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

The Brush Off

I pride myself on being organized.  I used to be an event maven, and I know the value of planning, timelines and thinking ahead.  That is why I 'flipped' my closet from summer to winter almost two months ago.  Colorado is fickle and the weather is capable of catching one off guard.  But not this chicky.

I've lived at altitude long enough to know that capris and a tank top can be worn on warm January days and winter coats may be necessary in September.  Or on Mother's Day.  It's happened!  I always leave a pair of flip flops handy to don after an afternoon pedicure and a bathing suit is a year-round necessity for me.  Our sunshine is notoriously brilliant and even on days that never break past 25 degrees a sweater, scarf and hat may be all I need to stay comfy for running errands or a short jaunt to the mailbox.

We had an early, icy snow about two weeks ago.  My car spends evenings under a carport and I frequently don't need to de-ice or sweep snow.  It all depends on the wind and the type of precipitation.  I'm happy that scraping is not an every snow occurrence.  My hands don't like it - RA makes repetitive motions difficult and often painful.

In addition to switching my closet, I do a few other winterizing chores.  I make sure my tires are well-treaded, all fluids are full, my tank is topped off.  I don't enjoy pumping gas in the frigid wind, and it is always windy when I get gas!  I take the oil-filled electric heater out of the storage unit on my back deck.  I buy some cans of soup for days I don't want to make stock from scratch.  The tea stash is well supplied - decaf coffee is in the house!  I pride myself in being as ready as one can be in an unpredictable, high desert climate.

So how is it that I came to find myself sans snow brush a few days ago?  My trusty red handled snow brush on one end - ice scraper on the other was missing in action.  Last year my youngest daughter declared this ice scraper was a POS* and I needed a better tool.  That is because I had to park without benefit of overhead protection.  It was a good enough for me in most weather kind of implement.  I'll admit I am frugal.  Why buy something new if my old one still works well enough most times?  I'm not of the Amazon generation.  Think of something I need - turn to google or an app - press buy and wait a ridiculously short amount of time for said item to magically appear.

That is how I found myself using a gym towel to clear my windshield yesterday.  This came about because I went to the YMCA early and the storm was light when I left my house.  I wasn't thinking ahead.  I guess I am losing my touch as a self-proclaimed boy scout.  You know - be prepared.  I'm in the locker room recovering from a vigorous workout and a delightful steam and the  chatter is about the storm and how heavy it is snowing.  It dawns on me.  Shite!  I have no idea where my ice scraper is.

I've been in the storage closet and didn't even think to look.  I doubted it was in my car, because I am in my car all the time.  I forage in my trunk enough to doubt it is there either.  So where in the Sam Hill is it?  I'm considering the millennial solution - pick one on-line and get a replacement delivered.  I live in a large enough metro area that it might even qualify for a same day grey van appearance.  But the compassionate me thinks that I don't want to drive (anymore) today.  How could I expect someone else to indulge my lack of being ready for winter?

I trudge out my back door.  Wow - there is a hefty snowfall back there.  Lucky for me there is a dust pan on the porch.  It serves as a mini-shovel.  I clear enough snow to open the storage doors and take more than a cursory look.  I do not see the dang thing.  I'm perplexed.  Is this a sign that I am supposed to buy a newer, better mousetrap?  (I mean scraper)  Does it mean my days of bragging about preparedness and superior time management skills are definitively over?

Whenever I feel frustration building.  I practice the three P's.  Pause.  Ponder.  Progress.  A few deep breaths and a cup of hot tea are all I need to know that this is not a big deal.  I've already thrown the ice encrusted gym towel in the washer and it will surreptitiously makes its way back to the Y tomorrow.  No need to announce my faux-pas to the front desk staff and explain why I am bringing their property in through the front door.  I do the mature thing.  It is shoved in my gym bag, I will lay on it in the steam room and return it to the dirty towel bin.  No one the wiser.

This morning the scraper was still on my mind.  In single digit, snowy weather I find myself head deep in my trunk.  I have a red milk box that holds boots, a scarf, gloves and other winter gear.  It also holds a couple of bungee cords and a dog leash, which actually came in very hand when I rescued a pup running on Garden of the Gods Rd. a few years back, so don't laugh!  There are some respiratory masks in case of fire; I have personal experience with how handy these can be as well.  It did not take much rummaging to find my elusive snow brush.  Reunited in time to clear my front windshield of some ice.  Brush residual snow off the side windows.  I am giddy while I do this - I don't feel the frigidity of the morning through the too thin gloves I donned.

One more thing.  Where is my newspaper?  It too has been MIA for three mornings...

Time to Write,

Jane

*POS - Piece of Shit

There is no hope...

"There is no hope for the satisfied man"

Post founder, Frederick G. Bonfils 1861-1933

This quote appears daily in The Denver Post on the mast of their editorial page.  It's a good quote; something my own dad might have uttered to describe his entrepreneurial endeavors.  Nowadays newspaper people are more likely to proclaim that print is not dead. Millennials reply that only stalwarts read the paper.  The internet is the future and the like.

Personally I like the feel of the morning paper.  When I first came to Denver the Post still printed twice daily and the Rocky Mountain News was thriving.  I have always preferred the broadsheet format over the tabloid.  Still, there was a time I received both papers, to my doorstep or driveway in Cherry Creek.  When the Rocky got folded into the Denver Post brand, I was glad the broadsheet prevailed.  I like to snap the paper just so to hide the crossword answers and give a bit of backing for my pen.  Having sections is good too.  Sports can go straight into recycling.  The food section and Sunday Life & Culture can hang out for a few days.

For years I lived in The Springs and had their local rag delivered instead of the Post.  It was a conservatively leaning paper, so I ignored that and enjoyed the parts that spoke to me.  Local news, reading the comics with my kids, seeing if I knew anyone who had drafted a letter to the editor.  When I returned to the Denver metro area, I was lured in with a ridiculously cheap intro offer for the Post.  It worked.  First I only received the Sunday paper, then I added Wednesdays.  Now I am a daily subscriber because, dang it!  I love the crossword puzzle.  

There is an old-fashioned comfort in morning coffee and the paper.  Opening the door in winter and seeing the orange sleeve against bright new snow gives me a small thrill.  Some days I wonder when did they stop banding the newspaper and start using these sleeves which are pretty much good for nothing in the afterlife but pooper scooping.  Other times I step out onto the porch in the moonlit dawn and realize I am up way too early.  I've beaten the carrier to the punch.

Lately, I open my door to nothing.  No paper at five, or six or even nine am.  Usually I let a one-off delivery problem slide.  I can't get worked up about one or two days without my puzzle or Dear Amy.

Nowadays I have the subscriber line for the post on speed dial.  I get it.  They are having delivery problems.  Carrier issues.  But I pay for a service - up front.  In my mind, I have fulfilled my end of this agreement.  The Denver Post is struggling to honor their part.

The call center people are very nice.  I have talked to them so frequently I have their script memorized.  I know all about the escalation department.  I am assured they will inform the supervisor.  They are working on it.  Some days they ask me if I want a redelivery.  That is a non-reliable solution because often it doesn't happen.  Other days they inform me they are happily extending my subscription.  But is that a good solution if I am not getting what I am subscribing to in the now?

Perhaps there is no hope for the Denver Post.  Print may not be dead, but delivery is in a coma.  My dad used to say he'd be damned if he would let one employee ruin his business.  I'm pretty sure that Mr. Bonfils would have felt the same way.  Would the founder of the longest printed paper in the Centennial state let delivery issues dissatisfy his subscribers?  I think not.

As I typed this, I heard the thud of my redelivery hit the porch.  In some ways I feel badly.  Certainly this is not an earth shattering problem.  I'm done with my allotment of caffeine, and the gym is next on my agenda.  Today's paper won't be enjoyed in the crepuscular hours.  It will be read later in the afternoon.  Perhaps on the porch with a cuppa decaf tea in the waning sunshine of a mid-October day.

There may be no hope for the satisfied man, but this gal would be happy just to get her daily paper.

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

Endless Summer

Ah, fall.  Leaves changing, pumpkin everything, boots and sweaters.  I am in mourning.  I may bitch and moan about the heat, the AC bill, my chlorinated hair; but the truth is I long for endless summer. I loved coming home (almost) every day this summer and doing my 'work' out by the pool.  By work I mean reading and writing - a bit of which I am actually paid for, so I can say work.  If loosely.

Not dragging extra shoes, and outfit change and towels to the gym in summertime is a huge benefit.  I simply sweat, come home and sweat some more.  Usually under the shade of a lovely large tree.  I've used up a few bottles of sunscreen - 40 or better - and  wore my hat all season to protect my face from the elements. I dive carefully into the 6ft deep end on days when I'll be washing my hair, and leap from the steps on the days I am the old lady in the pool who admonishes no splashing.

The beginning of summer at the complex where I live brings out hoards of children who are excited to be out of school and have their vacation from learning begin.  I patiently wait this time out before camps and trips start.  And then?  No kids, just me and my books and pads and pens.  Perfection.

For someone who claims to be freewheeling and flexible, I am pretty set in my daily routine.  Gym.  Errands.  Pool.  I come home, throw a load in the washer, pack a salad and drinks and take l68 steps to the gate.  I bring headphones to initially drown out the kids, and eventually to ignore the other occasional adult who may wander in to my sanctuary.

This year the powers that be decided to keep the pool open two weekends past Labor Day.  I had won the watery lottery.  Now I was truly the last lane lapper.  I was alone for this two week stretch - Mother Nature was cooperative in bringing the heat.  I powered through Julia Alvarez's "In The Time of The Butterflies."  I read two books by Kay Redfield Jamison.  I wrote and wrote and wrote some more.

The temperature of the pool dipped each day, due to cooler nights and no heater.  I persevered and kept diving in.  I'd sit in the sun to warm up, and utilized two lounge chairs for my personal pleasure.  One in the shade for reading and eating.  One in the sun to warm my bones because a bit of fall is in the early September air.

October is looming.  Others may relish in Halloween, then turkey dinners and the culminating Holiday frenzy.  Not me.  I revel in the luxurious days of summer.  Tank tops and flip flops are de
rigueur.  And I don't meant the dollar tree variety of footwear.  I spring for anatomically correct foot- bed thongs that wear like shoes and feel like heaven.  I may profess to be frugal, but my feet demand comfort and I comply.

Now the pool is covered and I am sad to look over my balcony toward the west.  My mailbox key has been returned to the ring where my car and house key are.  My summer routine is to check the mail halfway through my pool time.  Now I'll take the longer route to the cluster of mailboxes as to not have to look over at the empty deck chairs.

Two weekends ago I went to Colorado Springs for a writing workshop presented by Poetry West.  On a whim I texted Torie Jennings Giffin after the workshop to see if she'd like an impromptu visitor.  Torie is the brainchild and proprietor of The Buffalo Lodge Bicycle Resort on the westside of town.  I met her and some bicycle aficionados at a little Mexican Restaurant.  From there I went to the lodge and toured the renovated, bicycle themed rooms.  I was impressed by the kid-friendly nature of the rooms - bunk beds in a separate space - and the overall aura of the lodge.  But the best part?

Ah, endless summer.  On the actual last weekend of summer, Torie gifted me one more outdoor swim in the pool at her bicycle resort.  The water temperature matched the air.  The sun was glistening behind the cottonwoods.  I was reminded why I always keep a suit and towel in my trunk.  This was delightful.  Catching up with a friend.  Being just minutes from my old house where I raised my family.  (I did drive through the old 'hood after my dip)  Relaxing my body after sitting quite a bit between the drive and the poetry class.

Ah, summer.  It is time to bid you adieu.  But something tells me I may sneak another wee trip down south.  For one last dip.