Showing posts with label American. Show all posts
Showing posts with label American. Show all posts

Sunday, July 12, 2015

Mother Lode



I squat like a miner;
sift through rubble,
barefoot in Levis.
Memories swirl the pan
most of them look the same;
unfossilized, too liquid to keep.
Ruby lips. The American dream. 
Now and then a sparkle a nugget
looks up at me with human eyes.  
Clementine!  Can't take everything, darling.
Just a few. I pack it neatly in the box
labeled "Initial Boom".
Souvenirs line up like herring.
Gradually decompose,
bloom sweet and pungent;
fertilize a second chance
my destiny.


tk/July 2015


R.A.D. Stainforth brings my words to life...





Sunday, November 9, 2014

American




Convict me of dandelions
and large puddles of ketchup,
the June scent of Scioto rain.

At breakfast I get drunk on Bach,
with a chaser of Copland and Joplin,
hotdogs from a cart, by noon.

Find me guilty of eating at the kitchen sink,
ordering drive-thru McDonald's fries
you shotgun, me in a Stetson.

I pretend to hate mosquitoes on the Fourth of July
come at me with sparklers, buckeyes,
those little American flags stapled to sticks.

I want to pursue our life, liberty, and happiness,
but there's something you should know

I love A. Lincoln, shamelessly.



tk/May 2013 


R.A.D. Stainforth...a rare step out of his black and white world...





Sunday, May 19, 2013

Self-evident




Convict me of dandelions,
large puddles of ketchup,
June scent of Scioto rain.


At breakfast I get drunk on Bach,
chasers of Copland and Joplin,
hotdogs from a cart by noon.


Find me guilty of eating at the kitchen sink,
ordering drive-thru McDonald's fries ―
you shotgun, me in a Stetson.


I pretend to hate mosquitoes on the Fourth of July ―
come at me with sparklers, buckeyes,
little American flags stapled to sticks.


I want to pursue our life, liberty, and happiness,
but there's something you should know ―
I love A. Lincoln, shamelessly.


tk/May 2013

Thanks to  R.A.D. Stainforth for this excellent read.


Lighthouse Dandelions by JamieWyeth 
Join Magpie Tales creative writing group. 

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

all-american


When it comes to food, I am an all-American kind of girl. Growing up in the Midwest in the 60s made a lasting impression on my taste buds.  There's nothing I like more than a good ol' burger and fries, with a large puddle of ketchup on the side.  My new favorite place to find such culinary fare is my local Graffiti Burger. Their handmade milkshakes are out of this world.  Eating here is a special treat, since eating all-American, unfortunately is not exactly the most healthy.


Graffiti's walls are covered with, you guessed it, graffiti.  "All-American" is spray painted in big black letters above the counter.  We chatted about the term and possible origins.  Post-Google, I found it started in 1888, with reference to baseball teams composed of the best players from the United States. Now, to be an all-American, has simply come to mean to possess qualities characteristic of American ideals, such as honesty, industriousness, and health. I liked it better back in the guilt-free days, when burgers and fries were considered well-balanced American eating.

After savoring every bite of the Graffiti lunch, I stopped by the library, and as synchronicity would have it, felt compelled to pick up Elia Kazan's America, America, 1963. Based on his novel about his uncle's experience immigrating from rural Turkey to the United States,  it is one of Kazan's lesser known films, compared to On the Waterfront or A Streetcar Named Desire, but it is certainly his most personal.

There are no big stars in this movie, but the acting is stellar. The unknown faces give it a raw and powerfully real quality. It starts slow, then builds, so give it a chance. America, America received Oscar nominations for Best Picture, Director, and Screenplay, and won an Oscar for Art Direction. Each frame is perfectly shot, like an exhibit of beautiful photography. If you are a connoisseur of art and film, you will love this movie.

As you know, my synchronicities come in threes.  My friend, Laurie Kolp, mentions an all-American as a plate filled with dreams. I wholeheartedly agree.