringly similar critique.

It made me wonder who are these judges?  Anonymous academics?  Friends of friends of friends?  People looking to get rich by reading poetry at two bucks a pop?  Due to the nature of blind judging, I would not learn, nor did I want to know, the identity of these folks.  I wanted to know more about their credentials, their writerly life, their interest in being an invisible part of our contest process.

I even recommended a potential evaluator to one of our contest chairs.  This would lead me to the belief that becoming a member of our little club was actually more difficult than being chosen as a monthly decision maker of the best works submitted.  I can't recant the details here.  I want to remain a member in good standing and don't want to out the offender of my sensibilities.

Fast forward to this past Saturday.  I had a poetically filled day.  Beginning with my 'club's' monthly meeting and segueing to a joint venture between a local art club and poets.  I had taken a self-imposed hiatus from entering contests.  I am very good at silent, unseen protests and this seemed like a good opportunity to practice a character defect.  I'll show them!  They'll never get an Abe Lincoln from me again.  Of course only I knew this so it was a relatively ineffective opposition.

I had submitted a poem, a good one in my own never to be humble opinion, and had high hopes of procuring the prize money.  Instead my poem was returned to me with three terse judges comments.  The middle comment said my poem was more like prose than a poem.  OK.  This pissed me off.  A sestina is a relatively difficult poetic form with repeating end words.  Six stanzas of six lines each ending with an envoi, or send-off.  Perhaps by the nature of the format, sestinas read a bit like prose, but dammit!  I think a person judging poetry should be familiar with the various forms.  I handed the poem to a member who helps to find judges.  I asked her to ask the judge if he/she knew what a sestina was, and a few other questions I had based on the other comments.  I refused to bring the poem home with me, because I did not want to give the copy with outside comments any energy.  Let it go.

Then it was time to attend the joint ekphrastic venture of poets who wrote to artwork.  I had time to spare, so I arrived early to take a look at mine and other entrants poetry.  My first poem was in the beginning of the show and straight away I could see the poem had been centered down the middle of the page.  A deviance of how I formatted and submitted the work.  On to my other two submissions: one was just how I intended - perfect.  But my poem River looked completely askew.  In this poem I had played with formatting and punctuation.  I was pleased with the look and expected it would be printed in the manner presented.  Instead, it too was centered and boy!  Did it look odd.

I found an official looking artist, and she told me to find another woman.  But instead of searching for the person who took artistic license to alter my poems, I proceeded to the information desk at the front of the library.  The librarian assisted me in procuring a guest login and I paid for two B&W copies in advance.  I accessed my google account and printed my poems in the way I had intended.  adding the information that the art club had included - the artists name and name of the piece.  Was that a typo of the artist's work title?  Yes!  I made the correction to be as accurate as possible.

Now instead of finding the liaison to launch a complaint, I simply presented her with newly minted copies of my poetry in the way I intended the visual fields to be presented.  While not exactly impolite, she was miffed.  I had to endure the explanation of space allowed, and does it matter, and one of my new copies won't fit in the sleeve...  Not my problem.  I just smiled and said let's make this work.  I got fresh scotch tape from a different librarian.  I stood and watched as she switched out her altered copies for my accurate depictions.  I smiled and thanked her.  Was it obvious how annoyed I was?  Probably.

My fellow poets started filing in.  I was having that internal, eternal debate.  The angel in me wanted to keep quiet about the debacle.  The devil wanted me to bitch and moan.  No need to wonder what to do.  Others were not happy with the reformatting of their artwork - word art, if you will.  I announced that I too was upset about the alteration of my poetry - but I reprinted, re-presented and took care of my own business.  As a former event planner, this get it done and get it done right attitude is embedded in my DNA.

So - why don't I get any respect?  Judges don't recognize my poems as poetry.  Artists alter my work to fit an arbitrary format.  Is this a me issue or a them issue?  It is situations like this that rock my poetic serenity.  Am I on the right track?  Is poetry my dialect, as I like to tell people who ask about my way of speaking.  Should I be even remotely concerned about what other people think of me and/or my poetry?

Last night I participated in a Sober Sessions Open Mic at Free Spiritual Community.  I read two poems that were warmly received not just by attendees but by the fellow poets, who were awesome.  Maybe part of being an artist, and I do consider my poetry art, is finding the right audience.  I don't need to have my feathers fluffed, but I like to be respected.  I welcome constructive feedback that says more about my work than the person giving it.

I'm done with the contest aspect of the poetry society.  I'm a lover of using visual art as a prompt for my work, so even though the process was a bit bumpy, I'd work with this club again.  I'd just be more forthright in my expectations.  As an event planner I lived and died by two things; the clock and the contract.  I will utilize these skills to effectively communicate the expectation and implementation of how my work is to be presented.  Problem identified, solved, and moving on!

For Now?

Time to Write,

Jane

River

River

by Jane Hillson Aiello

January 2019

I have not stood in a river | alone

Waders snugging | hips

Sunshine | rippling eddies

Blue sky | endless vista

I have never felt the current

The rush | water 

Caressing calves | though I know

In my bones | cool | stillness 

I sat ashore | rock | sandbar

Notebook in hand | observing

Writing | not experiencing

Swirl | meditation of nature | flow

Now | curious | my time

To leave the shore | safety | fears

Submerse | water | brackish

Stream of life | awakening

I have not stood in a river | alone

The lure | appealing

Letting go of rocks | hardness

Allow | movement | drift

Impeachment

The following poem was generated in a workshop Saturday.  The challenge was to write an epistolary poem and a few choices of how to approach the task were offered.  For the uninitiated here is the definition per Poets.org.  Don't feel bad - I didn't know any of this before noon yesterday.

Epistolary poems, from the Latin "epistula" for "letter," are, quite literally, poems that read as letters. As poems of direct address, they can be intimate and colloquial or formal and measured. The subject matter can range from philosophical investigation to a declaration of love to a list of errands, and epistles can take any form, from heroic couplets to free verse. 

I chose to write to an abstraction, using sensory details.  I also decided to try the long skinny format.  Here is my poem.

Dear Impeachment,
I promised not to
think about you
today, in daylight
but the sweetness
of your word
tastes like cotton
candy on my tongue
the forest was dark
until your rays
broke the canopy
revealing blue skies
the cage of my 
heart unlocks
with your rattling
key of truth
I told myself
not to utter your
name, write poetry
instead, but
I am a child
on a swing
pumping my legs
jumping off into
gravel and gratitude
your word is
a bird set free
feral cats no
longer protect you

Veritas stands tall

on the shoulders

of democracy

and I rejoice 

in the future

Here is the List of Safe Places:

I went about my business today

I may have prayed a bit and thought about 

Those back to back shootings

I may have pushed those tragedies

To the background and

Lived life as usual

Except I found myself in the supermarket

Scanning the crowd

Could I pick out the shooter among us?

I wondered why did Google 

Make those stupid glasses

When what we really need is protection detection

There weren’t any white, male, twenty-somethings

We were a middle-aged crowd with hummus

And sparkling water in our carts

I’m scanning this crowd 

Just a short distance from STEM

But that was in May - sooo long ago

Did I read 215 shootings

In just 250 days?

Yep - we are record setters in the USA

I’m walking to my car

Under a brittle blue sky

Life is fragile enough

Here is the list of dangerous places:

Movie Theaters

Supermarkets

Churches

Synagogues

Yoga Studios

Schools - from elementary to college

Military Bases

Nightclubs

Protests

Ballfields in DC (that didn’t change anything) Inner Cities Playgrounds

Should I stay home more?

Maybe Amazon is the culprit

Inventing ways for us to cloister

Will the NRA have a statement?

Only people write - not pencils

Join today…

Once I had lunch 

With five cops in Chipotle

Was that dangerous?

I thought riding on motorcycles,

Skydiving or bungee-jumping

Would do one in

Nope, just going about your business

Is risky business

Stepping outside is living on the edge 

Maybe tonight after l read the paper
I'll think and pray and pray and think
And wring my hands and cry

Here is the list of safe places: