tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82943559945394704292023-11-15T09:08:36.824-08:00AlopadAt Least One Poem a Day
Poems by Linda Hoffman Kimball throughout the month of November 2009.
Results, process and odd details.Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8294355994539470429.post-74848264058487097572009-11-30T21:29:00.000-08:002009-11-30T21:29:48.662-08:00Two Sonnets for the Fairwell of Alopad<b>Rekindling</b><br />
He<br />
Sighs.<br />
She<br />
Cries.<br />
End<br />
Tears.<br />
Mend <br />
Fears. <br />
Steaming<br />
Embers,<br />
Dreams<br />
Remembered.<br />
Go <br />
Slow.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>The Antics of a Rotund Swine Anxious for His Morning Repast</b><br />
<br />
Big<br />
Round<br />
Pig<br />
Bounds<br />
<br />
Through <br />
The puddle<br />
To<br />
The mud. He’ll<br />
<br />
Land<br />
in glop.<br />
Stand<br />
In slop.<br />
<br />
Thrilling<br />
Swilling.<br />
<br />
<br />
This is the last night of Alopad. Tomorrow, Dec. 1st, I will move on to the delightful full time demands of Christmas, shifting lifestyles (from Midwestern to split Midwestern/Mountain), family frolics, etc. I loved this challenge and have learned a lot. Perhaps by the goofy range of tonight’s two sonnets you think I haven’t learned anything about poetry. But I have.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
I learned that to throw myself into the reverie of free verse requires a different part of my brain than the structured, rhyming type.<br />
I learned that I am happiest with my work (at least for this kind of daily adventure) when I don’t censor my topics or even my products.<br />
I learned that I am still perplexed by what exactly makes a poem “good” or “bad.” (I subscribe to a-poem-a-day from Writer’s Almanac and some of them leave me even more puzzled about definitions of quality.)<br />
I learned that my mind has wild swings of interests – from audience to topic to voice to style to mood to poem for expression of thought’s sake to poem for playing with words sake – and I’m not likely to rein myself. I thrive on the variety.<br />
I learned a little about blogs/websites.<br />
I learned that I have much still to learn about blogs/websites.<br />
I learned that November is a bad month to try to do this sort of thing. There are so many other conflicts. Why not February?<br />
<br />
Thanks for following along, ye noble troopers! I’d love to know which of these offerings appealed to you most (or least) and why. Don’t be a stranger.Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8294355994539470429.post-34197139815871565122009-11-29T20:58:00.000-08:002009-11-29T20:58:03.910-08:00Horse Power<b>Horse Power</b><br />
By Linda Hoffman Kimball<br />
<br />
Driving home from church today<br />
I thought about my ancestors.<br />
Not my ancestors in general,<br />
But the specifics of how my<br />
19th century kinfolk got around.<br />
They had no cars, so how did they<br />
Get from place to place in their routines? <br />
Once they got here from Germany and Sweden<br />
They settled in Midwestern cities. <br />
Did they own buggies and horses?<br />
Did they hire horse taxis?<br />
To get groceries and supplies, did Jacob<br />
Go out to the stall behind the house,<br />
Stroke Blaze’s soft nose, slip her an apple,<br />
Attach the accoutrements <br />
And set off clop-clopping down the road?<br />
Where did he get feed for her? Who shoed her?<br />
On what occasions did she need a vet?<br />
Was she merely an important tool,<br />
Expected to work, taken for granted<br />
Like I do my car in the garage?<br />
Or did my great-grandfather rub her down,<br />
Coo to her in his German dialect,<br />
Inhaling the sweat and strength<br />
Of her with a grateful heart?Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8294355994539470429.post-13849187862483891652009-11-28T17:06:00.000-08:002009-11-28T17:06:29.700-08:00Carmax Cattle Dog<b>Carmax Cattle Dog</b><br />
By Linda Hoffman Kimball<br />
<br />
While waiting for my estimate<br />
I start up a conversation with the white haired woman<br />
with the dog in the customer service room.<br />
The woman has clear blue eyes and a broad Midwestern accent.<br />
The dog, keen and alert, smiles up at me expectantly.<br />
She – the dog, not the woman – looks like she’s part wolf or coyote.<br />
“She’s an Australian Cattle Dog,” the woman explains.<br />
“Most people think she’s a small German Shepherd,” <br />
The dog lies fondly and obediently at the woman’s feet,<br />
Brown eyes wide open, observing everything.<br />
“They try all sorts of combination for this kind of dog.<br />
They need just the right mix for the work they have to do.<br />
She’s active all day long.”<br />
<br />
Before me is a small dog bred for keeping massive Aussie cattle<br />
On the hoof and in the herd.<br />
In her suburban adopted land what challenge, what satisfaction<br />
Is there in keeping an eye on plastic chairs<br />
In the Carmax waiting room?<br />
What if, I wonder, I, too, have ancestral impulses:<br />
A primal knowledge of planting the best seeds<br />
Perfectly by the phases of the moon;<br />
a gift for handling clay and forming it<br />
into aesthetically fine and practical forms;<br />
a knack for sussing out water and minerals<br />
hidden deep within the earth?<br />
Is this why I am, like this lovely animal, <br />
Restless because the tasks required of me now<br />
Have no bearing on what I was anciently meant to do?<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm trading in my car of the last 6 years for a diesel engine vehicle. I went to Carmax yesterday to see how much they'd give me for it. Little did I know I'd have an existential moment in the waiting room while Noah and Noel checked out my vehicle.Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8294355994539470429.post-37196617057924090522009-11-25T18:56:00.000-08:002009-11-25T18:56:29.811-08:00Cautious Advent<b>Cautious Advent </b><br />
by Linda Hoffman Kimball <b><br />
</b><br />
<br />
I guard myself against the baubles and the bright lights.<br />
No malls, no 4am door-opening deals.<br />
I will fast-forward through the ads<br />
With the tantalizing prices.<br />
Do not tweet the bargains to me.<br />
The lure is strong, and the<br />
Holiday hum a siren song.<br />
Lead me not into temptation.<br />
I am in it for the peace on earth,<br />
The joy to the world, the silent night.<br />
Help me focus not on the meltdowns, <br />
But on the fifth candle,<br />
The brilliant Center of it all.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I love the folderol. I embrace it all. The merriment and the fabulous store windows and the wrapping of gifts, the music. <br />
<a name='more'></a>I can feel the twitch of the Christmas season everywhere now and the Thanksgiving turkey isn’t even in the oven yet. But I’m still learning how to embrace it completely without catching the flu of consumerism. <br />
<br />
Happy Thanksgiving, dear readers. I’m taking tomorrow (Thanksgiving) off from Alopad. See you on Friday.Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8294355994539470429.post-66870698239946115952009-11-24T20:19:00.000-08:002009-11-24T20:19:09.491-08:00Perfect Match<b>Perfect Match</b><br />
by Linda Hoffman Kimball<br />
<br />
He wasn’t much of a conversationalist.<br />
Not a quick wit. Not the brightest bulb.<br />
Short for a guy – just my height.<br />
Not so much skinny as wiry.<br />
A nice guy. Just a very nice guy.<br />
But oh – with his hand on my back,<br />
On the dance floor with basketball hoops and slick blond floors.<br />
Oh.<br />
The slightest shift of pulse,<br />
The nuance of his finger tip<br />
and I would follow with a sigh,<br />
spin out with a flair,<br />
curl in to his tight a-tempo embrace <br />
– in step, in time,<br />
(and somehow, for the length of the tune)<br />
in love.<br />
<br />
<br />
It’s been a long time since I thought about this fellow. But tonight, watching Donnie Osmond win Dancing with the Stars,<br />
<a name='more'></a> my mind turned to church dances in cultural halls outside of Boston. I’m no natural dancer (even with my fondness for Jazzercise) but this particular guy was proof that if a guy knows how to lead, magic can happen even for the clumsiest partner. He was really something. Oh my.Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8294355994539470429.post-3802000942423596532009-11-23T18:33:00.000-08:002009-11-23T18:33:52.454-08:00Still, Iraq<b>Still, Iraq</b><br />
by Linda Hoffman Kimball<br />
<br />
Scorching air. Lungs clench.<br />
Mutilated reasoning.<br />
When will they come home?<br />
<br />
We’re about to enjoy family time and the luxury of bounty. Soldiers are still in Iraq and Afghanistan<br />
<a name='more'></a>, and what exactly did they go there to do? Now, after having disrupted so much, can we extricate our troops? I’m not a very political person, but holidays contrast so starkly with the protracted difficulties and loss so many bear.Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8294355994539470429.post-14928568869402377292009-11-22T20:47:00.001-08:002009-11-22T21:12:02.635-08:00Gratitude -- a chiasm<b>Gratitude</b><br />
– a chiasm<br />
by Linda Hoffman Kimball<br />
<br />
For this miraculous blue whirl, fragile and amazing, dazzling and complex;<br />
For this shining sea-to-sea, alabaster-citied experiment that can, that can;<br />
For this place of roots and parkways, mixing-it-up by the lake;<br />
For red brick and mortar, nestled, neighborly;<br />
For blankets, apples, oatmeal, piano keys<br />
I offer thanks<br />
From the snug of my pillow;<br />
In the jewels of the windows’ glass;<br />
Through every familiar route and new discovery;<br />
Along cornfields, desert, prairie, red rock, mountains, seashore;<br />
On this great, good gift of orbit and earth, deep, sparkling and strong.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Chiasm is a poetic form that shows up in Biblical and other ancient texts<br />
<a name='more'></a> (including Beowulf.) It has nothing to do with rhyme, but with structure and a paralleling pattern of concepts. There are several examples of this in the Book of Mormon. We looked at some today in Relief Society and it prompted me for this evening's poem, all caught up in the season of the coming week. I set up a structure of Global, country, city, home, room THANKS room, home, city, country, global then let the juices flow for things that I felt thankful for and the spaces in my life where I feel this gratitude. This was fun and not belabored like last night's wrestling with the format.Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8294355994539470429.post-67763463590627723782009-11-21T18:33:00.000-08:002009-11-21T18:57:10.610-08:00Word PlayWord Play<br />
by Linda Hoffman Kimball<br />
<br />
<br />
F<br />
U<br />
<b> S C R A B B L E</b><br />
L A T E<br />
N I G H T S,<br />
O I<br />
O M<br />
D E<br />
S<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
This visual word play took a lot longer to get lined up approximately correctly than it did to think up. Sometimes "art" and technology don't get along all that well.Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8294355994539470429.post-67896249446510836402009-11-20T20:26:00.000-08:002009-11-20T20:41:28.390-08:00Well Fed<b>Well Fed</b><br />
-for Oprah <br />
<br />
by Linda Hoffman Kimball<br />
<br />
I raised my babies on Oprah,<br />
Spooned fed them from jars<br />
of her candor and sass,<br />
Sweetened their binkies<br />
with the books she suggested,<br />
Marinated them in the wonder<br />
of what women can do<br />
when they take themselves seriously.<br />
I taught them “turn your wounds to wisdom”<br />
like a nursery rhyme,<br />
like grace over a meal.<br />
<br />
I’m not an Oprah groupie, just an admirer. Since she first appeared on AM Chicago I liked her style – so honest and funny and smart. <br />
<a name='more'></a>My, how she’s grown. Outgrown her Oprah show, apparently. She announced today that next year will be her last season. Then comes her own cable channel. Sounds like a smart move to me.Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8294355994539470429.post-84396379745833376312009-11-19T21:16:00.000-08:002009-11-19T21:22:03.672-08:00The Salvation Army Comes to Wilmette<b>The Salvation Army Comes to Wilmette</b><br />
by Linda Hoffman Kimball<br />
<br />
Well-groomed ladies of the fine north shore<br />
Go walkin’ on into the Dominicks store,<br />
Strollin’ right past the jingle bell man<br />
Playin’ and swayin’ by his bright red can.<br />
While they hunt for lettuce and meat,<br />
He’s jivin’ on the sidewalk with his bell and a beat.<br />
He’s havin’ a ball with his ring-a-ting dance.<br />
His feet are keepin’ rhythm with a tap and a prance.<br />
Customers stop, and he gives a grin.<br />
He doesn’t care if they drop coins in.<br />
Watch how he shakes it high and low,<br />
Fast on the right side; left side’s slow.<br />
He nods to the ladies and the toddlers there.<br />
His syncopated jingling fills the air.<br />
He says “God Bless!” when folks walk by.<br />
How can you not just love this guy?Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8294355994539470429.post-75512397021608893722009-11-18T14:44:00.001-08:002009-11-18T14:44:43.141-08:00Ocean Solace<b>Ocean Solace</b><br />
by Linda Hoffman Kimball<br />
<br />
Smooth<br />
Shore,<br />
Soothe<br />
More<br />
Bruised<br />
Pride.<br />
Use<br />
Tide<br />
For<br />
Taking<br />
More<br />
Aching<br />
Away<br />
Today. <br />
<br />
I love the sound of the tide on the shore. It must be one of the most ancient sounds on the planet. So primal and elemental. <br />
<a name='more'></a>I’ve got too much going on right now, and this little meditation gave me a restorative break from keeping track of all the things I have to do (one of which is writing a poem every day).Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8294355994539470429.post-39842015376183157412009-11-17T13:33:00.000-08:002009-11-17T13:33:18.061-08:00Hungry Near the Hen House<b>Hungry Near the Hen House</b><br />
by Linda Hoffman Kimball<br />
<br />
A gremlin from lands of the Nether<br />
With a face creased and ugly as leather<br />
Rubs his greasy old chin.<br />
Then he launches right in<br />
Gobbling chickens from toenail to feather.<br />
<br />
It’s a crazy, busy time here. I've got plates spinning,<br />
<a name='more'></a>balls in the air and I’m putting out small fires all over the place. Maybe I should craft another one about a juggler. Writing this one has made me hungry so I think I’ll go look for a tasty morsel to eat….Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8294355994539470429.post-16907043208238518522009-11-16T18:42:00.000-08:002009-11-16T18:59:15.893-08:00Ten Items or Fewer<b>Ten Items or Fewer</b><br />
by Linda Hoffman Kimball<br />
<br />
The woman places her items on the belt.<br />
They shiver down toward the cashier, a parade of her life.<br />
Salad in a bag – a splurge<br />
When an entire head of lettuce costs half as much.<br />
But Tom said to get the good stuff;<br />
The dinner might mean a promotion.<br />
Two tomatoes – vine-ripened this time.<br />
She remembered Tom’s gripe:<br />
“None of those tough ones like you got last time.<br />
No flavor and hard as a rock. What were you thinking?”<br />
Four thick steaks.<br />
“Not too fatty, but some in just the right places<br />
To make it extra good,”<br />
He’d said, patting her rump, raising his eyebrow.<br />
A box of tampons.<br />
She can measure her life in empty tampon boxes. <br />
Creepy leers are all he ever offers.<br />
That's fine. That's fine. <br />
Cheese. Mild Cheddar.<br />
Not bleu, not feta, nothing too pungent.<br />
Like her, the cheese needs to do its job:<br />
Add a little bit of interest,<br />
But not call attention to itself.<br />
A bag of little red potatoes.<br />
Just like his mother always serves.<br />
<br />
All rung up, she reaches to take the bag from the cashier.<br />
“Do you need help with that?” the cashier asks.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Too much time in the check-out line. Instead of staring at the Enquirer headlines, sometimes I imagine all sorts of things<br />
<a name='more'></a>about the people in front of me based on their grocery selections. Tell me I’m not the only one who ever does this.Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8294355994539470429.post-75191903485684973882009-11-15T15:20:00.000-08:002009-11-15T16:13:36.861-08:00The Stuff of Names<b>The Stuff of Names</b><br />
by Linda Hoffman Kimball<br />
<br />
My sister Holly had a knack for naming things.<br />
Her doll, named for its stuffing, was “Cotton.”<br />
Her toy cat bore the moniker of<br />
Holly’s no-nonsense, confident,<br />
Plow-down-the-boundaries<br />
Approach to getting on in the world:<br />
“Kick,” the cat.<br />
<br />
For the most part my menagerie bore<br />
Descriptive names:<br />
“Plaid” the dog, white-headed but plaid-rumped.<br />
Another dog earned “Orangie Jingles”<br />
For his color and the bells in his ears.<br />
(He was a lesser animal in the pack.)<br />
Another plaid little dog,<br />
Given to me by my Dad,<br />
Received “Whiskers” for a name, <br />
“Since,” I told my dad, “He doesn’t have any.”<br />
I liked things whole and complete.<br />
<br />
I wonder why I named my<br />
Beloved elephant “Susie.” <br />
In my mind she bore no resemblance<br />
To my sister Susan who was<br />
SIX YEARS OLDER<br />
And therefore a lifetime’s more<br />
Put together.<br />
Also, Susan was neither gray and white,<br />
nor endowed with huge, fluffy ears.<br />
<br />
And, while my dad called our mother<br />
“Sooz” frequently (though her name was Mary),<br />
My elephant was a dearer confidant<br />
And more comforting solace,<br />
Willing to dab sorrows away anytime<br />
With the pink end of her trunk.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
When I began this musing on the playthings of my childhood, I didn’t realize I’d find something raw wanting to come out.<br />
<a name='more'></a>When I found the last stanza staring at me I was surprised and embarrassed. I hadn’t planned on baring my childhood grief so boldly. I appear to be dissing my mother for not attending to me sufficiently as a kid. Doesn’t every child think that? Surely my own children must have similar feelings (which may someday make their ways into surprising poems of their own). I believe my mom was doing the best she could. Where there were gaps, I think I experienced a version of what C.S. Lewis calls the “Inconsolable Longing.” If, in fact, we existed in a previous state of heavenly clarity and intelligence (and I believe we did), it isn’t particularly surprising that I’d find vestiges of a time before my memory. These were longings for solace from my Ur-Mother. I hope my children will forgive me my gaps and seek the embrace of their Ur-Mother, too. Their flawed, earthly mother has plenty of imperfect but mighty love for them. Imagine what the Real Stuff feels like! I suspect it’s elephantine by contrast.Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8294355994539470429.post-74313506786562058172009-11-14T20:09:00.000-08:002009-11-15T05:33:06.399-08:00No Good Deed<b>No Good Deed…</b><br />
By Linda Hoffman Kimball<br />
<br />
He leans against the stair rail,<br />
Wiping the gritty blood off his chin.<br />
Staggering up, he spits out a black molar.<br />
“Curse you, hag, and your iron pot.<br />
One time I actually eat your stew<br />
With no complaining, and here’s my thanks.”<br />
<br />
He can hear her down in the root cellar<br />
Moaning and wailing, not piping down yet,<br />
Rattling the chain and shrieking.<br />
<br />
“Nope, I told you he ain’t down there. <br />
And no food neither, woman!”<br />
He hollers sideways and bruisy. <br />
<br />
“Ain’t been real food for weeks and you knows it.<br />
You oughta be thanking me<br />
For being so resourceful.<br />
All those weeks near to starving and<br />
The answer to our needs<br />
Right under our noses<br />
( – mine’s probably broke now –) <br />
And we, all this time, not never noticing.<br />
<br />
“God do provide now, don’t He.<br />
So I done it up right like a grateful Christian. <br />
And didn’t I come back right on time<br />
Like I said I would<br />
From the woods with meat all cleaned and cleaved,<br />
Ready for that damn pot?<br />
Why are you carrying on so?<br />
You even said you liked it after that first bite,<br />
Wondering was it squirrel or rabbit.<br />
<br />
Shut yer caterwauling and get back up here.<br />
We’re fed now, so it’s done and done.<br />
And when you come up,<br />
<br />
Bring his collar with you.<br />
He don’t need it no more, and<br />
It might make a broth if we boil it down.<br />
<br />
Today I attended “Prairie Writers Day,” an excellent day-long conference sponsored by the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators of Illinois. We heard many variations on the main parts of any good story: Character, Plot and Voice. I decided to riff a little on that, and, while it probably isn’t really appropriate for children’s lit, it was a fun (if twisted) romp.Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8294355994539470429.post-65828197316109482482009-11-13T17:32:00.000-08:002009-11-13T17:58:24.068-08:00The Ancients<b>The Ancients</b><br />
By Linda Hoffman Kimball<br />
<br />
How long does it take<br />
To learn the sacred truths<br />
Set out by the Great Creator Spirit<br />
At the beginning of humanity?<br />
Time has nothing to do with it.<br />
Wisdom, Honor, Bravery <br />
Seep from the caul.<br />
Who is not brave if not the infant<br />
Slapped in the face with winter winds<br />
Before she can even suckle?<br />
Any bawling babe is honorable when hungry.<br />
Is there more honor than<br />
In voicing the truth –<br />
That a stomach is empty<br />
And there is ravening want?<br />
Wisdom is there in the determined little fist<br />
Gripping the finger of a protector,<br />
Instinctively knowing<br />
Life depends on<br />
The strength of connection<br />
To a power beyond one’s limits.<br />
Our journey is not one of learning;<br />
It is of remembering.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I attended a “Friend-raising” meeting for the Mitchell Museum of the American Indian this evening. It set me to musing<br />
<a name='more'></a> on Native American wisdom, history, and ethnology. I thought about Sherman Alexie, one of my favorite authors (who, if the writing biz bored him could be a fabulous stand-up comic. If you ever get a chance to hear him speak in person, go!) I also thought about political correctness and how do I, with my Northern European roots, have the nerve to write in this voice. And, when the Federal Government sent huge groups of Indians to Chicago and other major cities in the 1950’s to “improve their lives,” did the mingling of tribes work? Can you just toss Cherokees and Potawatomi and Apaches, etc., all together and expect cheery results? I enjoyed thinking about where our deepest knowledge comes from.Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8294355994539470429.post-65249709520111705652009-11-12T19:39:00.000-08:002009-11-12T19:39:00.188-08:00Preparing for the Future<b>Preparing for the Future</b><br />
by Linda Hoffman Kimball<br />
<br />
Is the wilderness<br />
Sharpening its ravenous claws<br />
While I pack boxes?<br />
<br />
In a month I will be in Utah<br />
<a name='more'></a> at our mountain home abutting the Uintah National Forest. I have spent my days this week sorting through the belongings we need to ship out there prior to arrival. We will live part of the year in and part of the year here. I don’t know how this will all work out logistically and emotionally. Thinking through this haiku tonight, I realize there’s something in me that is worried. Will I disappear out there? Will anyone notice the cougar licking her chops?Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8294355994539470429.post-60917450476324921502009-11-11T17:34:00.000-08:002009-11-11T17:34:20.695-08:00The Spice House on Central Street<b>The Spice House on Central Street</b><br />
by Linda Hoffman Kimball <b><br />
</b><br />
<br />
One step inside and you can almost feel<br />
the camel’s breath on the back of your neck.<br />
In the distance you hear the taut snap of canvas sails.<br />
<br />
Close your eyes. See<br />
the Indonesian children, thin but strong,<br />
dark skinned, ebony-eyed,<br />
culling through the crystals,<br />
swiftly plucking out debris<br />
like darting hummingbirds.<br />
The jingling and clicking of the girls’ bangles<br />
Mingle with their laughter.<br />
<br />
Toward the back, the solid<br />
Eastern European women<br />
caucus sternly over pickling methods.<br />
The Swedes, their lilting voices<br />
interweaving like braids of perfect dough,<br />
have dabs of flour, cardamom and cinnamon<br />
on their cheeks and aprons. <br />
<br />
The Spaniard,<br />
dressed in an improbable red jacket,<br />
Delivers his precious, tender threads of saffron, <br />
and departs quickly,<br />
the merchant’s pouch safe in his pocket.<br />
<br />
Short bronzed men, still sweating and pungent<br />
from hauling the baskets down the hills,<br />
exchange stories of the peppers,<br />
some so hot even <i>their</i> throats burned. Or how,<br />
when Garcia hired them for his cocoa crops,<br />
their digestion improved just by<br />
inhaling the dew on the plants.<br />
<br />
Then the hypnotic women, slimmed waisted,<br />
stand silently,<br />
smiling,<br />
with their woven trays of samples<br />
– long, slender, brown, moist, supple,<br />
voluptuous vanilla beans.<br />
Tahitian treasures. <br />
<br />
<br />
A few blocks away on Central Street is an amazing shop called The Spice House. That’s all it sells – spices. <br />
<a name='more'></a>Their wares come from all over the globe and the scent of the place is exotic and indescribable. One whiff and I start to fantasize about all the sensual adventures of the spices, their lore and travels. My daughter used to work there and she came home carrying the smell of the shop in her clothing and hair. I would grab her sweater to my nose and inhale deeply, imagining the wonders of the world. I was once in the Central St. Post Office, just a few doors down from the Spice House. While in line I suddenly smelled that Spice House smell and turned. It was an employee, still in his apron there in the post office to mail some packages. Heavenly.Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8294355994539470429.post-48000607632708976412009-11-10T20:21:00.000-08:002009-11-10T20:22:47.401-08:00Ode to JazzerciseOde to Jazzercise<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">by Linda Hoffman Kimball<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Single Ladies come today<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Dressed for exercise and fun.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Beyonce sings and they chasse.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Come on. Put a Ring on one!<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Queen Latifah shakes the floor.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">All the grannies lunge and glide.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">They all Walk the Dinosaur<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Filled with energetic pride.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Working moms and college girls, <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Pump it up and shout “Wha-hooo!”<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Fantasizing in their swirls.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Don’t you wish that it was true?<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Plump or thin or young or old <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">We all know, yo, dis whuzzup:<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Edgy hits or classic gold<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">We will never give you up!<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">This little fluff was inspired during my sweaty workout tonight at Jazzercise. I’ve been going there, usually with my sister, for several years now. It’s a perfect blend for me.<br />
<a name='more'></a> I get to spend time with Susan. I keep in touch with the most recent pop music – a switch from my normal diet of NPR. And, without noticing too much, I exercise enough to keep the demons of aging as much at bay as possible.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">This froth will mean more to avid Jazzercisers who will recognize the embedded recent song titles. Here are the coded jokes:<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Verse 1: Beyonce’s song “Single Ladies/Put a Ring on It” is a recent song, peppy and vertical in its choreography. I can’t recall whether there is really a chasse dance step in there or not. (Chasse is a French word that sounds like the erudite version of “sashay.”) <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Verse 2: Queen Latifah is well represented in Jazzercize tunes of late. “Walk the Dinosaur” is a lively song from the animated movie “Ice Age: Dawn of the Dinosaur.” When the speakers are on full volume for many of these songs, it really does feel like the walls vibrate. Notice also the artful pairing of grannies and dinosaurs.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Verse 3: In some classes the instructors ask people to call out a good ol’ “Whee-haaaa!” or “Wha-hooo!” whenever a country song begins. In this verse it would be John Fogerty’s recent contribution, “Don’t You Wish It Was True.” As for the fantasizing, I can only speak for myself.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Verse 4: Jazzercise has a wide demographic appeal. We span generations, races and religions. (In Skokie, IL, where our classes are held, we have some orthodox women who participate in skirts and hair coverings.) And, for funk factor, we listen to songs we wouldn’t want our children to know we know, and make some syncopated moves that would make them tremble in disgust.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">One last subtle point. Each line has four beats because the music used for Jazzercise is almost always to 4 beat measures.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Go, Jazzercise!<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8294355994539470429.post-1318127141708256542009-11-09T14:16:00.000-08:002009-11-09T14:28:32.373-08:00Jamestown, Jr.<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Jamestown, Jr.</b><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">by Linda Hoffman Kimball <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">At the far end of the playground,<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Behind the baseball backstop<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The miniature settlement thrives.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Twigs, sticks, stones of the right shape,<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Leaves, nuts, solid clumps of dirt<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Clarify the fields, the common, churchyard<br />
And comprise the tiny dwellings.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Beetles and ants are the pack animals. <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The main crop in this new incarnation<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">is not tobacco (which is wholly inappropriate<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">for 6<sup>th</sup> graders).<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Instead, the fields produce<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Quick growing scallions, <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Starts for which made their arduous journey<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">From the motherland,<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">in the pocket of a plaid coat on a school bus.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Tall as redwoods,<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The mighty onions cast strong shadows<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Over the homes, huts and out buildings.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The times are prosperous and peace reigns.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">No aristocrats bickering about calluses and manual labor.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">No threats over weapons, axes, metal.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">No attacks on the natives.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">No brutal uprisings.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">There are rumors about Pocahontas<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">But the details are unclear.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Who can bother with gossip when<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The roof has just blown off the stables,<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">An acorn dropped into the water supply, <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And the recess bell rings?<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">When I was in 6<sup>th</sup> grade, my friend Pam Loresch and I used to spend our outdoor recess time cultivating a miniature community we called Jamestown, Jr. <br />
<a name='more'></a>in the wooded area right behind the baseball diamond by the back border of the playground. Little artsy nerds that we were, this was sublime work and play. Once I added a small log to one wall of a house only to have Pam inform me that it was not a “log” but a dog turd. When the outdoor season was passed, Pam and I harvested the scallions and presented them with great pride to Mr. Satterfield, our 6<sup>th</sup> grade teacher. Standing right in front of us by the classroom door, he thanked us and let them slip directly into the trashcan conveniently at hand. He had no idea what treasures he’d tossed. I retrieved them from the wastebasket. To this day I have a nub of disappointment about Mr. Satterfield’s blindness to the value of the fruits (or onions) of our labors.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">By the way, I’ve decided that going through the whole revision process is clumsy when something is flowing pretty quickly. There must be a way to indicate when I’ve backed up, deleted, & tweaked but I’m finding that if I spend too much time doing all that, I’m writing for reading and not just for writing’s sake. This is all improv anyway.<br />
</div>Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8294355994539470429.post-13581359959076248572009-11-08T19:04:00.000-08:002009-11-08T19:17:32.902-08:00My Mite<b>My Mite</b><br />
by Linda Hoffman Kimball<br />
<br />
This day of rest<br />
Was heaven blessed.<br />
<br />
It's at an end.<br />
Amen. Amen.Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8294355994539470429.post-76698903096939765822009-11-07T16:53:00.000-08:002009-11-07T17:18:01.505-08:00Two Sonnets for Saturday<b>Sonnet for a Lake Discovered while Hiking</b><br />
by Linda Hoffman Kimball <o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Blue</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"> lake,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"> you</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"> make<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">this</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"> space</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"> bliss</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"> place.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Quiet</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"> trees -- <o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Pieties.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Lush</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"> hush.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Barefoot Mid-afternoon Break<o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><b>on the Shore of Lake Michigan</b><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Blue lake,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">you make<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">high sun<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">my fun.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Wet treat<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Let feet<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Wiggle.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Giggle.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Okay, we’ve got a two-fer today. Years ago I took a creative writing class where the professor had us write sonnets using single words.</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Talk about a limited structure! The words have to fit into either an abab, cdcd, efef, gg form (which I did here) or abba abba cde cde and still create some kind of meaning, image or story. Today I began by musing on beautiful Lake Michigan about a mile from our house and it morphed into an imaginary lake I hope to come upon some day. Then, back to Lake Michigan and imagining some Northwestern student taking a break.<br />
</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Come on folks out there in the Nether regions – give it a try!<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8294355994539470429.post-63226771680266807322009-11-06T14:28:00.000-08:002009-11-06T14:37:02.848-08:00ICHP & Isaiah<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">IPHC & Isaiah <br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">(Intra-Perioneal Hyperthermic Chemotherapy)<br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">"Then flew one of the seraphims unto me, having a live coal in his hands, which he had taken with tongs from off the altar..." Isaiah 6:6<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">by Linda Hoffman Kimball<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Cancer clamped <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">crusty and gelatinous <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">in my husband’s gut<b> <o:p></o:p></b><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">- his vitals and bowels.<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">With slow, relentless onslaught<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">(a dozen years of dumb, deadly work)<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">it filled every vacant space;<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">gripped every surface;<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">gooey sludge<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">crushing, stressing,<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">pressuring,<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">suffocating him<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">from the inside out.<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">A scan, <o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">looking for something mundane,<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Spotted the scourge.<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Quick as we could say<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“Oncologist”<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">We were<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Catapulted<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Down the dark hall,<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Into the no,<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">No, no, no, <o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">No.<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Our/His only hope:<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Stretched in cruciform,<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Deliberately split, slit<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Sternum to stem,<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Scooped, scraped,<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Redundant entrails<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And the shimmering <o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Destroyer<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">in steel bowls.<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Then Isaiah’s hot coal:<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">poured,<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Swathed, sloshed, scoured<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">into the raw vacuum,<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“Lo, this hath touched thee;<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">and thine iniquity is taken away,<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">and thy sin purged.”<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And will we yet have this second,<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Greater cure?<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And I cried with you, and we said,<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“Holy, holy, holy, is the LORD of hosts:<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">the whole earth is full of his glory.”<br />
</div><br />
<br />
I spent several hours this morning in the LDS temple whispering in white, calling down the powers of Heaven to cleanse and prepare women for the bounty God has eternally in store for them. It made me recall the stark surgery my husband endured <br />
<a name='more'></a>in May of 2007 to rid him of a rare abdominal cancer (PMP). Doctors called my husband’s case “ultimate” in complexity and severity. The surgery involved removing every trace of cancer from his gut, removing all damaged or strangled organs, then bathing his raw interior with heated poison (chemo) to kill any outlier cancer cells too small to detect. The surgery and heated chemo treatment took 17 hours total.<br />
<br />
We’re at 2 ½ years post surgery and he continues to be cancer free. In my reveries at the temple with its holy susurrations I felt reminded of what I need - a kind of cleansing by the deepest Healer, a cleansing even more thorough and ultimate than Chris endured.Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8294355994539470429.post-73153455686579136942009-11-05T08:41:00.000-08:002009-11-05T08:59:52.819-08:00Decorating the Cultural Hall<b>Decorating the Cultural Hall</b><br />
<o:p>by Linda Hoffman Kimball</o:p><b><o:p><br />
</o:p></b><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t know how to ask for what I need.<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Wheedle? No. No wheedling. <o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All my requests need to<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A) get the tasks done and<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">B) keep their spirits strong.<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Who knows who needs what?<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I may need the basketball hoop draped with crepe, <o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But they may need hand-holding<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Or an appeal to their manliness<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Or a reward<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Or a command from God channeled through me.<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Who knows? <o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And then there’s the flack, the backlash –<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The “too soft,” “too strong,”<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“too bossy,” “too passive,”<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">the “too worldly,” “too liberal,”<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“too conservative,” “too prudish”…<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Can’t anyone just get up there and drape the hoop?<br />
<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This poetry writing is starting to get to me. All the introversion of images and mood. All the navel-gazing bugs me. It’s taking too much time and mental energy. Besides, <br />
<a name='more'></a>I have a lot of other things I’m trying to juggle right now. One is a major Christmas celebration coming up in early December at church. It will be wonderful, and the people I’m working with are great and kind. But the process takes me back to many times when I’ve been “in charge” of things (even way back when as the Parent Chair of my kids’ cooperative nursery school. The structure was cooperative in that parents were expected to help; not that the <i>kids</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> were especially cooperative.) Writing poems every day is starting to tap into emotional stuff, like a kind of art therapy. I’m not sure that’s something I’m really ready to post openly. So I sat down to the computer today, a little grumpy and restless, and here’s what evolved.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Aim for the stars, you’ll hit the moon<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Or the garage roof, or the leaves waiting to be hauled to the curb.<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Stalwartly they plod along, plod along, plod along.<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Stalwartly they plod along harboring ill will.<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t know how to ask for what I need.<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Wheedle? No. No wheedling. <o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All my requests need to<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A) get the task done and<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">B) keep their spirits strong.<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Who knows who needs what?<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I may need the basketball hoop draped with crepe, <o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But they may need hand-holding<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Or an appeal to their manliness<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Or a reward<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Or a command from God channeled through me.<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Who knows? <o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And then there’s the flack, the backlash –<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The “too soft,” “too strong,”<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“too bossy,” “too passive,”<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">the “too worldly,” “too liberal,”<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“too conservative,” “too prudish”…<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Can’t anyone just get up there and drape the hoop?<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What to do about a title:<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Decorating the Cultural Hall?<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Decorating the Fellowship Hall – for a more ecumenical feel?<o:p></o:p><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12pt;">Working with Volunteers?</span>Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8294355994539470429.post-46764902555824690372009-11-04T12:53:00.000-08:002009-11-04T12:55:29.845-08:00Assent<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Assent</o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>-- for Chris</o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>by Linda Hoffman Kimball</o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He climbs rocks<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Gripping those lucky holds,<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Improbable muscles flexing.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">From the ridges of his finger prints<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Dangles his (dear) life.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">By those slim margins –<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The <i>who</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> of him – </span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The precious hymn of him<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ascends,<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Upheld by good ropes<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">and Grace. <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My husband Chris has remarkable hands. They’re among the first things about him that I loved. <br />
</div><a name='more'></a>I began this poem just thinking about those hands. Then, probably to keep this something I was willing to post, I turned to thinking about how powerful his hands are when he climbs rock, or “faux rock” as is usually the case here in the flat Midwest. At least once a week he goes to the local athletic club and skitters up the rock climbing walls. For me rock climbing is terrifying, but I know how much he loves it. For him it’s vertical, physical chess. It’s a challenging merger of brain and brawn, of nuance, subtlety and raw strength. I think of his climbing much as I do his journey of faith – trusting, adventurous, primal, complex, determined. The title is not a typo. It’s my thumbs up to him – to his love of rock climbing, to his gorgeous hands, to the whole of him.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He climbs rocks<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Gripping those lucky holds,<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Improbable muscles flexing.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He dangles from the ridges of his finger prints,<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">His identity holding on for<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">His (dear) life.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">by a breath, by a brain, by a <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He climbs rocks<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Gripping those lucky holds,<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Improbable muscles flexing.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">From the ridges of his finger prints,<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Dangles his (dear) life.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">By those slim margins –<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Upheld by Grace and good ropes,<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He ascends.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Climb<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He climbs rocks<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Gripping those lucky holds,<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Improbable muscles flexing.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">From the ridges of his finger prints<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Dangles his (dear) life.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">By those slim margins –<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The who of him – <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The precious hymn of him ascends,<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Upheld by good ropes<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">and Grace. <br />
</div><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12pt;"><br clear="ALL" style="page-break-before: always;" /> </span>Linda Hoffman Kimballhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06448237045714887424noreply@blogger.com0