By Hand

    who of a certain age has not delighted in reading  the correspondence between well known artists or writers, historical figures or  lovers—handwritten words describe their  thoughts,  hopes, disillusionments 

   it takes time to write a letter and time to read a letter, think about what  to write in response

   i sit beside the letter writer—it is an intimate relationship 

   today I read through a packet of postcards sent to me years ago, the words sent to me years ago— the year my son traveled around the world, a friend who spent  three years in england, friends who traveled for business, a friend who owned a book store

   so I decided to sign up for the february letter writing challenge—some letters will go to friends and some to people we once called pen-pals

   all letters or postcards will be hand written, mailed, or hand delivered

   a letter a day for thirty days— exciting and a chance to open a few letters

Open Opus

Open your heart

Open up your store of gifts 

Open open open

Be open

Let the words pour out

Create a collage of sound

welcoming everyone

Create a buffet of food

open for whoever hungers

Let the water flow 

from your reservoirs 

Open those storehouses

and invite everyone to enter

and find what they need

Open up

and you will fill up

Open For a Challenge

Eureka. I’ve just discovered  InCoWriMo,  better known as International Correspondence Writing Month— inspired by NaNoWriMo or National Novel Writing Month. About ten years ago I took part in NaNoWriMo. The goal— to write a 50,000 page novel during the month of November. Not only are there thousands and thousands of eager participants from every section of the globe, but each area in this country has a cheer leader who encourages, cajoles, and finds locations where you can meet and write. ( if you so desire) I was in the West of Boston group—sometimes the group met at Starbucks and other times at a local library. I chose to write at home— tapping out my allotted word count for that day while munching on some comfort snack.

     At the end of February you submit your mss and word count. If you have attained the lofty goal of 50,000 words a certificate of completion is yours. I did frame, but not hang, my certificate. I expect that most of the novels were as ragged as mine. 

     After you revise your mss there’s a chance to submit it again and one novel is selected for publication. 

     The requirements of InCoWriMo : write a letter or postcard every day during the month of February ( It is a short month.) The letters must be mailed  or hand delivered. Participants may request pen-pals for the month— or longer. 

     The question: To take part or Not to take part. I’m always open for a challenge and I do own some wonderful fountain pens.

After Seeing a Film About Churchill

          
           An appeaser is one who feeds a crocodile, 
           hoping it will eat him last.
        —Winston Churchill 

Looking at past history

through the lens of the present

knowing how the events played out

Judging the participants

based on the chronicle we now know

is the job of historians

and those who stare into the future

hoping to make the right moves

and not tilt the future into

a catastrophe or open up

fissures that widen into crevices 

that swallow up countries

Open Script

Loose script

Bubble letters

Spinning words

across concrete,

under bridges—

splashed in your face
Politics  in bold fluorescent 

Free wheeling language

out of a spray can

thrown in gaudy colors

in your face, outside boxes 

pushing boundaries

not hemmed in by frames

or clean walls in galleries

saying aloud words heard 

in subways, street corners,

poetry slams—words

formed within sounds

and rhymes and impolite

digressions, honed in internal

dialogues, response to the spin

of newspapers, talking heads—

Tags of artists in fat lines

on dilapidated buildings

worn out places

and walls and alleys 

set aside for graffiti—

Don’t mistake urban wall murals

with graffiti 

Rejoice in the Now

            ...I rejoice having to construct

           something upon which to rejoice

                  —T.S.Elliot

remember those crossroads

remember how you wondered 

which way to go and fretted

about your choice

remember how you started

and stopped and asked

yourself so many questions

you sometimes walked backwards

to where the road forked— 

with too much passed time

those crossroads close,

hidden beneath dense undergrowth

 an open path isn’t visible—

this is the gift earned over time

or the burden 

After a Visit to the Library

    it’s an enigma, a choice as ponderous as the lion or the tiger— which book to read, where shall i invest my time, what pages will engage my mind and heart, and suppose I select the wrong book, a book that need to be returned in fourteen days , new books with long lines of people pacing and waiting for their chance 

    both are lofty excursions, both have bibical moorings, both dip their ink in ancient questions and ask for patience as they plumb the depths of human life and faith

    shall i read both at the same time and allow characters to shape shift, leave their page to take up residence in another story

   that’s an open question with no definitive answer, no response to my quandary 

Be Open

                               I’m bilingual in faith

                                      —Mary Doria Russell

Select fragments 

that speak to you

Cast aside dogma

that  is too snug

and words that 

scratch and sting

Take a portion of this and

a morsel of that

Shuffle and interweave

Savor the mixture

An Open Letter

This was written thirty-five years ago—a few months short of our first anniversary.  I copied it over on our marriage announcement in 2004 when gay marriage became possible in Massachusetts. Now for our thirty-fifth anniversary I am once again printing this poem. 

Of a Little Thing

                                 Wherever you go, I shall go

                                 Wherever you live, I shall live

                                 Your people will be my people

                                  And your God will be my God

                                         Ruth 1:16

We sit at the kitchen table

I with my feet on the chair

You with a napkin full of peanuts

Juice glasses filled with spring water

grow tepid while we talk

“How was your day.?”

And you tell me the latest crisis

while peanut shells pile higher

“How was your day?”

I tell you how cold it was on bus duty

and my plans to keep warm

We plan an ideal outfit:

sheep lined earmuffs,

goose down from neck to ankles,

battery operated socks.

I pour more spring water,

take out a half-done Sunday crossword,

move my chair so we both can see

The erasable pen is easier

than the ink scrawl over ink

I go too fast you say

You sometimes guess, I say

I love you, I say

I know, you say

Shutdown Averted—Government Open

   it is over the haggling has ceased for the moment while each side believes the other side bears responsibility for causing harm for this is the way it is for now and has been for much of history and yet on some occasions someone steps out of the world mold and decrees otherwise

   and so it remains for now 

   someday indeed the lion and the lamb will sit on the same blanket

Sing Hallelujah

           Help me to open my lips

           that I may sing your praise.

                    — Rachel Barenblatt

when the warmth of today’s sun

and the promise of spring

in the midst of winter’s time

spread across my landscape

I gave thanks for the day

                           For the poor will never cease from the land ; 

                          therefore I command you, saying, ‘ You shall

                          open your hand wide to your brother, to your

                           poor and your needy, in your land.’

                                 NKJV 15: 11

                           

   It’s not a plea to open your hand

it’s a command

   And it isn’t a half hearted,

 almost closed

hand

No, splay your fingers

   spread them wide enough

to hold bread, to hold communion

squeezed from fruit in your cut glass bowl

And don’t forget  the first sown wheat

ground into flour, transformed 

into loaves of bread

Spread those hands wide enough to hold

sweet milk, cheese, and chickens

cooked on a spit revolving like the world

This is a command

How to Begin

                         I thought mostly about myself,

                         and my story, and the need for

                         a story in general...

                               —Meir Shalev

a  story meanders, takes unexpected

shortcuts, stops, and then moves on—

along the way some events leave 

indelible marks, shifts and gorges,

secrets bury themselves until

a knotted string with a buried piece

of a story calls out, seeks a space

that’s open and wide enough to

begin to tell the story that remained

buried under years 

it requires both will and a root

head shovel to dig down and draw out

those buried shards of memory 

  

   

Welcome Back

This is a celebratory note

because my local coffee shop is open

after weeks being shuttered

with only a note to say sorry

for the inconvenience

Inconvenient for the elderly man who

walks the half mile for his coffee and paper 

or for the woman who reads her historical novel

along with  toast layered with peanut butter

She comes back for lunch before heading

to the library and working on a jigsaw puzzle

So this is a celebratory note

Now is time to return for a bagel and smoked lox 

After Hearing a Lie

Distortions, lies, half truths—

bending words to mean

something they aren’t 

Hiding behind someone else

to tell a story slant 

To omit parts of what was said

To add details 

To create chaos

To play with words as if they 

are pliable, wet clay ready

to be stretched into any form

is to create a shuttered world

devoid of a place to open dialogue

I Am Those Words

I am not an open book

spilling the personal out

in conversations nor am I 

shrouded in mystery

I am in my written words

I am found in quotations—

“ the personal is political”

Yes, I’ll carry that banner

An Open Table

If I sit on the rocking chair

lean to one side and tilt my head

I see four scratches 

in the wood floor—

not deep enough to drag

my fingernail through and feel a ridge

but seen in a slant of light—

a reminder of the evening

we needed fifteen place settings

for a family dinner

That night I spoke with one

who had shut off family years ago

and three I only knew by given names

When I sit in the rocking chair

and catch those scratches in the light

I hear their voices 

Love is in the Struggle

                   God wrestling is part struggle

                    and part embrace.

                            —Naomi M. Hyman

It’s that way with families

sometimes you just need to argue

about who left the light on all night

or who left an empty milk container

in the refrigerator or who didn’t fill

the car with gas when you needed

 to get out at the crack of light

or who is the family favorite

or the black sheep 

or who is more attentive—

more responsible 

And then you laugh 

Plan next year’s family events

Share stories

But sometimes things break apart

and the stories clash—

remembered events differ 

and words are left unsaid

and what was open closes

Open close

Open close

Back and forth

a kaleidoscope

of changing pieces and scenes

The rift may hover—

 struggle, embrace

struggle, embrace

Or we may settle 

on one side

of that equation

(