洞月亮 Cave Moon Press November 2016

FEATURED POET: Jeannine Hall Gailey served as the second Poet Laureate of Redmond, Washington. She is the author of five books of poetry: Becoming the Villainess, She Returns to the Floating World, Unexplained Fevers, The Robot Scientist's Daughter, and Field Guide to the End of the World, winner of the Moon City Press Book Prize. Her work has been featured on NPR's The Writers Almanac, Verse Daily, and The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Her web site is www.webbish6.com. 

IN CASE

We were taught in grade school different lessons of survival:
In case of nuclear attack, hide under your desk.
In case of chemical attack, buy duct tape.
Buy a rape whistle. Carry knives. Learn a martial art.

I read old fairy tales, wolves lurking behind trees
and parents ready to kill children. Magic mirrors,
dragons, spells that charm and protect.
Burn this herb to banish ghosts.

Sometimes I imagine the afterlife, puffs of pink
clouds and unicorns, or gold harps, or glass cities
with streets made of emerald. The whole earth
spinning like a child’s marble below, pitiful.

We are told to vaccinate, to educate, to warn.
Traffic tickets, parking signs: bureaucratic safety nets.
Our governments promise safety in exchange for ….
I will light a candle, listen to the solar-charged radio for a sign.


EVERY HUMAN IS A BLACK BOX

We all carry our own map to disaster, the faint voice recordings
that veer from mundane to hysterical in that last moment.
There’s no turnkey solution to us; one person’s milk
is another’s poison; my mother swears green tea gives her hives.

My husband looks up from the field with scratchy throat and red eyes
while I frolic in the goldenrod; at night I toss and wheeze
in the dust of my pillow while he snores dreamlessly.

Our lives have stood, like loaded guns—for one, heart attack
by sauce Alfredo, for another, 101 years of béarnaise and tobacco
troubled by nothing more than mild glaucoma. Some of us
can disregard the warnings; others must cling tightly to directions.

When you slide into the grave, remember your body is a document,
a reminder, a memorial to distant waters, the siren call of cells
to sleep. Turn off. Shut down. Mayday, May Day.

WRITE YOUR POEM!

Zazen on Ching-t’ing Mountain

The birds have vanished down the sky.
Now the last cloud drains away.
We sit together, the mountain and me,
until only the mountain remains

Li Bai wrote this poem in the 8th century and it was a zazen .  A Buddhist reminder of our impermanence.  Jeannine reminds us of that in the 21st century with the metaphors of our technology.  What is your intersection with impermanence?  Capture it as honestly as Jeannine.  Write your poem!  Type it in a text to your niece.

洞月亮 Cave Moon Press November 2016

FEATURED POET: Jeannine Hall Gailey served as the second Poet Laureate of Redmond, Washington. She is the author of five books of poetry: Becoming the Villainess, She Returns to the Floating World, Unexplained Fevers, The Robot Scientist's Daughter, and Field Guide to the End of the World, winner of the Moon City Press Book Prize. Her work has been featured on NPR's The Writers Almanac, Verse Daily, and The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Her web site is www.webbish6.com. 

IN CASE

We were taught in grade school different lessons of survival:
In case of nuclear attack, hide under your desk.
In case of chemical attack, buy duct tape.
Buy a rape whistle. Carry knives. Learn a martial art.

I read old fairy tales, wolves lurking behind trees
and parents ready to kill children. Magic mirrors,
dragons, spells that charm and protect.
Burn this herb to banish ghosts.

Sometimes I imagine the afterlife, puffs of pink
clouds and unicorns, or gold harps, or glass cities
with streets made of emerald. The whole earth
spinning like a child’s marble below, pitiful.

We are told to vaccinate, to educate, to warn.
Traffic tickets, parking signs: bureaucratic safety nets.
Our governments promise safety in exchange for ….
I will light a candle, listen to the solar-charged radio for a sign.


EVERY HUMAN IS A BLACK BOX

We all carry our own map to disaster, the faint voice recordings
that veer from mundane to hysterical in that last moment.
There’s no turnkey solution to us; one person’s milk
is another’s poison; my mother swears green tea gives her hives.

My husband looks up from the field with scratchy throat and red eyes
while I frolic in the goldenrod; at night I toss and wheeze
in the dust of my pillow while he snores dreamlessly.

Our lives have stood, like loaded guns—for one, heart attack
by sauce Alfredo, for another, 101 years of béarnaise and tobacco
troubled by nothing more than mild glaucoma. Some of us
can disregard the warnings; others must cling tightly to directions.

When you slide into the grave, remember your body is a document,
a reminder, a memorial to distant waters, the siren call of cells
to sleep. Turn off. Shut down. Mayday, May Day.

WRITE YOUR POEM!

Zazen on Ching-t’ing Mountain

The birds have vanished down the sky.
Now the last cloud drains away.
We sit together, the mountain and me,
until only the mountain remains

Li Bai wrote this poem in the 8th century and it was a zazen .  A Buddhist reminder of our impermanence.  Jeannine reminds us of that in the 21st century with the metaphors of our technology.  What is your intersection with impermanence?  Capture it as honestly as Jeannine.  Write your poem!  Type it in a text to your niece.