I have meant to post a Sunday Salon for (I’m being honest now) years. Here it is. I’m just going to ramble on a bit.

After pushing myself through two books I didn’t enjoy much, I read Tuck Your Skirt in Your Panties and Run. I enjoyed it, but it was so short, so I decided to indulge in more guilty pleasure reading (Book Candy — thanks TB!). I read Charlaine Harris’ Dead in the Family and Janet Evanovich’s Wicked Appetite.

Right now I am reading Great Gals: Inspired Ideas for Living a Kick-Ass Life. It’s kind of a workbook with brief bios of incredible women in (recent-ish) history, including Sojourner Truth, Frida Kahlo, and Ani DiFranco.  I keep half a dozen journals at a time and a lot of the soul searching type of prompts in this book aren’t anything extraordinary to me. I think for a woman who isn’t a writer or doesn’t journal, it could be a neat book to use (for its intended purpose). I’ve enjoyed the bios though. The whole time I’ve been reading it, I keep thinking about pre-teen and teenage girls that I know who would probably really enjoy it. I’m considering who I might pass it on to because, really, I could see myself eating up this book when I was around 12. The artwork inside is cool and the prompts have a fill-in-the-blank quality.

Next on my list is The Gathering of the Elders, a collection of poetry by Wesli Court (pseudonym for Lewis Turco, professor emeritus of my alma mater). I contacted the publisher for a review copy and was delighted to actually receive one. Have a quick look around Dr. Turco’s blog, Poetics and Ruminations, and you’ll get a taste of why I’m so happy to read this book.

April — National Poetry Month. As a currently-aimless-writer, I tend to just get bummed out by Poetry Month, NanoWrimo and anything else that reminds me that I should just write something already because I love it. I’m working on changing that as my now 16-month-0ld son starts sleeping better and better (making me more and more functional). Because it’s National Poetry Month, I’m going to share a poem I wrote, which I have never done on this blog. In fact, I can almost guarantee that you couldn’t find any poem I’ve ever written, online or anywhere else, unless you break into my house. FYI, I would not like that.

Daddy

I watch your arm tremble.

A drop of draft beer splashes on the bar floor.

I feel your face redden and

hear your secret hope that no one noticed.

You switch the glass

from right hand (bad) to left hand (good).

 

You laugh with friends

yet with furrowed brows, your eyes surrounded

by lines of confusion

between

where and when, now or then.

 

I always envied your writing.

“Catholic nuns can teach perfect cursive.”

Now only sometimes you sign your checks

without hating your own hand

for not doing as it’s told.

 

Sometimes we talk politics and theory

like we used to,

in the living room after work and school.

But after a while your eyes glaze over

and you can’t figure out

what it was you wanted to say.

 

You don’t recall where we were headed

in the conversation or

the parking lot.

 

When you can’t remember where you are

where you were going, or why it was in the first place

your hand takes on its own will,

shaking more and more furiously.

With every lost second

the color drains out of your face.

 

Your eyes widen like a child.

Like my child I want to pick you up,

give you your blanket,

kill your fear with prescription weaponry.

 

But you are my father

and in my frustration I

want to yell at you

when you don’t understand

the first time I explain my opinions.

 

You are my hero.

Watching you will your legs to move,

to

“Work goddammit!!”

I know you feel weak.

 

I try not to rush,

because I am not in a hurry

because all of your moments are precious to me

because I know it’s hard to hold onto your shoelace.

-me ’02