You are dead.
Hi, Heather how are you?
No, that’s stupid, she is dead…
I am sad.
True but, argh!
Dear Heather I wrote a string of tweets yesterday because I was too high off of caffeine to care about grammar and if you want you can check out the tweets they are all about you and how your death impacted me and how I wish you lived so follow me at @poet_rose wait you can’t what the fuck am I still typing for.
Why am I such a mess?
Okay, try again.
Dear Heather, I found out your had a dog. Specifically a chichaucha and you named it violet and I had a dream about meeting your dog and it being stupid cute with buggy eyes and we went on an adventure to find violet doggy hair dye so we can run around Puget Sound with a violet dog but then I woke up and you are still dead…
… no…. that’s not what I want to say at all!
Dear Heather, fuck you for dying on us. No one had to die. But you had to be there. Didn’t you have better things to do besides fighting American Nazis!?! You had a dog, dammit!
That was just insulting but okay… no. Not okay. Try again.
Dear Heather, on August 12, 2017 you died for my right to exist in America but you never knew me. You marched against racist in Charlottesville, VA. You are technically White by American standards but I am beginning to think that European American would be more apt because I want to keep your name away from any association with those fucking bigots!
Too political… try again.
Dear Heather D. Heyer, your dad and mom were on the news. I read that you had a paralegal job and you are only a few years older than me. Heard you were going to go to school. You would have made a kickass lawyer. We also had a lot in common. You cry during sad and traumatic news and you are passionate about equality and you hate bigots and did I mention you had a dog named Violet. Your favorite color is violet.
Pick a past tense or present tense verb.
FUCK YOU. THIS SHIT IS HARD.
Yes but you got to.
I KNOW BUT SHE IS DEAD IT HURTS AND SHE CAN NEVER COME BACK AND SHE DIED FOR MY RIGHT TO EXIST AND WHAT CAN A SUICIDAL 28 YEAR OLD BLACK PINOY ON THE WEST COAST DO. I WAS ASLEEP WHEN THE CAR PLOWED THROUGH HER BODY AND SHE PROBABLY HAD DREAMS AND FOUGHT WITH HER PARENTS AND GOT DOGGY KISSES AND HAD LOTS OF LOVED ONES AND THEY ARE NOW SUFFERING ALL FOR MY RIGHT TO EXIST AND THAT WEIGHT IS TOO DAMN HEAVY IT FEELS LIKE AN ALBATROSS IS TIED TO MY CHEST AND IT IS SO FUCKING HEAVY SO I COULDN’T GET UP WHEN THEY ANNOUNCED HER DEATH I COULDN’T SHOWER OR EAT OR TALK I WAS JUST BAWLING ON THE FLOOR YELLING AT PEOPLE ONLINE BECAUSE I NEEDED SOMEONE ELSE TO KNOW HOW MUCH THIS HURT AND NOW IT IS DAYS AFTER HER DEATH AND IT STILL HURTS AND I AM TRYING TO MAKE SENSE OF IT ALL BUT SHE IS DEAD AND WHAT AM I SUPPOSE TO DO?!?!
Live. Honor Heather and live and write and hell, maybe get a bet dog named Violet. But live. Don’t throw your existence away because some assholes don’t want you in your homeland. Live. Live so fiercely that it pisses them off.
But, she is dead…
Many died for your right to live before her. She is now with them. Do what you do best with your life now. Write from them. To them. With them. Write, live, and love.
Okay. Up for another draft.
Dear Heather Heyer,
On September 4, 2016, I went to see Snoqualmie Falls with a few friends. When we found a parking spot, which was its own adventure, we noticed this large snowplow.
Rusted and broken down, it stood as a testament to the ingenuity of man. This snowplow helped to clear of snow the tracks for lumber cars during Seattle’s youth. Still rather unfamiliar with snow, it amazes me that such a large plow would be needed.
After a bit of a hike, we reached the falls. There were many other pilgrims there, each wanting to take photos of the falls as the mist sprinkled our heads.
I found myself wondering if the water droplets that flew in the air after the initial plunge down the falls kept the forest green.
The mist reminded me of dragon’s breath and I could have sworn a wyren lived behind the falls.
Such power followed by such calm.
More proof of man’s hand.
The adventure was short but gave me plenty to think. How do hydroelectric plants provide us with electricity? Have the falls been negatively affected by tourists? If so, is there a way of reversing the damage? What stories do these falls hold? How many winters and springs have they seen?
I will return to them eventually, but for now I am enjoying the electric heat of my laptop and the sun beaming down from my window.
As mentioned in a previous post, you have to live to write and (for writers) write to live. The two are inseparable. So, I decided today was and exploration day. I picked a random park here my home and went for a mini-hike.
The park in question was…
My hike lasted on 30 minutes because the trail was pretty short and lead to residential areas. Also, I got hungry… But, there are many other trails to explore and I most definitely will be back soon.
The trees were huge and majestic. Some reached so high that I could barely make out the canopy. Others reminded me of the om, the idea of the continously echoing sound of the universe. Where one tree ends, another begins.
The local residents, however, reminded me that civilization and human impact have left their mark. This park was not as wild as I had hoped. There were sewer drains and manholes hidden under fallen pine needles. There were scattered pieces of trash here and there. But what was most disturbing to me was the ducks.
Animals, wild ones, usually run from me. I took it as part of their wildness and intellect. I would be afraid if a strange bipedal creature with large eyes and a light box came up to me to. But these ducks…
These cuterms guys followed me! Out of no where I heard the fluttering of ducks and the splash of their bodis hitting the pond. They must have heard me as I approached the pond. I took a look and saw 8 then 10 then 15 ducks heading my way. I started to back away as I realized that these ducks… have been unintentionally domesticated. So, I ran off but not before taking a quick pic of my duck chasers.
I then stumbled on an invasive species…
A bridge over a dry creek bed…
And the not-scary-at-all-tube-tunnel..
Nope not horror-movie-fuel at all. Nope…
And yes, I went through it. I held my phone out to light the path. The tunnel lead me to…
The street. I was so disappointed I didn’t bother to photograph this moment. I saw a Canada Dry can left by the other end of the tunnel and that was it.
All and all, my little hike did allow me to experience tempered nature in my new home town. I hope to explore more of Washington in the coming days.
Happy reading and happy writing my fellow dragons.
The toddlers at the child care center I work at giving me many reminds of very old life lessons.Here is one, I call, the Parable of Snack Time.
“Snack time!” I said.
Twelve toddlers look up from what they were doing. Some start chanting “snake time!” Others drop their toys and waddle or crawl their way to an empty chair. Once all the children are sitting down and the tables are cleared of blocks, I begin to pass out today’s snack: Gold fish crackers and green beans.
After everyone has their snacks and water bottles, I seat down with them and talk with my coworker, Ms. Z. Ms. Z and I make sure to demonstrate what conversation should look like and how to seat in chairs. We ask the children questions about their day and so forth. Soon, there were empty snack plates and many still hungry children.
I get up to pass out more snacks. After the last child received their portion, I asked, “does anyone need anymore food?”
“More snack-y plwese,” said a little girl, name Mary.
I looked down at Mary’s plate. It was full. She hadn’t touched her snack all afternoon.
“Finish your snack, Mary,” I said.
“More snack-y!” she cried.
I pointed to her pile. She, in turn, pointed to the bag of cheesy goldfish.
“Don’t worry, I’ll give you more when yu are done.”
And that was when the tantrum began. She yelled and screamed for more goldfish. She the her arms left and right. Before she knew it, all her snack-y was all over the floor and Ms. Z intervened.
“Mary, you had snack, but now it is all on the floor. Come here and sit with me until you can calm down.”
After guiding a screaming Mary to Ms. Z, I swept up the rest of snack. By the time everyone was done with snack, Mary finally calmed down and I sat with her as she ate her new serving of goldfish and green beans.
You tell me in the comments.
A thought, brought on by the morning chorus as sung by a neighboring murder.
The summer heat crept into my window, driven by the calls of crows. In a large pine tree a family, a murder, trains new fledglings to feed and fly. I am reminded of a story I learned a long time ago, back when I learned that love and expense were tied into one word: Maganda.
As the story goes, when the world first began, there was no land, only the sea and the sky, and between them was a crow — Black as the space between stars. One day the crow grew tired of flying around. There was no land.
Thinking on the wind, she began to stir up the sea with her wings, until the sea threw its waters against the sky. The sky, in return, tossed thousands of islands into the sea to restrain it. Soon the sea could no longer raise. Instead the sea began to flow back and forth, making a tide that beat to the rhythm of the crow’s wings.
Then the sky spoke.
“Crow, go and land on one of the islands. Build a nest and leave the sea and I in peace!”
As my Nanay told it, from then on the crow lived happily ever after with the other birds on islands between the sea and the sky.
That must have been the first summer of crows.
Happy National Poetry Month!
National Poetry Month is the largest literary celebration around the world, with readers young and old marking the importance of poetry in our culture and lives. There are many ways to celebrate poetry (reading, writing, going to poetry events, carrying a favorite poem around with you, etc.) and one of my favorite resources to explore this month, Poets.org, has a list of creatives activities to do during April.
One of their suggestions is to carry a poem in your pocket or share some of your favorite poems with your friends.
Now, having read a lot of poetry books in my days as a graduate dragon, I have a large horde of poems that I call my favorites. However, limiting the list to Rosie’s to 10 Poems for 2016, seems too … limiting. I am a dragon writer, after all, and as such I would be embarrassed to show off only 10 gems when I could display 10 treasure chests.
Without much ado, I present to you, A Dragon’s Top 10 Poetry Books:
The Lorax taught me that you can tell a story, a sad and thoughtful story, through music. I didn’t know, as a kid, why the music came out of everyone who read the Lorax aloud to me, but the music came all the same. This was my first introduction to narrative poetry.
I know, I know, technically this is not a poetry book. But there are enough memorable poems here to make my list. Also, I did my undergraduate thesis on the poems held inside this treasure chest. Nonsense poetry that hides depth and meaning while teaching the reader how to read … Lewis Carroll was a genius.
From Lewis Carroll, I found my way to Edgar Allan Poe, writer of the infamous “Raven.” Enough narrative poem. I became hooked soon after this. Poetry began as necessary to me as water.
It was in High School that I came to love this poet. Something — about her — struck — me — deeply.
I found myself craving songs with meaning in my high school life. Songs that changed history and then I found Hughes. “Dream Deferred” still rings in me like an unfinished song or a tune caught in my throat.
I am cheating here because 1) Carlos Bulosan is a treasure all on his own and 2) for some reason I cannot find a full complete collection of his works on line. I can copies of his poems scattered about my files and I keep America is in the Heart by next to my Bible.
AUDRE LORDE, ENOUGH SAID, MOVING ON!
“here yet be dragons”
so many languages have fallen
off of the edge of the world
into the dragon’s mouth. some
where there be monsters whose teeth
are sharp and sparkle with lost
people. lost poems. who
among us can imagine ourselves
among us can speak with so fragile
tongue and remain proud?
FOR ALL THAT IS HOLY, BUY THIS BOOK! I was so inspired by Ms. Carmen Giménez Smith that I even wrote her a Facebook fan letter.
I already reviewed this one, but, as with all the books in this list… READ IT IF YOU LOVE POETRY, FANTASY, AND THOUGHTFUL DISCUSSIONS! … cough… roar…
I hope you enjoyed this list and the books found within. What are your favorite collection of poems? Who are your favorite poets? Please comment down below.
As always, peace, love, and pancakes!