Mark Dennis Anderson

Day 24: Advent Fail, a poem

2011-12-24T08:46:00.000-08:00

Advent Fail

by Mark Dennis Anderson

As usual,

it's nobody's fault

but my own.

I apologize less

these days,

always remembering

that nobody asked

me for nothing,

which, some days,

is all I can offer.

For a moment, the words

there's no more coffee

startle us all.

Day 20: The Ten Commandments, Advent Edition

2011-12-20T13:13:00.000-08:00

The Ten Commandments, Advent Edition
by Mark Dennis Anderson and Kara Shore

1. Thou shalt never pay full price for online purchases.
2. Thou shalt not erect Nativity scenes outside one's home, illuminated or otherwise.
3. Thou shalt not decorate one's automobile, especially the hood or grill, with holiday paraphernalia, especially of the "wreath" variety.
4. Thou shalt not participate in "ugly holiday sweater" parties, ironic or otherwise. It's just not funny or cool anymore.
5. Thou shalt enjoy eggnog lattes in moderation. Like maybe only one per Advent week, if that. Do you know how many calories are in one of those? If not, you should.
6. Thou shalt not discourage one's child from playing "Joy To The World" again on the piano. At least they are practicing!
7. Thou shalt not display more holiday luminaries than thine neighbors'. Restrain thyself!
8. Thou shalt not steal.
9. Thou shalt not gift gift cards to thine mother or father. Be more specific!
10. Thou shalt return unwanted offerings quickly, using gift receipts when applicable.

Day ??: Technical Difficulties

2011-12-19T11:00:00.000-08:00

Found it!

Day 15: Wise Guy

2011-12-15T21:58:00.000-08:00

I thought they said Jesus was black.

Day 14: Wise Man #2

2011-12-14T11:22:00.000-08:00

How about some frankincense for a new finger?

Day 13: Wise Man #1

2011-12-13T15:24:00.000-08:00

Gold? I thought you said myrrh. I brought the myrrh.

Day 12: Additional Lyrics

2011-12-12T21:53:00.000-08:00

Day 11: Vlad Tidings (Video)

2011-12-11T13:20:00.001-08:00

Days 9 & 10: Two More Poems for Advent

2011-12-10T14:22:00.001-08:00

Advent #10
for Michael
Blue! the tiny boy screamed,
Blue tinsel! Blue lights!

The tree may be white,
but the curtain must be blue!

Yes, blue! And it shall
sparkle, sparkle, sparkle!

Advent #9
A wild horse running
across the desert

or a tender embrace
on a warm dock

both require
the quickening of the heart
and a gentle, leading hand.

Day 8: An Inescapable Feeling

2011-12-08T08:53:00.001-08:00

Homesick
Mark Dennis Anderson

When sunshine
through

icy window screens
multiplies itself into ten thousand

stars of wonder
and might,

I wonder sometimes, what
this light might look like

with you here or I

there.

Day 7: Jinx Adds a Verse of His Own

2011-12-07T10:35:00.001-08:00

On the 24th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...

Day 6: Mary Needs a Fix

2011-12-06T09:16:00.001-08:00

She Grew Tired
with every passing moment, praying
with what energy she had left (she gave
her last Luna bar to a woman miles back)
that maybe, Godwilling, though she feared
it was too much to ask, over the next hill,
please, a Starbucks?
Mark Dennis Anderson

Day 5: Infant so low-costly

2011-12-05T11:35:00.001-08:00

Maybe we should get Sally this instead of an iPad...

Day 4: Elf or Human Child?

2011-12-04T07:27:00.001-08:00

DO YOU LIKE MY HAT? I DO. I LIKE IT VERY MUCH. I CAN MAKE YOU ONE IF YOU LIKE.

Day 3: Elf Montage from Macy's

2011-12-03T07:56:00.001-08:00

WELCOME TO THE NORTH POLE CHILDREN!

KISS MY ASS!

WELL SHIT!

No toys, no drugs!

WHOAH!

AHHH!

No caption.

Day 2: Atheist Trees and the American Dream Bedazzled

2011-12-02T08:45:00.001-08:00

Untitled Christmas Poem
No tree this year.
Because I am an atheist,
he declared in a defiant tone.
I understand.
I am just not sure
trees believe in Christmas either.
Carrie Louise Anderson

At My Table
A favorite happening of mine
this time of year
is the rampant display
of pageantry and spectacle.

Someday I'll join the club,
adorn my table with silver, gold,
and diamonds, diamonds, diamonds
will dance and pour down from the ceiling.

Everyone will be welcome at my table.
And if you don't have anything to wear,
I'll have my tailor fit you for a suit
or gown made of the finest threads...
Mark Dennis Anderson

Day 1: What is Advent, really? Two Poems

2011-12-01T06:58:00.001-08:00

Ad-vent (ad-vent)
noun
by Mark Dennis Anderson
1. a coming into place, view, or being; arrival: the advent
of the holiday season begins as soon as retailers
decide it should be so.
2. (usually initial capital letter) the coming of Christ
into the world.
3. (initial capital letter) the period beginning four Sundays
before Christmas, observed in commemoration of the coming
of Christ into the world often recognized by lighting four candles
on a wreath with each passing week, the first of which will become
a dangerous (but exciting) fire hazard.
4. (usually initial capital letter) Second Coming

Advent
by Carrie Louise Anderson
On the eve of Advent, one must dream of the past.
Last night I dreamed of my childhood bed.
In my dream, I awoke from dreaming.
I had slept so soundly, though the bed was small and
narrow and I was me -- as I am today.
A grown woman of 32, height and breasts,
legs and hips.

Neighborhood children, three, came giggling
and running up to my bedroom window. They leaned
pushing their warm cheeks, pressing their
hands against the screen and asked:
where is the little girl?
I did not know, so I made up a story.
Remember, I am 32, weight and neck,
arms and waist.

I told them she had moved away.
They ran away, leaving me in bed. As the ran away,
I realized perhaps they were talking about me. Perhaps,
I am the one they sought. I had not always been
32, who I am today, toes and knees,
back and wrist.

Then, I was walking through my middle school
a door opened there stood a love from many years back,
outside of my dream, he is married, with children, and far, far away.
and I am who I am, 32, legs and chin, elbow and eyes.

He saw me. We kissed.
We fell into each others' arms.
We knew we were doomed, because even in a dream
of children and memories, the reality of marriage
is always present. We are who we are,
32, fingers and lung, ankle and colon.

And today, in a flash of irony,
I found myself hiding behind a pillar,
away from a man who loves me,
who wants me for himself and is seeking me out.
I hid from this reality,
squatting behind a planter decorated for Christmas.
Cripes, it is not even Advent.
With my back to a Starbuck's window, I waited.
And the turning, I saw the coffee drinkers and
time wasters wondering who I am,
32, stomach and ears,
nose and heart.

I suppose this all makes sense, considering
this is the start of
Advent.

Portrait: LEO IN JAPAN

2011-11-30T09:05:00.001-08:00

I thought you said there weren't any leftovers.

Dialogue: In Anticipation of Advent

2011-11-28T09:52:00.001-08:00

Hey there.

What now?

Relax, it's just me.

Speak for yourself.

I am.

Good. What do you want?

Just sayin' hi.

Liar.

I'm not lying.

Okay.

Okay, you're right.

I am?

Yep. I am lying.

About what?

About just saying hi.

Way to go.

Way to go what?

You're telling the truth now.

Refreshing, isn't it?

If you say so.

What are you doing right now?

Nothing.

Now who's lying?

I am.

Ha! Gotchya!

Uhhh...

You are so busted.

I am?

You are so lying and you know it.

Never said I wasn't.

Oh. So guess what?

No. Just tell me.

Advent season starts in a couple days.

Cool.

You know what Advent is, right?

Yes but go ahead and tell me again.

It's the period of wait before the coming of Christ.

Is that right...

Yeah, I mean, that's what it is officially.

Okay.

What are you doing now?

Nothing.

Check out that picture up top.

Why?

Doesn't it look cool?

I suppose.

Doesn't it make you excited for Christmas?

Not really.

What if I told you those ribbons were going on a present for you?

I'd call you a liar.

Portrait: Simon

2011-10-15T23:47:00.000-07:00

Acceptance is the answer to all my problems today.

Will you at least describe them to me?

Photo Essay: Gina & Vin

2011-10-15T23:06:00.000-07:00

Can we PLEASE just go home now?

She lied to me.

You have got to be kidding me.

Burger?

Portrait: Bella in the Bag

2011-10-15T21:05:00.000-07:00

Totes Bella.

Portait: The Essence of Quitan

2011-10-15T18:10:00.000-07:00

Just a head.

Remote Cuddler.

Photo Essay: Minnesota Walker Ranger

2011-10-14T22:49:00.000-07:00

My aunt's family recently adopted a puppy. They named him Ranger. The other day, my aunt asked me if I was able and willing to take him for a walk. Turns out, I was both!

Derp.

Looks kinda scary, don't it, Ranger?

Whoah there, Ranger!

Look Ranger! Beauty!

Isn't the ground pretty?

Really? That's comfortable for you?

Snacktime for Ranger!

And snacktime for Marco.

Hmmm.... let's see here.

Tis the season!

Of course.

Too many choices, too many choices...

BORING!

Hey everyone, let's Pringle!

Cash!

Fresca!

No, thank you.

And scene.

Magic, Boy

2011-07-18T11:24:00.000-07:00

Magic, Boy

Look at you, sitting there, being still,

as if your heart weren't thumping

as loud as the thunder at dawn

this morning when you tossed

and turned under the comforter

-the very words (morning, comforter)

echoing in the hollow of your chest.

Sit up, pop a pill, turn the page,

and tell yourself, "This is life,

these are its terms: reliable, refillable;

a bottomless container out of which

every moment is born and breathed

and yes, you are magic, boy, so wave

your wand, make it -whatever it is- appear."

Silence (Billy Collins)

2011-04-14T07:13:00.000-07:00

Silence

There is the sudden silence of the crowd

above a player not moving on the field,

and the silence of the orchid.

The silence of the falling vase

before it strikes the ﬂoor,

the silence of the belt when it is not striking the child.

The stillness of the cup and the water in it,

the silence of the moon

and the quiet of the day far from the roar of the sun.

The silence when I hold you to my chest,

the silence of the window above us,

and the silence when you rise and turn away.

And there is the silence of this morning

which I have broken with my pen,

a silence that had piled up all night

like snow falling in the darkness of the house—

the silence before I wrote a word

and the poorer silence now.

Autobiography (Kazim Ali)

2011-04-12T14:19:00.000-07:00

In my poetry class, we recently read The Fortieth Day by the poet Kazim Ali. I won't go into his background and all that but if you're interested, check out his website http://www.kazimali.com/. He also has a Facebook page.

For the purpose of this blog post, all one really needs to know is that his poetry tends to explore themes of spirituality, religion, and daily life. For class, we were asked to write a poem influenced by one of the poets we've been reading and I chose, you guessed it, Ali. In the end, I went a step further and wrote a poem after one of his poems. I'm mostly happy with what I wrote although it's slightly more abstract than what I typically write. As far as keeping with the current theme, I'll let you, dear reader, figure that one out.

Autobiography

by Kazim Ali

we didn't really speak but

my summer wants to answer

the architecture doesn't matter

this is not my real life

when I am here I want to know

why do I believe what I was taught

a storm is on the way

close all the windows

begin at the earliest hour

is there a self

Autobiography

by Mark Dennis Anderson

"A person is only a metaphor for the place he wants to go." Kazim Ali

we're always saying something

even when nobody asks a question

in the late afternoon or early evening

the chairs in the porch are the most comfortable

when asked I say I am heliocentric

in lust with the moon's pale fire

in spring rivulets from the woods glitter

down into the marsh, red-winged witness

like the house cat in anticipation

I hear the lowland calling

I try to answer but only sigh

why is everything so hard to believe?

Mystery Scare

2011-04-07T08:46:00.000-07:00

Mystery Scare
Mark Dennis Anderson

You should see me,
trying to hold myself together,

confusing the back of the cereal box
for poetry.

So, I turn on Ellen
who offers to give everyone

in the audience a Princess Diana
diamond saffire pendant if

Neve Campbell or Carrie Underwood
or someone named Josh Kelley

screams. When the show is over
and The Price is Right begins

I'm suddenly scared for the college student

who bids $35,000 on a TV.

The Lamb by William Blake : The Poetry Foundation [poem] : Find Poems and Poets. Discover Poetry.

2011-04-06T11:05:00.000-07:00

Sorry we have yet to post new poems. We are working on them!

The Lamb by William Blake : The Poetry Foundation [poem] : Find Poems and Poets. Discover Poetry.

Lapifors!

2011-04-02T22:51:00.001-07:00

Well folks, it's time again to post some poetry! I can tell you're excited. I'm sure you've all been checking daily to make sure you haven't missed a line. I know I have. In celebration of our next beloved holiday Easter, Carrie and I have decided to devote the next few weeks of poems to the classic theme of transfiguration. "Ah ha!" you may be saying, "I knew it." Indeed you did. For crying out loud, stop questioning yourself so much!

But what do we mean really when we utter the word transfiguration? For starters, simply click on my next utterance in this sentence of the word transfiguration which has been cleverly hyper-linked to my close friend dictionary.com for a clean, concise definition. By all means, this transfiguration may strike a familiar chord progression. But what about this transfiguration or this transfiguration? And though it may need not be pronounced but this transfiguration ought not be excluded.

I think it's clear such a theme is full of transfiguring possibilities! Who's to say it the very act of reading a good poem isn't, itself, an act of transfiguration!

"Yes, quite!" you should be exclaiming, "Now where are the damn poems?"

Transfiguration

by Carrie Anderson

I am pretty sure that you love me.
The way you watch me
from across the table,
that is a look of deeper meaning,
right?

What would happen if
I asked you to leave,
and walk down the street,
to hold hands and listen
just to the silence.

I am pretty sure that I love you.
At least that is the way
I watch you as you
from across the table,

right?

Transfiguration

by Mark Dennis Anderson

Buffy was the name of the Netherland dwarf rabbit

I adopted shortly after good old Boots McEarFlop hop-hopped

up that glorious bunny trail in the sky.

Buffy was small. 2" ears. One of them, tattooed.

Identification numbers or something like that. It didn't matter.

All I wanted was this perfect little creature to make my beloved.

And beloved we were.

Aside from that one time he peed on my face,

our afternoons were spent running free in the basement,

nuzzling every now and then, faces close,

against the maroon carpet, kicking and flipping

with joy. We invented our own language

that silly rabbit and me. Speckled brown

with a cotton tail. A burrito size bun.

Whenever I see him hopping across the yard,

I yelp "Buffito is triumphant! Buffito is triumphant! Buffito has returned!"

2011-03-22T13:42:00.000-07:00

"I think clarity is the real risk in poetry because you are exposed. You're out in the open field. You're actually saying things that are comprehensible, and it's easy to criticize something you can understand." Billy Collins

The Piano Speaks by Sandra Beasley : Poetry Magazine [poem/magazine] : Find Poems and Poets. Discover Poetry.

2011-03-22T12:49:00.000-07:00

The Piano Speaks by Sandra Beasley : Poetry Magazine [poem/magazine] : Find Poems and Poets. Discover Poetry.

Spring, Day 21

2011-03-21T11:12:00.000-07:00

Mud in Spring

I have been told I find too much sunshine in Spring.
If I see a bulb, I think of the flower,
a cloud promises a sun beam about to break through.

I will admit it. I find summer in snow flakes,
magic in rain drops and blessings in mud.

I am unafraid and optimistic,
in all things but myself.

Carrie Anderson

Arrival

"Silence is assent in our code."

Anne Carson

I said before I came here I planned to scavenge the desert for poems. Except when I said scavenge I thought comb, which conjured a favorite Mel Brooks memory of mine even though I try so damn hard to write thoughtfully. So, I sit out back, watch the sun and the eastern range move in silent concert while I sip my coffee in the perfect light and I think almost. Moved by the simplicity of cloud and mountain, I grab my notebook and write What is your most interesting emotion? Later, at the top of the mountain, I will yell the answer, all my own, from the top of the mountain into the wide, wide sky, which graciously, terrifically takes my words, dries them to dust, securing my arrival.

Mark Dennis Anderson

Spring, Day 20

2011-03-20T22:21:00.000-07:00

Carrie and I both failed to write poems for the blog today but this prose poem, I think, is pretty great. That said, we're going to be taking a short hiatus before launching our next theme; after tomorrow you might as well wait until April 1st to check back in. I may post a thing or two before then but don't count on it. I'm fasting in the desert for the remainder of the week and I'm thinking going offline may suit me well. That isn't to say I won't check my email or abandon my games of Scrabble on Facebook. I may be a temperamental drama-queen but I am not a jerk. Not completely, anyway.

The Allegory of Spring

by Kenneth Koch

The blossoming cherry trees were quarreling. She thought this when she was fifty yards away and when she was closer, right in amongst them, she imagined she heard them. One tree said to another: I am prettier than you. And the other said: it is impossible for you to see yourself. But I see you. And I tell you you're wrong. The first tree disputed the illogic of this remark. And so on. She went on walking, and when she came out of the cherry grove, she had been through a lot. She hated quarreling. Dietrich was standing by his boat. Come, can you go out with me? he said. I don't want to quarrel, she said. He didn't understand. Well, will you or not? he said. Yes, she said. Then she said, No.

Supermoon, a prose poem

2011-03-19T21:21:00.000-07:00

Supermoon

The moon is the closest it's been in twenty years. I will never forget that night when I was twelve. I mouthed off at the dinner table and got sent to my room. This was before cell phones so I couldn't text Mike, Nick, or Joey I wasn't going to make it out to play night games. So, I climbed out my bedroom window and did on of those superhero/gymnast moves where you hold onto something (the gutter) and flip yourself onto something (the roof). Only, the moon, you see, was so damn close, my right foot collided with it and I sprained my ankle. What an idiot.

Spring, Day 19 (part two)

2011-03-19T15:38:00.000-07:00

Both of these poems are by Carrie Anderson.

Spring is for musicians.

Banjos and photos
line the walls of my house.
Daffodils surround the yards
of former generals.
The readiness of Spring
and the open heart of this city,
yellow jackets and green sunglasses
cannot be helped.

A River Haiku

for Japan

blooms at rivers sigh

weary feet force steps forward
i search for water

Spring, Day 19

2011-03-19T13:27:00.000-07:00

Below

me, canyons

like skin, cracked.

I squint,

see sketches;

trees, branches,

birds, arteries...

I want to reach down,

feel its embroidery.

Eyes closed,

I want to learn its face.

Mark Dennis Anderson

Spring, Day 18

2011-03-18T16:17:00.000-07:00

Airport Poem I

"Spring opens like a blade there."

-Anne Carson Glass, Irony & God

Anything sharp

or dangerous

in this bag, sir?

Yes and her name

is Anne Carson.

I'm sorry?

No. I'm sorry.

I just hijacked you

into this poem.

Spring, Day 17

2011-03-17T10:14:00.000-07:00

Spring Energy

The soulful, restless love that deepens

my heart, my heart.

Spring timbers and shakes.

The remembering

I am here, awaiting the sun,

the rising will come.

That's how strong my love is.

I see colors in the streets,

oceans waiting for your arrival.

Carrie Anderson

You Never Know

The other day, walking

up to my car, somewhat deep

in thought, trying, as it were,

to conjure a worthy topic

for a new piece of writing,

I noticed muddy paw prints

on the hood and windshield,

left, I assumed, by a poem.

Mark Dennis Anderson

Spring, Day 16

2011-03-16T10:12:00.000-07:00

Love in Springtime

There are too many poems

about love in springtime.

All I know about it

is that it was springtime

the first time I wanted to

touch (brush, braid)

Renee Kullberg's hair.

Spring, Day 15

2011-03-16T08:45:00.001-07:00

maybe even a musk ox

today the sun fails

to impress me

(except the way

it multiplies itself

a billion times over

melting, receding, pulling

back my own private

backyard glacier)

if I were God

I would populate

between the fence

and my door

this tundra in miniature

with a tiny caribou
or two

maybe even a musk ox

arctic hares and foxes

would be plentiful, of course

they would scrounge and scurry

fearful of the owl (snowy,

no bigger than a raisin)

swooping low

for a late morning snack

no lemmings, no

they would be too small anyway

and too stupid

if I squint I can can see it

and smell it (because I am

downwind) my stark

lil' menagerie

by Mark Dennis Anderson

Spring Secret

If I were an honest person,

I would tell you stories

of dirt-pressed jeans

Spring thaw,

and grass pushing against my neck.

But I am not an honest person,

and I only ever speak of tulips

and bird songs.

by Carrie Anderson

Spring, Day 14

2011-03-15T12:08:00.000-07:00

Self-Help

This book on personality types

I've been reading tells me to remind myself

I am not my feelings.

This same damned book instructs,

cleverly, as if it knows me:

Don't wait for inspiration to strike.

I hear its voice in my head - a tone not

unlike my mother's though perhaps

more like Sally Field's.

I write it all down, feverishly, the graylight

of this rainy afternoon balancing itself

on red wings swaying on the bare,

expectant lilac bushes...

by Mark Dennis Anderson

Spring Step

Remember the time we climbed the gate to jump into the soft wet grass and run into the white lights of Spring? The dew was so cold, almost ice except for its wetness. I think you wanted to cry but you kept running and sliding on the grass, simultaneously moving away and towards me. Remember how I convinced you we were locked inside the building. And you called the cops explaining there were hoodlums running around the grounds. Little did they know. Little did we know, that in those final moment of Spring our youth was blooming into life. Little did we know, that in those final moment Spring grass would never again feel so cold. Little did we know, that when you walk up to a gate it usually opens. The cops showed-up. We ran without knowing why and we understood all that we did not know then.

by Carrie Anderson

Spring, Day 13

2011-03-15T10:32:00.000-07:00

Pocket Spring

If I had a pocket of life remaining, what would I fill it with? Singing and dancing, whistling on trains, probably a few blissful romances or perhaps one final love to end all others. I mean if the ship is going down, the end-all sentiment loses its meaning. The end becomes known and understood. It is the end, after all. Straight forward and honest, without pretense or misleading. Perhaps the mystery then becomes the final moment between the now and the end. Like the dusk between the artist and those ever allusive haystacks. Those final moments are ever present but depending on when you look, take on completely different shapes, colors and realities. Yes, I think it is right, that indeed we have just a pocket of life remaining, and it is the wisdom to live like it.

by Carrie Anderson

On The Phone

Today I told you I was

trying to be happy

for you and your world

blossoming, opening

but I was driving

down the highway, gray

and brown and above

me, a hawk

by Mark Dennis Anderson

Spring, Day 12

2011-03-14T11:36:00.000-07:00

The Difference of Spring

by Carrie Anderson

If you hadn't gone back to the store.

If you had never picked up running.

If you had only been more afraid,

more fragile, weaker, less beautiful,

less hungry, less happy,

you might be here today.

If you had gone back to the store.

If you had picked up running.

If you had been more brave,

more sturdy, stronger, more beautiful,

more satisfied, more joyful,

you might be here today.

Sprinkle

by Mark Dennis Anderson

The egg had two yokes, of course -

it being jumbo, I assumed.

I whipped them together, added

them to the onion, later

added some tomato, then

turned off the burner.

Waiting for the pepper jack

to melt onto the toast,

I chopped up some cilantro

to sprinkle over everything.

Spring, Day 11

2011-03-14T11:10:00.000-07:00

All apologies for the delay. We will hopefully be on back on track within a few days!

The Battle Continues

by Carrie Anderson

The hours, the days, the blooms and sprouts

are passing too quickly, too furiously to track.

I cannot measure each moment.

I cannot find peace within the war.

I can only cross streets and reach up to buds of pink,

I scavenge the battle fields of backyards and parks,

and bend low and take in the fragrance,

like brave rebel flags, they mark the territory conquered and claimed

in the name of Spring.

My pacifist heart finds beauty in this battle.

Closer

by Mark Dennis Anderson

I am ready

to open

windows, please

forgive me

my impatient

heart

YouTube - Amazing Fox Snow Dive - Yellowstone - BBC Two

2011-03-10T18:50:00.000-08:00

Here's the actual video I reference in the poem "With Determination and Hunger".

YouTube - Amazing Fox Snow Dive - Yellowstone - BBC Two

Spring, Day 10

2011-03-10T07:52:00.000-08:00

With Determination and Hunger

This morning, out in the backyard, I saw a fox come out of the woods. He was doing that stalking thing, you know, like in that BBC nature documentary where the British guy narrates it listens to the tiny sounds of its prey moving about below... but must take great care not to scare them away... at which point the British guy shuts up so we can all watch the fox cock his head back and forth, his ears, like satellite dishes searching for a signal. Then comes the music - not hunting music - but the kind of soundtrack you'd expect accompanying the reunion of long lost lovers. Except it's not happy. Maybe one of them lost a limb in the war. Maybe she fell in love with her cousin. I don't know. I'm talking sad music - heartbreaking. Then, after a beat, it's all slow motion as the fox readies himself to pounce, then jumps up, plummeting back face down into the snow so all you see is his ass and tail wiggling with determination and hunger. When he finally pulls himself out, he's got it - something - maybe a mole or a vole or whatever the hell random rodent and that's when the music climaxes with an eerie dissonance, underscoring that whole "circle-of-life-ain't-always-that-pretty" idea.

And it's true.

It's not pretty.

But it is delicious.

You can imagine my disappointment, watching my backyard fox fail. Not once. Not twice. Four times he dove. The snow this time of year is hardened. Icy, really. There's a thin layer of powder but deceit is shallow. I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry out, "I'm headed to the bank! PetSmart isn't out of my way! You want hamster or rabbit?"

Spring, Day 9

2011-03-09T06:42:00.000-08:00

Spring is not Personal

by Carrie Anderson

Spring is not personal.

The birds do not sing for you,

the buds bloom with or without you noticing.

Mud indiscriminately covers whatever it can:

a tennis shoe, a deer hoof, a forgotten glove.

No, Spring does not care for you

or anyone for that matter.

It does not notice your romance

or your loneliness.

Spring's true north, its calling, its dream,

what shakes it from its night slumber of winter:

Grow!

Clam Chowder

by Mark Dennis Anderson

"Teach us to care and not to care."

- T.S. Eliot, "Ash Wednesday"

It's easy

To dismiss

The gently falling

Snow, naming

Each flake

Falling

Grace.

It melts me

From the inside

Out.

Spring, Day 8

2011-03-08T11:39:00.000-08:00

The Irony of Intention

by Mark Dennis Anderson

Just as I sit down

to complain about the lack

of light on the page,

the clouds part

and the shadow of my pen-

that trusty compass

-challenges everything

I know to be faithful.

Spring Envy

Carrie Anderson

April thinks she is, like, so cool.

With her purple flowers,

and oh so soft grass of new mornings.

What a snob.

Spring, Day 7

2011-03-07T08:26:00.000-08:00

Anticipation of Running

by Mark Dennis Anderson

It is tricky for me today, sitting

in the most comfortable chair in the world,

noticing through the western window,

the height of the light in the branches

of the snowy pine, not to think

that in a few days' time, sitting

in another chair, though perhaps not

as comfortable, writing another poem,

perhaps in this very notebook,

with perhaps this very pen,

relaxing after running in my new blue shoes

through another kind of spring, 1,824 miles*

from here, remembering, perhaps,

the sweetness of anticipation resolved.

* depends on which route one takes

Spring, Day 6

2011-03-06T13:39:00.001-08:00

Breaking Through

By Carrie Anderson

If you piled all your clothes, your books,

your carry-on luggage, your sofa curtains,

your toothbrushes, your coffee cups,

your Excel spreadsheets, your taxes,

your metro cards, your wedding vows,

your neighbors, your high-school boyfriends,

your untold truths, your cold nights of summer,

your warm mornings of waiting,

if you piled all those things, present and past, known and mysterious,

you could never replicate the wonder

of a crocus breaking through the snow on a spring morning.

The Sun is Another Story

by Mark Dennis Anderson

"...The sun is another story.

It's beginning to show it's age. Perhaps we've enjoyed

enough springs and everything is getting redundant."

- excerpted from "76" by Philip Schultz

Some people say the glass

is half-empty, while others say it's half-full.

For others, there is no glass

to speak of.

Under the story of the sun, I see

not one but two glasses. One glass

half full; the other, half empty.

I see a crocus

and I see a sledgehammer.

And it's all so wonderful.

Spring, Day 5

2011-03-05T13:07:00.001-08:00

First Sightings

Carrie Anderson

I found daffodils this morning

among the woods and decomposition.

Like brave soldiers on the front line,

risking the unpredictable frost.

I had forgotten that I am

the brave soldier,

I am the coming of Spring,

I dare the unpredictable frost.

March 5th

Mark Dennis Anderson

I said to my mother

I thought I saw a flock of Canada

geese flying northbound along Highway 100

though from my position, I couldn't be sure whether

the birds in question were aligned

in that unmistakable, v-

shaped formation.

My mother

said she thought she, too,

had heard some, though perhaps

it had only been

a dream.

"It must have been a dream," my mother then said.

"It's not March 14th. They arrive on March 14th."

Spring, Day 4

2011-03-04T14:13:00.001-08:00

Today features two poems by Carrie (to compensate for yesterday's exclusion) and one of my own.

Spring Rising II

Someday, very far from here,

someone will look at my fossils

and wonder how it came to be

that I had five fingers.

Spring Rising III

Rising sun

Cresting whale

Budding branch

I hope.

Frequent Flyer

As the parking lot glacier

begins its slow retreat,

somewhere below,

a worm is making soup.

Not far from here, though

not close enough, a robin

is checking her itinerary,

compiling a playlist.

Spring, Day 3

2011-03-03T09:19:00.000-08:00

The Borders in Minnetonka is going out of business so I stopped there yesterday to ransack their poetry shelf. I found a number of books, including two wonderful coffee-table books of poetry (both include audio recordings of poets reading their works). I also happened upon a book of Japanese death poems written by Zen monks and Haiku poets on the verge of death. In my opinion, spring is just as much about death as it is about rebirth. I'm moved by the idea of a fallen leaf finally dying after being frozen for so many months. That I'm not on the verge of death myself, the poem I wrote reflects my decision to keep on trucking...

Issho

From deep in my heart

how beautiful the snow

clouds in the west.

Bainen

Now spring has come

into my world:

farewell!

Baiseki

The journey west

a way that all would travel:

flower field.

Fusen

Encased by winter:

before long I'll

become dried salmon.

Anderson

If west is death, let's

mosey east this afternoon.

I have some friends there.

Note about the photo: the Zen poet Shisui was requested that he write a death poem. He grasped his brush, painted a circle, cast the brush aside, and died. The circle— indicating the void, the essence of everything, enlightenment— is one of the most important symbols of Zen Buddhism.

Spring, Day 2

2011-03-02T09:53:00.000-08:00

Dormancy

is a complicated word.

Likewise diapause, brumation,

aestivation, dessication,

and endospores.

It's all to much, really.

I'm going back to sleep.

Spring, Day 1

2011-03-01T09:38:00.000-08:00

Happy first day of meteorological spring, everyone! Meteorological is a mouthful, eh? Here are today's inaugural poems. My installation comes first, followed by Carrie's. Thanks for reading!

Untitled

It's not the drip-drip disappearance

of icicles out the southern window.

Nor is it that paper-cut

sound, the flip of the calendar.

It's definitely not the short

sleeves in store-front displays.

It has nothing to do with the late sunlight enjambed

against the fork on the dinner table.

No. It's deeper than all that.

Prepositional. Like breakfast.

Spring Rising

It was always my destiny.

It was always my path.

Life to life to death.

Spring Poetry Run Kickoff

2011-02-28T15:11:00.000-08:00

As promised, Carrie and I are launching a new poem-a-day poetry project. It seems some people actually enjoy the daily ritual of reading a lil' sumthin' we done wrote. Personally, I find the daily deadline not only inspiring but helpful in generating new material. Who knew?

This round we're naming Spring as the overall theme. Furthermore, we intend to highlight certain aspects of Spring each week, creating a "theme-within-the-theme". Tomorrow is Day 1 and our first mini-theme, if you will, is the restlessness underfoot or as Carrie put it the seeds who know their destiny. Hope you enjoy!

p.s. I took this photograph this afternoon just as the sun was beginning to set, which, if you can look beyond the yummy Dove caramel filled chocolates, you can see reflected on the inside of the dish! YUM.

Apologies, Homeland Security, and a mouthful of YUM

2011-02-25T09:24:00.000-08:00

My apologies to anyone who was following November's poetry run. Carrie and I are in the process of creating a new theme and time-frame for our next project. She has a fancy new job in D.C. working for Homeland Security so it might be tricky.

I may have to fly solo for awhile.

Here's a poem for today that I did not write. The poet, Katrina Vandenberg, is a professor at Hamline. This poem is from her brilliant book of poems Atlas. I love the whole book and I am thrilled to have the opportunity to meet her next week.

It's a long-ish poem so hopefully those of you who made it this far have the attention span to read - and love (wink, wink) the whole thing.

Consuming Desire

I'm not making this up. In Cafe Latte's wine bar
one of the lovely coeds at the next table
touched John on the arm as if I wasn't there
and said, Excuse me, sir, but what
is that naughty little dessert?
And I knew from the way he glanced
at the frothy neckline of her blouse,

then immediately cast his eyes on his plate

before giving a fatherly answer,

he would have given up dessert three months

for the chance to feed this one to her.

I was stunned; John was hopeful;

but the girl was hitting on his cake.

Though she told her friend until she left

she did not want any. I wish she wanted

something - my husband, his cake, both at once.

I wish she left insisting

upon the the beauty of his hands, his curls,

the sublimeness of strawberries

and angel food. But she was precocious,

and I fear adulthood is the discipline

of being above desire, cultivated

after years of learning what you want

and where and how, after insisting

that you will one day have it. I don't

ever want to stop noticing a man like the one

at the bar in his loosened tie, reading

the Star Tribune. I don't want to eat my cake

with a baby spoon to force small bites,

as women's magazines suggest. And you

don't want to either, do you? You want a big piece

of this world. You would love to have the whole thing.

2010-11-09T06:42:00.000-08:00

Gratitude No. 16

by Mark Dennis Anderson

This has been the longest autumn of my life.

Day after day, I look up and see the geese departing.

Get the hell out! Leave already! I yell at them through my windshield.

Never ceasing, still departing, they fly.

I know better than to worry about missing such foul creatures.

Eventually, I suppose, I'll miss their symbolism.

Gratitude No. 16

by Carrie Anderson

Oh to have a second name, a second life,

a life of experiment, to speak

and act as if in a dream

or a sitcom with commercials at precisely the right moments.

But life has no commercial

breaks, no matter how desperately we

plead, the camera does not slow,

and if you were known as Barry

in another land, one day,

maybe,

*******far*****************************

****************into*******************

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^the^^^^^^^^^^^^

********************************distant

future, everyone will know, too.

Gratitude No. 17

2010-11-08T08:33:00.000-08:00

Gratitude No. 17

by Mark Dennis Anderson

The other day I went for a walk to air out my thoughts,

take in some sunshine, and generally hoping to find

something to write about. Along came a monkey,

dressed like a jockey. He looked determined

and cocksure and he walked right up to me and said,

"If you want to make something of yourself,

Start by getting out of your own way!"

Gratitude No. 17

by Carrie Anderson

I have always wanted someone to call me

their pearl. It would be in a deep and gravely voice

that sooths even the most anxious heart.

I imagine fighting of the unbeatable foe

and climbing the highest mountain,

so long as I return to hear:

my pearl.

I might accept ruby or even simply:

my nacareous love. If said in the proper tone.

But really,

I want the pearl.

Gratitude No. 19 and No. 18

2010-11-08T07:33:00.000-08:00

Gratitude No. 18
by Carrie Anderson

In a backdrop of red, white and blue, 1865,
they circle around. Hum and tune and
search out the rhythms of history, of stories
familiar and others unknown, even to
the storyteller.

Pressed suits and polish,
this is serious business - t
he business

of telling
of the way things
once were
and the way we
hope it to be.

Red, white and blue, 1865,
a moment in E minor,
soft and slow.

Gratitude No. 18

by Mark Dennis Anderson

It doesn't take much

this time of year

to get lost in the eyes

of a stranger. Like

the squirrels,

we too need to prepare

for the cold duration.

Gratitude No. 19

by Carrie Anderson

In the land of pull pork and trucks, I find myself curiously disoriented

in a store that mirrors home and hills reminding me of the days

of high school running. For this place is not my home,

and history is unfamiliar. The Union

shines brighter in the land of conflict.

Gratitude No. 19

by Mark Dennis Anderson

Saturday sunshine

Wild turkeys in the city

Run fat squirrel run

Gratitude No. 20

2010-11-05T06:31:00.000-07:00

Gratitude No. 20
by Carrie Anderson

I found you in poem or
maybe it was a dream.
It is difficult to say,
some time has passed

Since we last saw each other.
I left you in the night
and return now in a dream.

Or perhaps you returned
to me. I was walking through
some European bazaar.

It might have been Middle
Eastern, but it is difficult to say
since I have never been to either.

I found myself in a place of
unknown languages, smells
and sounds.

But I was searching out the familiar,
I was searching for something
known, that I knew was near.

And then, from behind hanging baskets
and dried spices, you.
In almost an unseen moment.

One that would pass without
notice, unless searching.
I saw you.

And you were just as I left you.
and in that moment

I knew I was in a dream.

Gratitude No. 20

by Mark Dennis Anderson

I talked to Ryan.

He said Nael fell into a hole.

I said that would explain why

I hadn't heard from him.

One second he was walking

on a sidewalk in Beruit

on the phone with Wael

his twin brother when

all

den he woke up

in the hospital, missing

his flight back by two weeks.

Nael's home now, if home is what he calls

this place.

Next week he's going to show me

some new moves.

Gratitude No. 21

2010-11-04T11:33:00.000-07:00

Gratitude No. 21

by Mark Dennis Anderson

Last night I dreamed

you were in jail and

you said you were fine

you said you found Jesus

I knew what you meant

and I I should

be thankful it was just

a dream but sometimes

I miss you like really miss

you like something

is missing something

important a bone or

maybe maybe we are

supposed to miss each

other do you miss me?

it's okay not to answer

yes or no maybe

is closer to the truth

Gratitude No. 21

by Carrie Anderson

2AM, clicking through your high-school

classmate's neighbor's

baby shower.

You don't even go to baby showers.

Don't pretend you have never been here.

Gratitude No. 22

2010-11-03T11:16:00.000-07:00

Gratitude No. 22

by Carrie Anderson

Mint tea and scooter rides

are a good means to an end.

The trading of hands, offices and seats

hearkens a new morning.

But tonight, a brisk wind

ushers in the destiny of the evening.

Gratitude No. 22

by Mark Dennis Anderson

That the apples go uneaten

almost breaks your heart.

You tell everyone you like apples

just not apple juice, which, like red

Kool Aid slices the brain into quarters.

You threw away that coat, the missing

Button never found. Every time you

put it on, the inside lining tore a little more.

Gratitude No. 23

2010-11-02T11:58:00.000-07:00

Gratitude No. 23

by Carrie Anderson

Have you ever seen a one-legged man trying to dance his way free?

If you've ever seen a one-legged man then you've seen me

I love me a sad song.

I mean, I really love the bluest note,

the sleeplessness of unrequited love,

the forlorn spirit.

I know, I am supposed to avoid it,

reflect light, maintain a being

of illumination.

But truth be told, I love

the welling warmth of being

on the cusp of tears.

Listening to the weary

words of the broken spirit,

my heart swells and breaks,

and the gratitude of the release is

blissful.

Today my friend, oh weary pilgrim of life,

linger in the sadness, and with the lonely

accept the generous gift of

healing.

Gratitude No. 23

by Mark Dennis Anderson

On more than one occasion, I have been told

that I am far too sensitive for my own good.

My mother said it first, when I cried myself to sleep

over the death of a girl at school I'd never met.

It's gift and a curse, she said, and I cried some more,

wishing I was stronger, like I am now,

strong enough to walk closer to the fire.

I no longer burn. My scars protect me.

Let me know if you need a bandage.

Gratitude No. 24

2010-11-01T11:42:00.000-07:00

Gratitude No. 24

after Cindy Gregg

by Mark Dennis Anderson

On this first day of November,

it is fresh like cucumber soup,

the sky, the color:

expectant baby blue.

I am eating a chicken

salad sandwich

with curry

and kettle chips.

I squint

towards Hennepin,

finishing my crispy pickle spear.

I chomp in defiance,

never-minding the bare branches.

I grin and bear the thought of it,

for which no thought

will ever come close.

Gratitude No. 24

by Carrie Anderson

Il faut aller voir.

The motto of Jacques Cousteau,
that bronzed, French wanderlust, was:
We must go and see for ourselves.

I wonder, if Cousteau never found the bottom of the ocean,
would he have continued to search for it?

If no dophins ever danced in his ship's wake or

sea horses dazzled past his mask, could he have sustained
a lust for the mystery?

The necessity of discovery. The allure of the unknown.

For today and tomorrow:

We must go and see for ourselves.

Don't forget your scuba gear.

Gratitude No. 26 and No. 25

2010-10-31T12:39:00.000-07:00

Gratitude No. 25

by Mark Dennis Anderson

I remember my tail,

holding it as I shuffled

down haunted streets.

I wanted to pounce

on the witches,

seize their cauldrons,

and eat all their Kit Kats

but my pointy ears

and blushing whiskers

were too cute to terrify.

Gratitude No. 25
by Carrie Anderson

Jersey princesses
and Carl Weathers jungle films.
Cold weather and math.

Gratitude No. 26

by Mark Dennis Anderson

I have always found it interesting

when people say stuff like

"If anything ever happened to you,

I just don't know what I'd do."

I can hear my mother saying it,

in crushed, dramatic tones,

putting her hand to her chest,

shaking her head, gazing groundward.

I've been told I do the same thing

and I'm sure I've said it, too,

once or twice, if not aloud

then inside my head.

I am more afraid of SUVs

than I am of anything happening

to you or me but I know now

it is good sometimes to be afraid.

Gratitude No. 26

by Carrie Anderson

Some say Halloween is evil. Growing up, I remember neighbors turning lights out, youth groups warning of mischief and parents attempting to divert attention. Recently I have come to a new appreciation for Halloween. Here is a night that brings together: a Samurai runner, Double Dare contestants, the karate kid, Chilean miners, a panda and a Nigerian prince. This unassuming day creates a season of generosity, a moment of community. Walking down the street, you can stop your fellow man and proclaim, "Dude, your banana costume rocks." "Thanks, friend," he says with a shrug, "Your black eye is totally believable!" We lawyers and lobbyists, teachers and bankers find ourselves in awe of the artistic prowess our neighbor. Not because of their political activism or professional accomplishments but because of her flawless execution in capturing the essence of Katy Perry. Oh sure, there is the occasional pumpkin smashed or a little too revealing Dallas Cowboy cheerleader, but all in all, in my opinion, a night that brings neighbors to walk around hand-in-hand wearing footy pajamas and lumber jack gear cannot be all bad.

Gratitude No. 27

2010-10-29T11:59:00.000-07:00

Gratitude No. 27

Mark Dennis Anderson

The sky now blue-white

chilled watercolor pale

please keep my feet warm

Gratitude No. 27

Carrie Anderson

I need a hobby.

Something to occupy my time and mind.

My left hand is missing all its nails.

The right is getting nervous.

This summer I had running.

I rose with weary legs and aching feet

and pounded out 500 miles.

Now that is a hobby.

This mamby-pamby do-gooder

wrap books for prisoners,

help needy children, serves the heart

but not the bouncing ball of my interior self.

I need a hobby. I miss the summer.

Gratitude No. 28

2010-10-28T09:28:00.000-07:00

Gratitude No. 28

by Carrie Anderson

Maria said it best: Brown paper packages are a favorite thing.
Post office lines move faster when clutching a "sorry we missed you" tag.
And the final steps to your door never felt shorter after sighting the unmistakable propped door,

protecting its recent arrival like a manger in a stable stall.

Tying with string is completely unreasonable
and ill-advised by the the United States Postal Service.
Better to use tape: electrical, packing, medical,
masking or scotch. No matter the looks, so long as it stays together,

it will arrive, with little or great fanfare
And offer the receiver a grateful heart.

Gratitude No. 28

by Mark Dennis Anderson

The two women, who lived in neighboring towns,

were very good friends.

They were very kind to each other, always thoughtful,

and their politeness towards one another

remains, to this day, unmatched.

They were so polite, in fact, they rarely called or visited

each other, so polite, they were, they didn't want to intrude.

One day, one of the women sent her friend a thank you card

which read, "Thank you for being so polite."

She was so pleased and grateful she quickly sent a card in return

which read, "Thank you for your thank you card," to which

the grateful friend responded "Thank you

for your thank you for the thank you card"

to which the friend responded "Thank you for your thank you

for your thank you for the thank you card"

and so on and so forth until both their houses were filled

with thank you cards which spilled into their yards

and into their driveways and began covering their streets.

Soon thereafter, the neighboring towns were buried

under enormous piles of thank you cards, which,

ever-growing, eventually extended to envelop each other...

And the good friends have been together ever since.

Gratitude No. 29 (featuring guest poet Kelly Prosen)

2010-10-27T13:07:00.000-07:00

Bomb Cyclogenesis

by Kelly Prosen

The weatherman said the rain and the wind today
are the result of a bomb cyclogenesis, which means, I think,
that even the clothes under my slicker will be soaked,
that my galoshes will fill with water from the top down,
and that I will shiver for hours when I finally get inside.
How comforting it is to know that a little further down the road
is a friend’s front door, windows already steamed,
buzzer ready for my shivering fingers. And inside?

Soup on the stove, a glass of brandy,

and of pair of dry socks he's been saving for me.

Gratitude No. 29

by Carrie Anderson

Sleep wrinkles are not sexy.

Pillow induced creases that take ions to leave your face,

Not even the hottest, teen vampire can spin it into mild titillation.

No, sleep wrinkles are not sexy.

But this morning, as I hustled to work, over-slept and happy,

I give thanks for the creases that line the right hemisphere of my face,

Those blessed lines that shout to the world: this girl is rested.

Today, face wrinkles are hotter than a shirtless werewolf.

Gratitude No. 29

by Mark Dennis Anderson

Every night when I close my eyes,

I recite to myself a litany of gratitude.

I begin with the shoo-ins, those ne'er do withouts:

sunshine, penicillin, deadbolts,

and peanut buttered toast cut into squares.

After that, the key of D minor comes to mind,

then kittens, whiskers and all, coiled

like shrimp babies, sleeping by the firelight

reflecting in your eyes - your eyes

that know mine, open or closed.

30 Days of Gratitude Poetry Project

2010-10-26T12:38:00.000-07:00

That's right! Carrie and I are at it again. This time the theme is gratitude in celebration of Thanksgiving. Easy enough. Let the lines begin...

Gratitude No. 30

by Carrie Anderson

Running up hills with hours before dawn. The air above is quiet, while the street is surprisingly crowded. Men stand in line for buses, for soup, for stores to open. A girl in uniform, hair tied tight with a gentle ribbon around her head, waits for the bus. A woman eating her daily morning Snickers bar. I wonder, is waiting better with someone else, with a partner? I have waited alone darn near half my life. I have waited for races to start, birthdays to arrive, coffee to cool. But today I wait for no one. I am grateful for no lines. I find no doors locked.

Gratitude No. 30

by Mark Dennis Anderson

Writing creative nonfiction while eating crab corn chowder is like reading creative nonfiction while eating crab corn chowder. Writing poetry while eating crab corn chowder is like the guy across the cafe from me (the one with the dark hair parted on the left like Pacey from Dawson's Creek) biting his lip, concentrating on the screen in front of him, not looking up, not sensing me looking up at him between commas, between spoonfuls, wishing I were that lip, yes, the bottom one, or his scruff-almost-a-beard, LOOK AT ME! I scream in silence and he scratches the back of his head, cocks his head towards the window then shifts his eyes and BAM! Thank you.

Christ on sale!

2010-10-02T15:20:00.000-07:00

We recently discovered the Cartoon Network show "Archer" from which I lift the line for this post's subject, "Christ on sale!" Hands down, this is my new favorite way to take the Lord's name in vain.

I've come to the realization that I suck at blogging. Instead of deleting the blog(s) and pretending none of this happened, I've decided to try the opposite approach: blog more, blog obsessively. Sure, the poetry projects and the occasional anecdote have surfaced from time to time but really? One or two posts a month? Who am I kidding? Even Kiss, one of my new alpaca gfs, knows a failure when she kisses (smells) one.

One of my hangups with writing in general is that I freak myself out before I even sit down to write. That said, I am in graduate school now. For writing. And guess what that means? I need to write.

I have no idea what "topics" I'll be blogging about and I'm learning not to care. If you care (or have any ideas) by all means comment or send me a message. I am always looking for more ideas. Those of you who know me well can attest that I have a lot of ideas already but seem to lack the discipline for seeing it through to the end. This, again, is a product of my own misgivings as a poser.

Interview: Will Thomas, age 6

2010-08-27T11:46:00.000-07:00

Brian In The Basement

2010-07-14T09:15:00.000-07:00

A video I made with the kids I'm mannying this summer. Be sure to watch the actors' intense and dramatic facial expressions. Part 2 is in pre-production.

True Story: The Game of LIFE

2010-06-25T08:25:00.000-07:00

For some extra cash this summer, I took a job nannying in Eden Prairie. The kids, two boys and a girl, are Chris's nephews and niece. Gabby is eleven and her two brothers, Sam and Will are eight and six respectively. So far, my time with them has been a lot of fun but the other day the fun took a morbid turn when we decided to play LIFE.

Playing games with children can be a risky venture, especially when money and automobiles are involved. Will, the six year old, nearly threw a fit when his yellow station wagon hit the STOP sign, signaling he would need to take a wife. "But I don't want to get married!" he yelled at his sister, who, being older, frequently serves as the adult figure when dealing with her brothers. "Well, you have to, Will. That's how the game works," Gabby said, cleverly taking Will's blue male peg-person out of the driver's seat and replacing it with the pink female peg-person. Naturally, Will didn't notice at first. A few turns later, however, after Will and his wife were bequeathed twin boys, Gabby noticed something wasn't right. "Where is your wife, Will?" she implored. Will smiled and said with a revengeful tone, "Under the car."

Countdown to Summer, No. 1

2010-06-21T09:34:00.001-07:00

Well friends, today marks the end of our Countdown to Summer Poetry Project. I would like to thank all of you who took the time to read our little efforts. To commemorate the official first day of summer, I am choosing to post one of my favorite poems of all time, "The Problem of Describing Trees" by Robert Hass. I first discovered the poem by way of Chris who, when Hass visited his college, acquired a poster-sized, autographed copy of the poem which he then framed using old dock wood. The poem hangs in our entry way and serves as a poignant reminder for me to slow down and read between the lines.

The Problem of Describing Trees

The aspen glitters in the wind.

And that delights us.

The leaf flutters, turning,

because that motion in the heat of August

Protects its cells from drying out. Likewise the leaf

Of the cottonwood.

The gene pool threw up a wobbly stem

And the tree danced. No.

The tree capitalized.

No. There are limits to saying,

In language, what the tree did.

It is good sometimes for poetry to disenchant us.

Dance with me, dancer. Oh, I will.

Aspens doing something in the wind.

--Robert Hass

*I should mention that there are varying versions of this poem floating about and that this version is the one hanging in our entry way. Other versions include a penultimate line "Mountains, sky." and a singular aspen in the ending ("The aspen doing something in the wind.") Naturally, I prefer the one featured here.

Summer Solstice

At 4 a.m., not even the most ambitious sun is awake.

It remains hidden for another 42 minutes and then

its relentless force appears over the horizon.

First a gentle cooing and cawing.

A distant train horn awakens the heart to remembering.

And then color, light and music begins.

The longest day proclaims its fury and power over the earth.

We wait for it to end,

just as we waited for it to start.

A year is a breath and heave,

just as this moment is the longest day.

--Carrie Anderson

First Night of Summer

Don't.

Don't look in the mirror.

Don't go to sleep.

Take your racket and run...

Run into the field and whack

Lightning bugs until your head

Is covered with glittering guts!

Stare at the stars.

Stare at everything

Until everything you see

Sees you.

---Mark Dennis Anderson

Countdown to Summer, No. 2

2010-06-20T08:38:00.000-07:00

The Gift

To pull the metal sliver from my palm

my father recited a story in a low voice.

I watched his lovely face and not the blade.

Before the story ended, he'd removed

the iron sliver I thought I'd die from.

I can't remember the tale,

but hear his voice still, a well

of dark water, a prayer.

And I recall his hands,

two measures of tenderness

he laid against my face,

the flames of discipline

he raised above my head.

Had you entered that afternoon

you would have thought you saw a man

planting something in a boy's palm,

a silver tear, a tiny flame.

Had you followed that boy

you would have arrived here,

where I bend over my wife's right hand.

Look how I shave her thumbnail down

so carefully she feels no pain.

Watch as I lift the splinter out

I was seven when my father

took my hand like this,

and I did not hold that shard

between my fingers and think,

Metal that will bury me,

christen it Little Assassin,

Ore Going Deep for My Heart.

And I did not lift up my wound and cry,

Death visited here!

I did what a child does

when he's given something to keep.

I kissed my father.

--Li-Young Lee

The Shuffle

Sometimes your voice makes me want to punch babies.

In the morning, on the telephone, there is something

in the delayed reaction, your stifled pitch

that gives me no other option

but to hurl my phone into traffic.

But if I am home, and I hear your voice

down the darkened hall lined with photos of Franklin,

and I see you shuffle out of your room,

your bits of hair disheveled,

bleary eyed and shuffling...

You reach out your arms with a gentle, slight hand

and you beckon.

In your embrace, I am eight years old, returning

from summer camp,

breathing in the deep comfort of home.

Did I mention the shuffle?

--Carrie Anderson

Satellite

for my father

Out on the point, flat on our backs,

we hunt for movement in the sky.

I see one! you whisper-yell,

pointing into the darkness

which is everything,

in this moment,

but dark.

I follow the line, taught, straight

from the tip of your finger.

I have learned to avert my eyes;

to stare through the billions.

A magic-eye trick.

In my periphery, I see it

crossing the arc of this heaven.

We don't wonder what it's for

or who put it there.

We merely watch

as it disappears beyond

the tree-lined horizon.

Rock at my back,

quiet with you.

--Mark Dennis Anderson

Countdown to Summer, No. 3

2010-06-20T07:51:00.001-07:00

He looked lovingly into the flowing water, into the transparent green, into the crystal lines of its wonderful design. He saw bright pearls rise from the depths, bubbles swimming on the mirror, sky blue reflected in them. The river looked at him with a thousand eyes - green, white, crystal, sky blue. How he loved this river, how it enchanted him, how grateful he was to it! In his heart he heard the newly awakened voice speak, and it said to him: "Love this river, stay by it, learn from it." Yes, he wanted to learn from it, he wanted to listen to it. It seemed to him that whoever understood this river and its secrets, would understand much more, many secrets, all secrets.

But today he only saw one of the river's secrets, one that gripped his soul. He saw that the water continually flowed and flowed and yet it was always there; it was always the same and yet every moment it was new. Who could understand, conceive this? He did not understand it; he was only aware of a dim suspicion, a faint memory, divine voices.

--- from Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse

Night Sprinkler

Let's walk out into the night together and find a sprinkler. Let's take off our clothes and lie in the wet-dewy grass and breathe in the freshness of the night, the purity of the water. We will need to be quiet so as not to alert the neighbors. They would want to join us in our escape. We will close our eyes and listen to what is not said, what is unheard. Because you see, my love, we do not love one another. We do not even want each other. Our fragile existence can only survive whilst under the cool stream of this sprinkler. As I lie there I will contemplate the fortune found in my chocolate piece today: For every woman their is a seducer. Her happiness lies in her meeting him. Lying with the cool night blowing over me, I will not imagine the fortune or the chocolate, but the foreigner who misspelled the words and wonder what his hair would feel like running through my fingers.

--Carrie Anderson

Wind and Water

Look at the water

and listen

not to the what the wind

says on its surface;

do not attempt to gaze

into her eyes

nor imagine her belly

full of reeds and fish;

only one question,

one simple answer

will be offered:

the ripple is your own.

--Mark Dennis Anderson

Countdown to Summer, No. 4

2010-06-18T13:55:00.000-07:00

Memory of Soup

Her hips, the blinding window light, the unopened bottles (water, pills) - all of it - like some prehistoric mammoth frozen in the ice cap of his temporal lobe. Paris. Maybe, he thought, if he remembered long enough, he could go there, go back, say something, do something. Like a fucking butterfly in Texas he could change it. What had been thought, what had been spoken, dissolving still into the canyon of loss. They were making soup. Yes, soup. And she was going to call her mother to tell her. No, this was before; he still wore a beard. The bottles came later. Apricot marmalade. The paint on his shirt, paint like blood; he couldn't bear to look at it. He will change another day. It was hot, always hot in the kitchen and still they made soup.

--Mark Dennis Anderson

about the photograph

Taken by Amy Anderson, this photograph, titled "Morning", won the Walker Art Center Ingenuity Award at the 2009 Minnesota State Fair. You can see more of her work on her website www.AmyAndersonArt.com

Countdown to Summer, No. 5

2010-06-17T08:15:00.000-07:00

Self Portrait in White Bikini

Quarry Park, Summer 2006

Most days I stretch my wet body across the floating dock and sleep, surrounded by the rock walls of Melrose Deep Seven. It is the beginning of summer and both my skin and bathing suit are the color of a fish's underbelly. I'm only slightly shy about this because the winter we've recently escaped from was hard and I'm thinner than usual. I've recently cute away two feet of hair as some form of protest and I can't stop touching my own head. Everything feels refreshed. Melissa and I lie on wet towels and smoke cigarettes and eat sour candy. The bottle of iced tea I brought is sunk with a length of rope and a large rock to the depths of the quarry where, when I pull it up hours later, even the ice cubes inside are preserved. The only intrusion on these early summer days are teenage boys who we watch dive from the highest of the outcroppings. We put on headphones and close our eyes; the space we inhabit is vermilion.

Soon we find the fishing quarry, silent and private, framed by dark rocks whose gentle curves suggest the backs of petrified elephants. We visit this quarry every day. School is out and Melrose Deep Seven is full of screeching children and we avoid it. We no longer have a floating dock, but we have those elephant rocks, which we stretch across, tracing the striations on their surfaces with their fingers. We eat strawberries and apply lotion. We write poetry in damp notebooks. I love the graffiti I discover one day, carefully rendered in three inch high letters, I Love Ione. It looks as if it would smear if touched, as if it has been done with oil pastels. My bathing suit is still the color of milk, but my skin has turned cinnamon around it.

III

The man I'd been in love with all winter said that as a teenager, his father had driven a motorcycle into Deep Seven on a dare. I think about that motorcycle, and about how even if I had it, I wouldn't drive three feet from where I lie, floating around on an inflatable raft, eating fresh pineapple, slipping into the water when I'm through, face and arms sticky with juice. Fish gather in the shadow of my raft.

I remember standing, prepared to dive, feet burning on the rock, concerned with nothing but the anticipation of the water below. A summer of eating nothing but fresh fruit and fish, of swimming every day, had made my body lean and strong. I swore that every step I made on the rock could be heard far underground. It didn't matter if anyone else loved me at all. I didn't want to forget what it felt like, so for once, I dove in properly, hands first.

--Gretchen Rueth

The Park (circa 2009-10)

Most days, when it is not raining, I leave the air-conditioned quietness of my office and walk the block and a half to a park on a grassy hill. The park itself is marked with a tall bell tower, too robust and ostentatious for the unassuming green surrounding it. The topography is a steep ascent littered with aged benches made from wood and painted black iron. Through my visits, I have learned to avoid the aggressive resident squirrels. With piercing eyes and grasping claws, their tourist trained instincts interpret every look as come hither. I also avoid the tourists with their fumbling maps, the lobbyists in their pressed suits and the government workers in their washable cotton. Really, I avoid everyone. I do this out of habit. My initial lonely visits were precipitated by the fact I had no friends partnered with being unaccustomed stopping for lunch during a work-day. I found the park a tranquil space away from my self-reflection that questioned everything: my recent move, my abandoned relationship, my decision to leave my job, my future, my demise and everything that lies between. Today my mind is quieter. I am alone only when I choose and for moments of needed solitude. Often, I meet friends for tacos from the secret tacqueria around the corner. Now, the park is a quiet time capsule in which I recall my past life, my year without comfort.

--Carrie Anderson

Summer Wind

Instead of telling me about your day, how boring it was or how your boss pissed you off again, I'd rather you just walk up to me so we could kiss the way we kissed in the beginning when kissing was all we wanted from each other. Let's open the window and let the summer wind whip all the junk mail off the table. I'll laugh, my skirt billowing, at your frown and your frustration, then disappear into the kitchen and pour you a glass of lemonade. Taking your hand, I'll seduce you into the backyard where I'll insist you take off your shoes and socks to feel the grass between your toes. You'll tell me I'm hopeless and, as always, I'll put my finger to my lips. Later, after dinner, I'll go for a walk despite the severe weather warning. I'll secretly promise to myself that if lightning strikes, I won't return home.

--Mark Dennis Anderson

Countdown to Summer, No. 6

2010-06-16T07:06:00.000-07:00

Kosmos

Who includes diversity and is Nature?

Who is the amplitude of the earth, and the coarseness and sexuality of the earth,

and the great charity of the earth and the equilibrium also,

Who has not look'd forth from the windows the eyes for nothing, or whose brain

held with messengers for nothing,

Who contains believers and disbelievers, who is the most majestic lover,

Who holds truly his or her triune proportion of realism, spiritualism, and of the

aesthetic or intellectual,

Who having consider'd the body finds all its organs and parts good,

Who, out of the theory of the earth and of his or her body understands by subtle

analogies all other theories,

The theory of a city, a poem, and of the large politics of these States;

Who believes not only in our globe with its sun and moon, but in other

globes with their suns and moons,

Who, constructing the house of himself or herself, not for a day but for all time,

sees races, eras, dates, generations,

The past, the future, dwelling there, like space, inseparable together.

--Walt Whitman

My Leaves of Grass

You are my leaves of grass.

My summer heart and heat.

Like the lark that nips the back of my arm,

you remind me, hello.

Climbing painted iron hand over foot,

foot over hand and back down,

The acrobatics of summer heat

and warm and growth.

Sun-maps gold and blond,

chart my daily comings and goings,

City street corners create

water-cooler friendliness.

Dogs walk with heavy breaths,

search the eyes of passersby,

Desiring the relief and release of

a shadow, shade, a water dish.

Children slouch in sweaty carriers,

while parents question their reproductive decisions.

Sprinklers invite even the eldest

amongst us to run and prance and dance.

Summer is a breathless wonder,

a monarch's unchartable return.

--Carrie Anderson

Summer Haiku #3 (Theory of Summer)

Sweat beads descending

Earthly sexuality

Mosquito blood thirst

--Mark Dennis Anderson

Countdown to Summer, No. 7

2010-06-15T10:03:00.000-07:00

The Drink

I am always interested in people in films who have just had a drink thrown in their faces. Sometimes they react with uncontrollable rage, but sometimes --my favorites-- they do not change their expressions at all. Instead they raise a handkerchief or napkin and calmly dab at the offending liquid, as the hurler jumps to her feet and storms away. The other two people at the table are understandably uncomfortable. A woman leans over and places her hand on the sleeve of the man's jacket and says, "David, you know she didn't mean it." David answers, "Yes", but in an ambiguous tone - the perfect adult response. But now the orchestra has resumed its amiable and lively dance music, and the room is set in motion as before. Out in the parking lot, however, Elizabeth is setting fire to David's car. Yes, this is a contemporary film.

--Ron Padgett

Happy Birthday

Gummi worms on a sunroof were how it all started. Driving through windy country roads and when we were lucky, venturing to the town of up. The '86 in its conservative gray-blue was our reliable chariot of prosperity but for that one moment of Tori Amos drama when it lost a tire down the highway. "There it goes," I said with stale intonation as the tire spun its own destiny. Drama was never our problem. Words were not our problem. Singing, laughing, music, we had it all. I don't remember much of our summers together. I remember Saturday mornings, bleary eyed and wanting of sleep. Ready. Ready. We ventured together in an 18 week journey that ended in a rainy conclusion. That was our last summer together. Summer is us reading while the cool breeze pushed the hammock and the dog lounged between us. This memory attaches itself to every summer day. This one moment is you as summer is in my heart. You see, you have already finished your journey with me; we have already lived out the ending of our days. Before time, lying under an intricate diagram of musical geometry, you became my love. As we woke to Canadian pines swishing in the wind, you became my forever.

--Carrie Anderson

Born Today

Born today, you are likely to dislike, among other things, the color of French dressing, skinny jeans, circus peanuts, parents who never say "no" to their children, the phrases "cook down" and "chick lit", out of tune pianos, and drivers who leave their blinkers on far beyond their actual, signaled turn. In fact, you will hate such people. So much so that you will tailgate them then drive up along side, wildly waving at them to roll down their window at which point you are likely to yell "It's my birthday, you idiot! Get a fucking clue!"

--Mark Dennis Anderson

Countdown to Summer, No. 8

2010-06-14T05:49:00.000-07:00

Approximately Forever

She was changing on the inside

it was true what had been written

The new syntax of love

both sucked and burned

The secret clung around them

She took in the smell

Walking down a road to nowhere

every sound was relevant

The sun fell behind them now

he seemed strangely moved

She would take her clothes off

for the camera

she said in plain English

but she wasn't holding that snake.

--C.D. Wright

The Goalie

I open my eyes and for a brief second,

a moment of purity and light, I forget.

I forget the crowd, I forget the moment,

I forget yesterday. I am me in my body

and nothing more.

And then from across the universe,

and spacial limitations, it hits me. Reality.

The moment, the seconds, the agony.

I know my role. I am the final stop.

I am the loss.

I am rarely the hero and always the fool.

I am the target and the protected.

This is my reality.

I am the goalie.

--Carrie Anderson

Summer Haiku #2

Sweat drenched water glass

Happiness eats strawberries
Cloud cover relief

--Mark Dennis Anderson

Countdown to Summer, No. 9

2010-06-14T05:24:00.000-07:00

Geometry

All the roofs sloped at the same angle.

The distance between the houses was the same.

There were so many feet from each front door

to the curb. My father mowed the lawn

straight up and down and then diagonally.

And then he lined up beer bottles on the kitchen table.

We knew them only in summer when the air

passed through the screens. The neighbor girls

talked to us across the great divide: attic window

to attic window. We started with our names.

Our whispers wobbled along a tightrope,

and below was the rest of our lives.

--Nancy Botkin

Luck

Leaves of grass between my toes, and

kicked-off shoes after a long drive.

The freshest of air with children laughing, and

cool music floating through the air.

I close my eyes and imagine the luck,

the amazing chance of this life.

I spread my toes further into the grass

and smile and take in another sweet,

sweet breath. Summer.

--Carrie Anderson

Thirst

To thwart

the unbearable heat,

the cat lays low

on the floor.

Outside, mouths full

of oranges,

children dance

in sprinklers.

--Mark Dennis Anderson

Countdown to Summer, No. 10

2010-06-14T04:54:00.000-07:00

50-50

I'm all alone in this world, she said,

Ain't got nobody to share my bed,

Ain't got nobody to hold my hand,

The truth of the matter's

I ain't got no man.

Big Boy opened his mouth and said,

Trouble with you is

you ain't got no head!

If you used your head and used your mind

You could have me with you

All the time.

She answered, Babe, what must I do?

He said, Share your bed--

And your money, too.

--Langston Hughes

Walking Through Steamy Streets

Walking through steamy streets,

we found a stone. It was first carried

away from the ocean, its home the sea,

and up mountains and through jungles.

Then it was carried through airports,

city streets and here to rest,

on a side-street in a foreign capital.

Weary hands pushed it through

the unknown and we do not know why.

Weary feet walk by with unknown destinations

and do not know why.

And now the marvel and mystery

sits unmarked behind a painted chain

for only the knowing to appreciate.

--Carrie Anderson

Summer Haiku #1

Birdsongs ring morning

Restless leaves give and take

A rabbit is dead

--Mark Dennis Anderson

Countdown to Summer, No. 11

2010-06-13T09:23:00.000-07:00

In Time

The night the world was going to end

when we heard those explosions not far away

and the loudspeakers telling us

about the vast fires on the backwater

consuming undisclosed remnants

and warning us over and over

to stay indoors and make no signals

you stood at the open window

the light of one candle back in the room

we put on high boots to be ready

for wherever we might have to go

and we got out the oysters and sat

at the small table feeding them

to each other first with the fork

then from our mouths to each other

until there was none and we stood up

and started to dance without music

slowly we danced around and around

in circles and after awhile we hummed

when the world was about to end

all those years all those nights ago

--W.S. Merwin

Kowtow

I will not let the world kowtow me into

sleep

slowness

contentment

I will push and prod and pull my heart into

ready set go

go run (jump) fly

--Carrie Anderson

Prerequisite

I am certain

I told you,

back when we first met:

I have no time for answers.

Only paper cuts, avocados,

and that teenage sensation,

felt best in June, accelerating,

windows down,

something disappearing

in the rear view mirror.

--Mark Dennis Anderson

Countdown to Summer, No. 12

2010-06-13T08:52:00.000-07:00

Canary

for Michael S. Harper

Billie Holiday's burned voice

had as many shadows as it had lights,

a mournful candelabra against a sleek piano,

the gardenia her signature under that ruined face.

(Now you're cooking, drummer to bass,

magic spoon, magic needle.

Take all day if you have to

with your mirror and your bracelet of song.)

Fact is, the invention of women under siege

has been to sharpen love in the service of myth.

If you can't be free, be a mystery.

--Rita Dove

Driving to the Show

I prefer the windows down, the wind tussling my hair and reminding me that,

although I am usually in a meeting right now, instead I am driving to a show.

We don't need to listen to music. Or perhaps a little music in the background.

Yes, this will set the mood and energize me and you and our psyches.

The concert is sure to be a great success. You will dance in jumping

syncopation and I will sway and rock and smile.

Inevitably there will be arms pumping into the air, with smiles on our faces.

The opening band, we will critique with unabashed disdain or surprise.

And then our cherished mecca, the force that pulled us to this distant land.

He will enter the stage with prowess and poise. And we will smile.

And with weary hearts we will return to our distant homes. And be happy.

Driving to the show is so much better than walking.

--Carrie Anderson

Drown My Name

"I'm not afraid to go but it goes so slow."

--Jeff Buckley

With a damp rag in hand, I wipe

the tabletop, listening

to the music inside my head.

Two tables down, the clinking of glasses

interrupts my reverie

and I walk to the couple,

happy and charmed,

"How is everything tasting this evening?"

--Mark Dennis Anderson