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:

Revision

Written from a prompt in a class.  Here's what I look for when I revise. And my reply.

I used to be a lightning bolt writer.  The urgency to put pen to paper would be overwhelming, and I'd stop whatever I was doing, grab my notebook and write.  I'd interrupted myself driving, nursing a baby, cooking dinner.  I had to stop myself in order to start - writing.  And whatever it was that pinched me in the tuchus, and got me to write was done...  So was I.  I didn't revise.  Oh, maybe I would change a word or two, correct some punctuation.  But it was never a do-over, or even a do-better.  My piece pretty much remained as it did when my pen inked the paper.

Then I became a more disciplined writer.  A write every day, no matter what kind of writer.  I learned how to carve time out of my day and dedicate myself to this craft.  Devoted myself.  And so much of what I write is crap.  I slowly learned that a gem buried in mud needs the sunshine of revision to gleam.

Now it is freehand, free writing, free-wheeling.  I don't wait to be depressed or grieving to put my emotions into words - on to paper.  More of the mundane has made it to the page. Often my ramblings are a germination, not a culmination.  Until I revise. Perhaps I pluck a line or a stanza that stands out in an otherwise mediocre poem.  Inserting it elsewhere it comes alive, becomes compelling.

Maybe I take out every unneeded word.  This surgical excision allows my voice to be sharp and staccato.  Often I put a piece aside to delay working on it.  Is that procrastination or rumination?  Probably a bit of both.  Then if I have a lightning bolt moment I can retrieve the dormant poem and fan volcanic fire into the ash.  I need to honor those moments and capitalize upon them.  After all they were my initial impetuses for creativity.

Revision.  To go back and edit.  Rephrase, rework.  Thanks to the computer I can save all versions and make sure I didn't overdo the redrafting, or miss something along the way.  The combined gift of time, writer's groups and patience has allowed me the freedom to return to the work.  It is not drudgery.  It is not a necessary evil.  It is a more mature and refined way to approach my writing.

For the past few months , I have had the pleasure of engaging with a cohort.  This lovely lady is a fellow poet, a friend now, that I met at the Poetry Society of Colorado.  We meet, eat, and dissect a few pieces of each others work.  Sometimes I take her editing suggestions, other times I stick to my original wording or punctuation.    This process of one-on-one critiquing has been helpful in ways that a traditional writer's group did not afford me. Groups had me reading way too much of other people's work and the rules for nicety were cloying to me.  Groups also tend to fall apart over time and I like that we are genuinely accountable to each other.  It works well.

I enjoy the process of revision now.  I like to revisit poems from long ago - I have been writing for over 52 years - and give them new breath or a current perspective.  There is a wondrous feeling, a full heart moment, when I can lean back in my chair and say "I wrote that."

Here's a poem written in October of 2017 and recently edited. And there is a line or two I think still needs some work...

Born Under a Water Sign

Written October 2017 - Revised July 2019

Born under a water sign

In a high mountain desert

Destined to spend my life

Seeking an elusive blue

Wide open skies, endless horizon

Blazing orange sunsets over

Snow-dusted peaks

My mouth is perennially parched

This crazy state of water rights

Dryland crops and center-pivot

Lakes are fenced off

Rivers run too fast to swim

Born under a water sign

I am a fish in an ocean

Of tumbleweed and dust

Born under a water sign 

I thirst for relief

The coolness of an aquifer

Born under a water sign

I am resigned to never slake

My desire to drown in the deep

Time to Write,

Jane

Destroyed, Damaged or Stigmatized

Seven years ago two people lost their lives and 346 houses were destroyed.  Countless other homes were damaged or stigmatized - those are not my words.  They were the three categories the El Paso County  Assessor's office used to revalue the affected homes in the Waldo Canyon Fire.  In retrospect I can see how those categories were apt, but at the time - when I opened that letter - it seemed cold and sterile.  I wasn't a category.  I was a person whose house fell in the third category.  The rear-view mirror is a funny tool - looking back today I can see how those three categories; destroyed, damaged and stigmatized also described the people who lived in Mountain Shadows.

Today - seven years post fire, the stigma has abated.  I sold my devalued home five years ago, two years after the conflagration.  The trauma is more subtle now.  The years have softened the hurt.  I can drive to Colorado Springs, crest Monument Hill, and look without looking away.  I used to enjoy eyeballing my neighborhood from that vantage point.  After the fire, not so much.

To be clear, even though I did not lose my house, I was profoundly affected.  I am eternally grateful to my friends the Knapp's for allowing me, my daughter and my dog to stay with them during the ordeal.  I am grateful I was able to take the hit on my house and leave the area.  Once the view changed, from green trees and native grasses to black sticks and dead brush - I had no interest in staying.

Two years ago I wrote a poem to process my feelings.  I tried writing another one yesterday, but it wasn't there.  No inspiration.  No spark.  Maybe that means I am a good spot.  Maybe seven years is a good number.  Like the opposite of the seven year  itch. I'm good right where I am.

Time to Write,
Jane

Pronouns and Mom Hugs

Last week I crammed five craft classes in writing into three days.  I'd love to do more, but the venue is a good forty minutes away and not in the best neighborhood.  Of course money comes into play as well.  A five pack for Lighthouse members is $285.00 and I'm not willing to spend more than that.  So, I make my selections carefully, and occasionally whimsically.

The first class I chose was Tips on Writing and Assembling Your Short Story Collection.  This was geared more toward writers of fiction; novellas, short stories and flash.  But the time slot suited me as immediately following this presentation was the Poetry Collective Reading.  My interest in this was a bit bittersweet.  Last year I applied for the program and did not make the cut.  I wanted to go and listen with an open mind to the poets who were chosen, and who spent the last year working really hard and now have a manuscript.  Mostly, I wanted to be wowed!  In a knock the socks off kind of way.  Because I think I am a good poet, and I like my poetry and I'd be pissed if these ten chosen people weren't good.  I wanted them to be excellent and profound and poetic. 

The class was good for me.  It gave me clarity on how I may assemble my poetry into a cohesive collection.  A mix of short and long pieces.  Ones that may be hard on the emotions to process mixed in with a few light-hearted ditties.  (Do I even have any poems like that?)  Then I hung out on the porch of the beautiful Victorian mansion that houses Lighthouse Writers Workshop before making my way to the tent to be a good listener.  

I did listen intently.  The first poet blew me away.  Her subject matter of being a young army wife, was written in beautiful contemporary language.  I settled in for the show.  The final score was three masterful poets, four really good poets and three HUH?  WHAT?  MEH!  Each poet was presented with an artful, wooden plaque with their name and a poem on the edges.  If there was going to be a pang in my belly moment, this would have been it.  When I was four, I took ballet.  Just a leotard, nothing fancy kind of practice class. I didn't continue, but Geraldine, my friend next door did.  When she left her house for the recital in her frilly pink tutu I experienced that regretful pang for the first time.  I wanted a tutu.  I wanted to be a ballerina.  Instead I watched her get in the family car and that was that.  

At sixty, I'd like to think I am more mature than that girl long ago.  This time I warmly congratulated the poets I knew and a few I didn't.  I watched them shine in the moment - a moment they worked hard to revel in.  I was happy for them all.  And gratefully, not jealous or regretful.  Maybe I even gained some clarity about my work ethic, my time restraints and my physical limitations living with Rheumatoid Arthritis.  Not everything is for everybody.  

The next day was a heady form class - From Sestina to Pantoum: Fixed Lyrical Forms.  I had this  instructor last year and wanted to take a class with him again.  I came away inspired to explore the freedom that can come with form.  An oxymoron in action!  My next class was billed as Writing Life and Death: Poetry and the Multiplicity of Self.  I'm not sure the class followed the description, but it was good!  

Day three started like days one and two.  I got up early enough to go to the gym, because if I just sit all day, I will not be a physically happy person.  I need to keep moving, to keep moving.  Each day I packed a lunch and snacks and lots of water bottles because... I'm cheap.  And there are many good restaurants in this part of Denver, but practicality and frugality rule!  Especially if I want to stay retired.

Elements of Narrative Structure was also a fiction forward class.  I needed a good refresher on first, second and third person and Point of View.  I already know about verb tense - I did pay attention on some of the days I was in Tappan Zee High School.  Lastly I chose to explore Writing Through Tarot. The best was saved for last.  Not really - they were all good - but this cliché just fits here!  This instructor was so qualified and knowledgeable and had the most radiant energy.  I dug this class.  I used to dabble in Tarot as a teenager and young adult.  A little shaking of my intuition occurred in this class - I've been spot on all week!

All of the classes at the Lighthouse start with participants briefly (hopefully) introducing themselves.  The young person next to me said their name and pronounced they identify with 'they pronouns'.  I became distracted by this statement.  Is this a new way of saying hello?  Should I tell people I identify with female language?  Do only LBGTQIA get to do this?  Then the person behind my table companion said the same thing and I thought  - Is this a new trend?  Am I missing something?

This was the Friday before Pride weekend in Denver - where our gay governor and the first gentleman would be the Grand Marshalls of the Parade.  So maybe it was timing, or being open and bold (bravo!) or just something I had not heard before.  Nonetheless, we worked together and shared some stories as well as a Tarot deck.  They were very nice and on a whim - or maybe intuitively - when it was time to bid adieu, I told them I give Mom hugs, if they missed that. I almost cried when they told me they never remember having one. We hugged a long time. I'm pretty sure we both had tears in our eyes.

Driving home gave me time to reflect on the past three, intense days.  I learned that I wasn't ready and may never be ready to undertake a year-long program with a vigorous commitment.  I had a basic refresher on the elements of writing.  I dug a bit deeper into some difficult poetic forms.  I renewed my belief that I am not meant to be a Central Denver dweller. I affirmed that I like brown bagging over hipster dining.  But you know the most important take-a-way of the week?  The single most profound, eye-opening lesson?  It is simple and it is easy and we can do it all the time.  Over and over again. It was the hug on my last day, my last class. From a person who showed me how to be bold and be yourself.  We are put here to love.  We are put here to love.

Time to Write,

Jane

Not Yet - my blog on not being accepted to the Poetry Collective

Collateral Damage

Ode to Austin Eubanks

Collateral Damage

by Jane Hillson  May 2019

He didn’t die from an overdose

Drugs were never the problem

They were the solution

His pain too great to bear

Twenty-year old scabs bleed

When picked.  Over and over

The gun may have been shot

In the Ranch, but the ricochet

Arced, then fell in Steamboat

No reform. Just rhetoric

No change. Only bullshit

Collateral Damage

https://kdvr.com/2019/05/18/columbine-survivor-austin-eubanks-37-dies-at-steamboat-springs-home/

Macy's, Gimbels And Me

This book was on the small corner bookshelf in my father's office, or the 'back room' as my siblings and I referred to that sacred space where dad could continue working after coming home from his long commute to New York City.  Dad had a lease department in the behemoth department store, Gimbels.  And though not an official employee, we enjoyed the perks that came from this arrangement; a 25% discount, early entry into the store, inside info on the newest, upcoming products.

Gimbel's is long gone, closing in 1987, when I was 28 years old and traveling the country in my then husband's Chevy S10 pick-up truck.  I'd lived in Denver for nine years by that time and there was no Gimbels or Macy's here in the Queen City.  Colorado boasted The Denver, May D&F and Joslins.  All these places are long gone now as well. I even enjoyed a few short years of upscale Neusteter's before they closed in 1986.  Macy's seems to be the stalwart of them all.  

Growing up on the west bank of the Hudson river, Macy's disguised themselves as Bamberger's in the new and ultra modern Nanuet mall, that opened to much fanfare in 1969.  It was one of the first indoor shopping concepts in the country and we were lucky enough as teenagers to hop on the Red Line bus for 35 cents and enjoy a day of blaring boom boxes and grilled cheese sandwiches at Friendly's.

This past weekend, my youngest daughter and I visited Macy's in Boulder, Colorado.  Even though Boulder was bumping with The Boulder Bolder and other Creek Festival activities, the parking lot for Macy's was pretty open.  We entered the store and asked where housewares is located.  Down the escalator in the basement of the store.  Though well lit, we both thought the space cavernous and empty, my daughter used the word abandoned, and that was an apt perception. The elevator down put us at children's clothing.   No one to help us in the kids department, and the merchandising seemed scattered and not well organized.  We never did find infant socks for girls. 

Onward to housewares, where I chuckled that the Macy's branded merch was called "The Cellar".  How many folks, I wondered knew that reference?  As a teenager in fancy shoes behind my dad's watch and jewelry repair counter in Gimbels, I was privy to a thing or two about Macy's - located through the arcade that separated 33rd and 34th streets.  This was a cutout, arched tunnel, through a building, that linked Macy's to Gimbel's in the shortest possible manner.  I loved the pizza place in that arcade - just a few seats, and a giant window that the cooks pushed my order through.  I first tasted calzones here and still have a strong affection for those cheese and dough bombs.  

My friend Christine's grandmother worked in the hosiery department of Macy's.  Like my Dad's leased space in Gimbel's, it too was located on a balcony overlooking the first floor of the store.  In the days before ADA compliance there were long travertine staircases leading up to these mezzanine areas.  I occasionally ventured over to the rival store and had lunch with FiFi.  Woolworth's had a worthy and inexpensive little restaurant and we enjoyed eating there.  A mature teenager in grown-up clothes and a grandmother, who filled a spot in my heart; my own two grandma's long gone.  

Even though I didn't grow up in Macy's, I have fond memories of the era, the city streets and the way generations interacted back then.  When I enter a department store, memories easily flood my mind.  How many times did I take the escalator up eleven floors to get change for the newfangled cash register?  Dad always said take the elevator - it is faster; time is money and all that...  Or when I had a small Sweet Sixteen party at our house, and Dad procured a giant silk heart, bedecked with lace and ribbons that had hung from the ceiling of the store for Valentine's Day just a week before my soiree.  Everyone that attended my party signed that oversized memento with a grease pencil.  The heart lived in my bedroom for a while, then the basement, and landed in it's final resting place, the dump off Route 303, sometime in my 20's.

The reason my daughter and I went to Macy's was two-fold.  My uncle had sent me a future Harriet Tubman valued gift card he had received from the casino and the Sunday paper had a ten dollar off thirty-five purchase.  We figured we could buy $35 worth of stuff for about five bucks.  Baby clothes are always on the list, but we struck out in that department.  So, here we are trying very hard to spend some money - looking at clearance housewares.  

I couldn't believe that Thanksgiving and Christmas items hadn't already been snatched up.  Were they still pricy?  Was Macy's so overstocked at the holidays that five months later they were still carrying inventory?  Did anyone even shop here?

We couldn't find anything over in this section either.  We were looking for a simple, everyday drinking glass set.  The kind that comes a dozen to the box in three sizes.  One size that is actually useful, an oversized goblet, and a miniscule juice glass.  The kind that costs four dollars and lasts for two good sips at a hipster breakfast joint.

Up the escalator we went and more memories seep in.  The last time I visited Macy's 34th St.,  about 15 years ago, the upper floors still had the original escalators.  Narrow and wooden, they made a rickety-rick sound as this same daughter and I wended our way up to the Juniors department for some Fashion Week fun.  Yesterday we exited the moving stairs right in front of a Fit-Bit display and wondered if this would be a good fit for our foray of the day.

This is a locked case and the store is seriously devoid of not only customers, but associates as well.  We stood there looking and couldn't see any price tags.  Ready to mosey on, an associate appeared; she was obviously on lunch, brown paper bag in hand,  asking if us we needed help.  She summoned someone to assist.  But the key didn't fit, and then she couldn't find the other key ring, and she finally told us the price range, but no specifics, and my daughter said, politely "That's OK.  I can look on-line"

And that's it, isn't it?  A generation of young adults who shop differently than we ever imagined.  Why wait for a clerk, when a mouse is just a click away from informing us in ways that can overwhelm and educate.  Why venture out, park, walk, search endlessly for assistance when one can stay home in jammies, hot tea in hand, and spend money just like that!  Easy peasy.

Next stop - Home Depot.  This is really the grand-daddy of big stores.  Boulder's store is two stories! Steps or  an elevator (What?  No escalator?)  bring one up to appliances and that is where we headed first.  Here a very nice, well informed young man was super helpful.  What a refreshing change from the dungeon we just escaped from!  But downstairs, looking for two small items, no help in sight.  My daughter whips out her phone, presses a few buttons and tells me that tape measures are in aisle 7- bin 2.  I am impressed.  Youth and technology reigned again.

Driving back to my daughter's new place, I am reflective.  'Retail' laments that people are foregoing traditional avenues of shopping, yet try as we might, the experience is not pleasant.  It really is easier to go online, store all the pertinent info for ease of completion, and get what we want.  In just one or two days.  Plus, it could be fun to play Porch Pirate relay and get home before the parcel disappears.  But that problem is solved by having pick-up lockers either at a central location for housing complexes or at your local Whole Foods.  Amazon thinks of everything.

So you know, I am not advocating shopping at Amazon.  I am just ruminating.  I was about halfway through this post and had to go to a meeting.  I decided to run a couple of errands en route home.  Michael's for thread and upholstery needles.  Walgreen's to pick up some photos.  I couldn't find a clerk anywhere in Michael's and almost gave up after two jaunts around the store.  In the end, they didn't have all of what I wanted, but I bought one item utilizing their enticement of a 40% discount off one full price item.  I can't even tell you how many times the clerk asked for my phone number and email address before the coupon would activate.  Can I just check out?  One item shouldn't take 10 minutes.  My $2.01 sale lost them money in time and labor.

Walgreen's was no better.  Three bags of nuts for $10.00 and a BOGO at $2.99 should ring up at thirteen bucks and change.  I may not be good at math, but I can muddle through money.  The photos were prepaid - thank goodness, or I may never have gotten out of there.  My total?  $20.52.  So, here comes the manager, and he jogs around the store price checking and oh!  guess what? this customer is right!  Sorry, voids and re-rings and it still isn't correct.  I'm ready to leave $13.50 on the counter and tell them to figure it out while I get a tooth extracted.  That might have been less painful.

Driving home, alone, I am equally reflective to yesterday's ponderance.  Why do I even need to go to Walgreen's?  I can't get my prescriptions there.  It is always a hassle.  Leaving their parking lot is a left turn home, and I DO avoid those at all costs.   As far as my visit to Michael's, well I still need to go to JoAnne's, or maybe I'll try to buy one solitary spool of  jewel-tone blue thread on-line.

There was a saying when I was growing up. "Does Macy's tell Gimbels?".  Simply put it meant, you don't tell your competition what you are up to.  And Macy's was the bigger of the two.  Saying my dad worked at Gimbels always seemed second best.  How would this translate today?  Does Amazon tell anybody, anything?  Did Macy's tell us something without saying a single word?  From 2000 to 2016, Macy's closed 90 stores.  Wasn't that telling enough?

The Macy's located about two miles from where I live is slated to close at the end of 2020.  The same shopping area, had a Sears that closed just before the Holiday season in 2018.  Both pieces of real estate are being developed to have 400 apartments on each site.  Where will these newbies to Colorado shop?  On-line.

These new apartments will undoubtedly sport all of the latest amenities;  Resident Happy Hours, trash pick-up nightly at your door, access to public transportation, rooftop pools and of course they will be cable-ready with high speed internet access.  In a strange twist of retail fate, these 800+ apartment dwellers will shop at home, devices on, cold brew coffee in hand in the very spot(s) where the stores Amazon put under used to stand.  They might even hear a ghost of a whisper...  Can I help you, Ma'am?  The whisper of a ghost... What may I do for you today, sir?

Time to Write,

Jane