Archive for the ‘ poetry ’ Category

The Glad Daemon of Kalamazoo

Did I tell you about the time my heart

tripped over its trailing guts and

fell into your soul?

The rain fell softly that day, so steady

that its sound receded to the quiet

places behind my thoughts.

Fold me tenderly into your routine

Tell me I’m a lovely creature

As the hours tick by

Until my demise.

 

Black curtains are crawling up my spine

But Rose Red will tell you all about whence they came

When finally the hem-hawing of my youth rescinds.

Heather brushes my cheeks with scents

of happier days

As the light above my eyes illumines

your expanse

Furry Time cinches itself together

in a colorful pull

across your ancient brow;

Mad stories cuddle into smile lines

around your gleaming mouth.

Somehow, you rhyme.

And therein lies the shape of your first,

Glad daemon of Kalamazoo–and White Lake, too.

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2:37 a.m.

toss at the moon

Sitting alone at night makes me tired

But there’s energy for the taking because no one else is there to steal it away

Sap at your reserves and make you pay

Through the nose for something you didn’t really want in the first place

But couldn’t say.

 

I lay awake waiting for the time to come when all last pages fall to the ground like bits of over-soaking algae wafers.

Have I fed my fish today?

Streams of rain run down the glass inside but I know it doesn’t melt with age.

Discovery Channel told me so.

 

Dreams come and go quickly and I’ll admit I hate the word

That says something immaterial can describe something real.

Together they are made for each other but never as one.

It won’t work.

 

Why do the paper airplanes fly?

I wish I had a kite or some other symbol of man’s lost sky to toss at the moon of a lonely night.

October Ran Away With November

{my fingers play}

7:12 p.m.

7:12 p.m.

Two Minute Soul

Hello, my dear readers.

Today, instead of writing, I’d like to share two minutes of soul with you.  Using lovely iPhone voice memo technology, I’ve recorded my improvisation on the piano, expressing my thoughts.  It is necessarily gritty—but it occupies my space.  It is necessarily brief—but it is contemporaneous with my own experience.  May you enjoy, and perhaps, even dialog.

\”10-10-11_8-19-21pm\” by Jessica Reis

reflections of life : my piano

reflections of life : my piano

My Linen Should Be Laundered

How high are we?

I was bound to run into the glass ceiling.

Or maybe it’s a box.

Well, whatever shape it is, there are planes and angles involved.  It’s a structure that encases my thoughts, and, if you are the one standing on the other side, you may see me yelling and hear nothing.

You may see me yelling and hear nothing because I haven’t opened the window.  Yes, there is a window my in box.  But it’s currently only open for business once a week.  Lucy is going to crowd me out of the market.

The past month or two, I’ve only been blogging every seven days.

Although it may come as a shock, however, that doesn’t mean I haven’t been saying things.  Like I said, I just haven’t been open for business.

Lucy, will you help me?

Lucy, will you help me?

There are so many thoughts that shuffle between my ears every day.  Well, actually, my thoughts feel less like they shuffle between my ears and more like I can still hear them screaming at me across the room–from under five pillows, a set of headphones, and two squishy ear plugs.  They pound away at my head all day long, intertwining and running over themselves in their eagerness to command my poor little Self’s attention.  They jostle for affection and tenderness, and my poor Creativity has run away.  I think He is hiding in a corner until all the yelling stops.

But what’s funny about blogging is that I can’t let you in on that conversation.  I can’t let you in on that conversation because it’s not politically correct—or even polite, for that matter.  You would be offended, and then I would be offended at you, mostly for interrupting my eloquence with a *gasp*

I can’t let you in because you don’t care as much as I do.  My screaming voices are only a whisper among your screaming voices.  And we really all simply want peace and quiet.  The only reason my little window is comforting to you or to me is because it channels the energy; everything has to mush into a square to pop out the window and onto the other side of my glass box, or triangle, or quadrangle, or hexagon, or parralleogram, or rhombus.   (I think I secretly always liked the rhombus best.)  That little window of “a blog post” can do wonders to solidify the thoughts swirling around.

Perhaps it’s like those hurricane machines at the shoe stores from the nineties where the really loud salesman with the obnoxious and oversized company polo shoves you in to make a spectacle for the other innocent shoppers; you flail your arms about trying to catch on to something you can walk away with.  My thoughts aren’t like single paper dollars, though; it’s the whole roll of linen tromping around in gale-force wind.  They’re all connected; that’s why, if I eventually throw one end out of my glass window, the other end will eventually catch up and go sailing out into the great Beyond.

What if I am the Woman in White---does that make me crazy?

What if I am the Woman in White---does that make me crazy?

And that’s why it’s hard to blog.  I don’t want all my dirty linen out in the great Beyond.  I want it safely at home, where it’s regularly laundered, cut and dried.

So, accept my deep regrets: you may not hear from me for another week.

Creeper

oh the tragic beauty of a creeper parking lot

oh the tragic beauty of a creeper parking lot

I’m sure it’s happened to you.  You’re walking down the parking lot and there’s someone following you.  At first you don’t think of it because lots of cars roll slowly through a lot looking for the next available space.  But then you realize that they aren’t passing you.  They are just idling behind you—creeping along at an unnaturally slow pace for a metal vehicle with hundreds of horses under the hood.

So you begin to speed up slightly—mind you, this is all happening within a split second, maybe two.  Your pace is now unnaturally faster than the ordinary person returning to their parked car, but you want to keep it just shy of utter panic.  The driver of the creeping vehicle must never know that you’re onto them.  Somehow you think your ignorance will be a shield in the time of distress.  Drawing attention to their distress-causing behavior may incite them to increase escalate said behavior.  God forbid.

Now you’re slightly jogging and even going so far as to attempt the whimsical “glance over the shoulder.”  Oh, boy.  That was risky.  And, of course, for all your stealthiness, you didn’t get a single impression of the driver.  There’s no way the perpetrator would ever be identifiable by the kind of picture the sketch artist would produce when you recounted the story under great duress at the local precinct.  Oh, no.  It’s over.

Then, suddenly, as you pass the last despicably dim, outrageously lofty street lamp on your row you realize—with great relief and slight pressure of apprehension lest your hope prove false—that your car is parked two rows over.  Two whole rows, though which your tiny human body can maneuver on a dime but the large bootlegger motorcar with its bulky sideboards cannot.  It must proceed to the end of the aisle.

You dart through, sure to find your vehicle right where you left it, far away from creeping drivers and glances askance, safely under the tree that’s—

Wait, no!  You didn’t park under the tree today because it was raining!  And when it’s raining—not 100 degrees and sunny—outside, you never park at the back of the lot like usual, you always park up never the front so you can dart with your shiny galoshes across the shorter, straightest path to the awning and arrive semi-presentatlbe for your big quarterly meeting!

And now, the Creeper is turning the corner of your aisle, you’re about to be discovered, not only in your idiocy, but in your total vulnerability.  There’s not even a fuckin’ call box out this far for God’s sake!

So you abandon all veneer of propriety and grip on reality and break out in a dead run for the front of the lot, praying and hoping the whole way that when your body is discovered by the morning news the next day that it’ll be so obliterated by the shot that they could never tell that you were assaulted from behind—running—running away—running—

“Hey, pal, you need a lift?”

And finally you turn around to face your doom: the mall security cop.

18 Augusts R.I.P.

Should I be surprised that after 18 years of resuming classes in August (or September, if you count the post-Labor Day glory of elementary school) I am going through withdrawals?

Long live classic Lisa Frank!

Long live classic Lisa Frank!

No more trips to Walmart, Office Depot, Staples, or Target for coordinating folders, fresh college-ruled notebook paper, or superfluous protractors.  No more nervous filling out of agendas, mapping of the hallways, practicing of the lock combination, or ironing of the uniform.  Actually, I’m not sure if I ever ironed my high school uniform… No more midnight run to Walmart (well, 10 p.m. run for the first few semesters until the 24/7 one opened up the road) for plastic martini glasses, lined / un-lined index cards, or polka-dotted set of rain boots and umbrella.  No more calculating the commute (car + bus + walk), downloading the pre-class iPod playlist, impulsively purchasing of the overpriced wall poster, or stalking professors online profiles at ratemyprofessors.com.  Actually, I’ve never done preliminary research on a professor… In homage to my years of education, may 1992 – 2010 rest in peace, I offer an unusual reminiscence: my scholastic pet peeves.  Anyone can write about what everyone else does during school; so I will regale you with what nobody did…but me.

  • All the pages in a coloring book must be finished before a new coloring book can begin; this goes for to-do lists as well.
  • Pencils without erasers are not permitted.
  • Even if I know the teacher will never get to the part where the compass and protractor are required, you must faithfully carry them within easy reach in the pencil pouch at the front of the binder.
  • My book bag must be able to stand on its own four feet.  Literally: no slouching.
  • Gum is ABSOLUTELY required at all times—-no fruity flavors, only mint.
  • Take the prettiest, not shortest, route along the road, bus, or sidewalk.
  • Swing your umbrella in circles as you walk back from class, paying no attention until *SMACK* it hits you in the face.  Repeat.
  • Wear jeans as often as possible so you don’t have to shave your legs.
  • (1) August – September: full make-up and accessories (2) October – November: no make-up, one bracelet (3) December: please shower!
  • All doodling must be worthy of display in the High Museum of Art.  If it’s not, throw it away; stop doodling and pay attention.
  • Take notes—even if you already know the content.
  • Talk to the teacher and answer questions: always.
  • Stay after class to discuss the deeper implications and your own experiences and reactions: always.
  • Stop by whether it’s office hours or not: always.
  • Sleep in class: never.
  • Keep all textbooks—even if you already have a copy of that novel.
O! Education, long may you live on in the hearts of your Students, never ceasing to say: get a life! =)
And now, Ladies & Gentlemen, for your viewing pleasure:
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