I'm getting published!!!
I entered one of my poems in the regional Northwest Service Symposium (down in Portland) and it got accepted to be published in the Stories of Service book. I get to go down to Portland in May and read it in front of lots of people and do a workshop. I am waiting to here if it got Jury's Choice, I hope so.
Anywho, this is the poem, you've read it before but I changed it a bit.
Connections
(and those spaces in between)
A kid I tutor
Slit a guys throat
while his friend shot him with a semi-automatic;
the bullet went through his spine.
Surprised, he survived.
These kids kill mirror images of themselves-
microcosmic mirrors the macrocosmic.
I'm connected to all of this.
We all are connected to this.
Deadzones:
bombs, poisons,
elections, distractions, uranium, ethanol, plutonium,
standardized testing,
extinction, methamphetamines, lack of passion,
chlorofluorocarbons, consumer items,
a pile of garbage twice the size of the US in the Pacific.
What is this that we suffocate?
Counting
clearcuts,
tree rings,
tire tracks,
mud flows
slash
in the river bed.
We. Are. Connected.
The ocean breathes acid,
plankton out numbered by plastic.
I am waiting for the salmon to come home.
When I was young
I'd play a game with my mom
-she'd be passed out drunk,
sitting I'd count the seconds,
minutes,
my heart beats,
waiting for the rise and fall,
smelling margaritas
stale Salem
cigarettes.
I'm curious if she played
this game with her mom.
(how far down the line did it go?)
There is a child in a diaper and it is raining,
she's alone, sitting outside my door.
I know where she lives,
her mom never notices she's gone.
I'm watching a boy cry, the third relapse this year
he drinks, shoots, snorts, smokes for
his death
-wanting nothing more
than to feel alive.
"This goes nowhere but at least its a
route with a view."
I know these forgotten children.
There are more,
so many more.
These forgotten children from forgotten mothers and
missing fathers,
and their missing and forgotten
father's fathers.
Forgotten people,
missing cultures.
What are these addictions?
asphault, clearcuts, trawling, gene
splicing, heroin,
Monsanto, Weyerhaeuser, Pepsi.
Don't forget where you are from.
I still wait for the salmon to come home and spawn.
There are connections.
There are spaces in these connections,
in open mouths laughing-
I've planted gardens there,
made food,
played games,
spent time
loving.
In those spaces I've seen hands holding,
soccer balls,
and clumsy dancing.
Don't forget what you love.
Don't forget-
cry
laugh
sing
make love
be
impractical
climb trees
eat with your fingers
be
fiercely vulnerable.
paint with your hands
make mistakes
and messes
be audacious.
In those spaces the world is beautiful.
Anywho, this is the poem, you've read it before but I changed it a bit.
Connections
(and those spaces in between)
A kid I tutor
Slit a guys throat
while his friend shot him with a semi-automatic;
the bullet went through his spine.
Surprised, he survived.
These kids kill mirror images of themselves-
microcosmic mirrors the macrocosmic.
I'm connected to all of this.
We all are connected to this.
Deadzones:
bombs, poisons,
elections, distractions, uranium, ethanol, plutonium,
standardized testing,
extinction, methamphetamines, lack of passion,
chlorofluorocarbons, consumer items,
a pile of garbage twice the size of the US in the Pacific.
What is this that we suffocate?
Counting
clearcuts,
tree rings,
tire tracks,
mud flows
slash
in the river bed.
We. Are. Connected.
The ocean breathes acid,
plankton out numbered by plastic.
I am waiting for the salmon to come home.
When I was young
I'd play a game with my mom
-she'd be passed out drunk,
sitting I'd count the seconds,
minutes,
my heart beats,
waiting for the rise and fall,
smelling margaritas
stale Salem
cigarettes.
I'm curious if she played
this game with her mom.
(how far down the line did it go?)
There is a child in a diaper and it is raining,
she's alone, sitting outside my door.
I know where she lives,
her mom never notices she's gone.
I'm watching a boy cry, the third relapse this year
he drinks, shoots, snorts, smokes for
his death
-wanting nothing more
than to feel alive.
"This goes nowhere but at least its a
route with a view."
I know these forgotten children.
There are more,
so many more.
These forgotten children from forgotten mothers and
missing fathers,
and their missing and forgotten
father's fathers.
Forgotten people,
missing cultures.
What are these addictions?
asphault, clearcuts, trawling, gene
splicing, heroin,
Monsanto, Weyerhaeuser, Pepsi.
Don't forget where you are from.
I still wait for the salmon to come home and spawn.
There are connections.
There are spaces in these connections,
in open mouths laughing-
I've planted gardens there,
made food,
played games,
spent time
loving.
In those spaces I've seen hands holding,
soccer balls,
and clumsy dancing.
Don't forget what you love.
Don't forget-
cry
laugh
sing
make love
be
impractical
climb trees
eat with your fingers
be
fiercely vulnerable.
paint with your hands
make mistakes
and messes
be audacious.
In those spaces the world is beautiful.