Mothers of Incarcerated Sons

October 2008 I began a free weekly writing workshop in Chicago for mothers who have or have EVER had a son in prison. I even received funding for the publication of the complete anthology titled "Mothers of Incarcerated Sons Speak~M.I.S.S."

The group meets at the Howard Area Community Center, 7648 N. Paulina, Room 2, every Thursday from 6-7:30pm.

I had several inquiries from mothers outside of Chicago who were very interested in the group, so I started MISSspeaks Yahoo group.

Click to join MISSspeaks

Inspiration from Blaga Dimitrova

Yesterday I was emailed a link, something that happens ever so much with email--"check this out," or "we think you'll like this." Oftentimes, I just hit that delete button, as I'm sure most others do as well. Fortunately for me, I followed the link and was so inspired I wrote immediately afterward, something that hasn't happened for quite awhile, obvious by the lack of entries in this blog (or any other).

The link was to an Interview with Blaga Dimitrova’s Poetry by Farideh Hassanzadeh-Mostafavi.

It was an interesting article and a unique way to conduct an interview--by using the interviewee's poetry as the answers. I read the entire article and then wrote a piece of poetry about poetry, words and images that just came, lit with the passion of reading good poetry.

I Steal Lexes
1-3-2009

I steal lexes.
Deliberately plucked
from the cosmic garden.
Inspiration flows from the pilfered
imbibes me with the soul
of the owner, the owned and
the released.

As Prometheus
who dared to steal from the gods,
I too embrace idiom's fire,
happily scorched with the brilliance,
engraved with the eternal language
of those before, those beside, and
those in dreams.

I am frozen on the ice floe of
continuous sheets of slick, sterile
whiteness, only to be thawed
by the bristling and whirling heat
as meaning sprouts from the nothingness,
and Phoenix spreads wing over the ashes.
I steal lexes.

Format and syntax and metre confined
within Pandora's box, released at will to
express the last, the essential, the hope
that my revelation is dispatched refined.
Articulated with the reverence of a call
carved on the prison wall, a letter
written with deaths' hand.

I steal lexes.
Grasped and gathered by the muse
slave fingers, bloodied with the quest.
She is driven with the passion and lust
into the dark fields of babble to emerge
with blossoms and fruit that feed the
insatiable hunger of the master huntress.

The voracious feast begins, tearing asunder
the plant, discarding the weeds, the waste,
to reveal the succulent heart of meaning
that drips with the addictive sweetness of
unquenchable knowledge, absorbed and
discharged to the fervent masses who devour
and regurgitate the plunder.

elegy letter poem

Dear Peter
1-18-2007

Day One
Where was I when you died?
Where was I when you died?
Where was I when you died?
I tape the worn folder instead.
Better to fix—save the old.
I have no pictures of you/us.
The theme today is firsts.
Seems today, it’s always about firsts.
Whatever happened to the lasts?
What was you last?

Day three
Days later and I’m re-obsessed.
Thousands of miles and three years ago,
only now does Chicago hear.
April 18, 2005, three days before Lenny’s birthday.
Does that matter? Make a difference?
Freezing here and smoldering there, regardless.
Who held your hand?
Who wiped your brow and talked nonsense,
to keep/get your mind awake—active—alive?
I read about Las Mariposas instead.

Suffering of others is so much easier.
The unseen—the preferred.
Rush hour traffic builds on Sheridan.
Buses and sirens a welcome diversion.
Lenny’s getting married, it’s why we searched.
He’s lost two father figures in two years.
Lizzie’s left last year.
The unseen is handsome caramel in a cream suit.
The wedding is peaches and cream.
A confection lacking.

Why a death to spark longing?
I must call Jason to understand.
Said he was upset, couldn’t find my number.
Lenny doesn’t believe him, Kim warned him.
He left an apology on my voicemail.
“Please don’t yell at me.”
Three days ago—three years ago.
What is there to say?
The cats are sleeping and the news is on.

Day Fourteen
Unannounced, flaming through the saganaki.
Admission of guilt not anger.
Yet still, I’ve not called Jason.
You think he knows? Of course,
he’s guilty too. We chose life
and forgot, looked away, denied death.
The voices that scream back, hands that reach,
tears that flow without meaning.
Still, I was denied, my selfishness.
No grieving as I grieved a week for Skipper.

How ironic, I fight for prison reform now.
Dismissed your experience, and carried Lenny’s
only to bury the hatchet years later. Blame.
It’s always blame, a respite from the guilt.
Strength, as a noun or a verb, is there a difference?
Strong going in, strong coming out,
regardless of the in between. Is that logical?
Weak coming in, weak going out,
regardless of the in between. This is life?
The cats are sleeping and butterflies are call.

Dates: birth date, wedding date, graduation date,
dates hold such significance yet unnoticed.
The date Chicago heard, was the death date.
January 18, 2008—April 18, 2005.
Just noticed this moment, this day, this hour late,
33 months, 1000 days, how many hours late?
How many significant moments unnoticed?
How many noticed insignificant without a moment?
Count the stars, count the way, number the hairs
and still not have a clue, even when the cats are awake.

Day Eighteen
Today I apply for utility assistance and ask for food.
Things just didn’t turn out the way we planned, did they?
Me retired to the mountains.
You riding your Harley in the mountains.
Kids happy, secure and responsible,
and life grand in the joyous golden years.
Instead…
I can no longer make a decision and go with it.
I feel you did though, and I think it was an easy one.
Was it? Easy to just say enough? Done? Goodbye?

inspired poetry-jan 2008

inspired by the day

Alaska Heat

August 12, 2007, not the hottest day
But damn close
Pools of sweat gather in areas
Doused with powder. Create
Little balls of goo, clung to pasty skin
Beneath air conditioner ran 10th day straight.
Cats search for warmth, cuddle close
One beside, one above, are pushed away
Grandkids gone after 14-day stretch
Non movement and T.V.=drugs of choice

“Into Alaska” highlights polar bears
Arctic foxes vying for fatty seal.
Transported, dove into white drifts
Meditated on snowcapped mountains
Fished in crystal blue cool water
Transported, relieved of oppressive heat
Transported, desire rose
Alas, cost of living is double and triple
into Alaska.
August 12, 2007, not the hottest day.

No need to verify plane fares--today I have arrived--without leaving.

Poem of the World-May 2007

At Manifest, our student organization, Poetry in the Round, set up a table complete with fortune cookies that held poetry lines. Eat and breathe poetry! Our member, John, decided to have a world poem, where every visitor added a line to create a flow and exchange of poetics. Below, is the wonderful wordsmith John, who came up with the great idea. Hope to have more pics soon.

sunday in the suburbs-August 2006

And I find myself by the water-drawn as always-
Lake Michigan, but not outside my door,
for it is there also, just steps away.
Rather,
miles north in Wilmette where
peace, quiet, and solitude is the norm-not
chaotic and raucous multitudes as Rogers Park.
Not cultured or diversified either.

Roar of rolling white caps is the predominate sound.
Occasional giggles of children and
the rustle of leaves throughout the abundance of trees.
No mutherfuckers,
no burning scent of weed or
nauseating sour beer;
no Latin drums or African beats or American bumps.
Only multi-colored sails tipping the horizon
and calm serenity.
Even the gulls are screechless.
Mountainous clouds outline the distance
like snowcapped Andes.
Even the parking lot behind is silent.

Wilmette permit required,
I imagine.
I walked in-snuck in
because there was an attendant-
guard was my first word choice-
at the drive gate.
Gate yet-at a park.
Gilson Park.
So I detoured,
nonchalant and discrete,
then cut through the grass with others-
joining in where I didn’t belong yet wanted to be-
so I came. I’ll leave through the gate though
and find answers to all my questions.

found poetry-August 2006

this exercise was interesting, but the real fun came in putting it all together.

Signs of the Times

Distinctive lakefront
As opposed to indistinct
Imagine
No outlet

The axe soon forgets but
The tree always remembers
And I cannot prevent
that
It is possible
To die without ever having lived

Read the words

Police begin campaign to run down jaywalkers
And
Drunk gets nine months in violin case
Survivor of siamese twins joins parents
Yet
Iraqi head seeks arms
Stud tires out
While
Prostitutes appeal to Pope
To
Never withhold herpes infection from loved one
Juvenile court to try shooting defendant
Critics say county mental health near collapse
Obviously
Severed Hand Saved By Peas
With
Testicles On Sale

Imagine