So much for doing this Pomodoro Penwoman thing every day. Oh well, best laid plans and good intentions and all that. I'm writing again today! Whatever I want!
I have been writing. I feel the need to defend myself. I've been writing with my NaNoWriMo club and have over 2,000 words, which feels good.
I also took a "Prompts for Poets" class a couple days ago through the public library, which was wonderful. It makes me want to try some more poetry.
I told someone once that writing poetry was like an ambulance for me. If I was writing poetry, I was in a crisis. It doesn't have to be that way. And I think it would be fun to enter the Dakota County Library Poetry Contest. Just to try it. I'm always encouraging my students to enter, but I've never done it myself.
So that's what I'm going to use this Pomodoro for. A poem. Or several. Let's see!
I'm not sure what feeling I want to describe yet. I think I'll just get started, digging through my own trauma. More discount therapy.
....
And now I'm stuck. Keep writing, Penwoman, keep writing!
Let's start with a haiku? Seventeen syllables should be manageable.
Sleepy paws stretching
Twitching tails chasing a dream
Pretending to sleep
Okay that's something. Not sure I uncovered anything deep, but cats are always a fun subject. Let's try one about work.
Days getting longer
Though the hours still seem so short
My to-do list waits
Depressing.
I do love an acrostic, maybe I could try one of those. But first I must choose an excellent word...
Remembered today the name of the President's Desk
Entirely poetic
Simply ironic
Oh! to be resolute --
Like I would want that job!
Uniquely impossible
Terribly lonely
Evil, in the wrong hands.
Not expecting that.
Hmmm...only been at this 15 minutes. Maybe I'll try another.
More.
Always more to grieve.
Now?
Seriously?
Like there's ever a good time.
Almost ironic
Unarmed black man, killed by a cop, but not
George Floyd.
He's been dead almost a year and the
Trial is almost over.
Everybody knows it's not the end.
Race to the bottom.
That's kind of something. I was trying to put something about a taser in there, but couldn't quite find the words. This makes me sad. Maybe a prayer, next.
My voice is trapped in my throat;
No words can escape.
I have questions for you
I've waited years for answers.
I thought if I filled in every bubble on the test right it would reveal the grand plan;
I thought if I played the piece right, all the way through, just once, I would deserve to understand.
But I can't hear you.
I don't know if I ever did.
And I don't understand
My fears of looking foolish are looming.
They say kind words, but I can tell they don't really understand.
"Why would she do that? Who does she think she is? What does she know that I don't?"
Their silence speaks. It speaks volumes.
Why don't you heal us?
Why don't you gather in the sheaves and put this whole thing to rest?
Why don't you end this?
It's little league and the score is already 20 to 0. Why do you make us keep playing? Why don't you call it?
You say we've scored, but I don't remember it.
I remember faces shot dead and I remember lives cut short and I remember anger fear and sadness.
What about hope? A voice, a small voice, calls from inside.
Or maybe it's outside.
It's hard to tell.
What about it?
Do not be overcome by evil.
But overcome evil with good.
I'm trying. What are you doing?
Where have you been?
And why do you always leave me with questions?
Not as cathartic as I hoped.
There's some hope there, though, and I need that.
Dark days, my friends, dark days.
I have about 10 minutes left and I'm all out of poems for the moment.
I'm going to just kind of stream-of-consciously write the rest of it. You might wonder how that will be any different from what I've written so far and, well, you'd be right to wonder. This will be more prosey and hopefully less pretentious. No guarantees however. No refunds either in case you were wondering.
I feel like I don't have enough energy to be outraged by Daunte Wright (Had to look up his name, couldn't even come up with it). Kind of like George Floyd to be honest. But boy howdy did that kick off something. I'm also not very proud of Minnesota right now. It's uncomfortable to be in the middle of these kinds of things. And heart-breaking to see how it affects my neighbors. And also kind of embarrassing. Is this what we are going to be known for? Yikes.
And double Yikes.
And I don't really have a leg to stand on. Who am to complain of being tired? How can I plead that I'm out of energy to care about a young black man, was pulled over, basically for being black, and was shot accidentally by a cop who thought she was reaching for her taser. It's so fucking tragic.
So tragic, I think I can't write anymore. If God doesn't help us, we're screwed. Lord help us. Like, yesterday.
My own most grievous fault.
Every time I hear that line, I
Recoil with
Cringe at myself.
I have sinned by my own fault. My own most grievous fault.
Forgive me. Cleanse my
Unclean self.
Lord, help me.
Like
Yesterday.
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