Bowling Alone
For Brad

Shiny, shiny, shiny -
the ball, the lanes, those uptight white pins;
we slip our feet into those communal shoes,
multi-colored and slick-soled.

When my grandmother joined the League
back in ’67, her fiery red hair matched this eccentric
crimson orb, proudly reading “Ramona II,”
and she and the other officer-wives
traded recipes and gossip over waxed
wood flooring and the sound of home-made thunder.

I’ve inherited the ball, the shoes, but not
I notice
the gossip queens, or chatty Cathys.
These lanes, manicured though they are
remain empty.

The League, once frothy and over-indulged
now dwindles to a dripping
cupful of retired men, in faded and stained
shirts that read “Jim,” “Beau” and “Buddy.”

Gone are the afternoons of beer-pitcher bantering,
asking how the kids are doing,
shaking hands after a game.

I watch the unadorned black balls waltz
down the lane, slowly, lazily.
My grandmother had a snap in her wrist
that flung that ball – Zing! –
but these pockets of families just toss
their rented balls, bouncing them into gutters.

The precision of the strike,
the pride in the cascade of flailing pins
that my grandmother spent hours perfecting,
is left now to chance.

Holding my secondhand ball I watch
those little, isolated family groups –
tiny, untouched tribes.

As the old men wheeze out the door
I realize with salient clarity
we are all here bowling, alone.

Days of the Dollhouse
For Dad

I recovered that glaring yellow canvas
from the back corner of your studio

where you had stuffed and packed
away all those paintings from my childhood.

I don’t recognize those violet bodies lying in the sun
or the old Victorian house in crimson and jade

But I can identify, with confidence, those firm, bold
brushstrokes . Papa, you once painted in Chartreuse,

Cinnamon, Saffron, Indigo; you borrowed
from birds of paradise and lent that brilliance

without apology to your canvas storybooks.
Now all I see are beige lines, blacks, whites, grays.

Papa, where are the Days of the Dollhouse,
flowered shirts, cigars, round breasts, ruddy faces?

Where is that Miami flare, that unabashed taunting
texture of acrylic, that I read with my fingers like Braille?

I may never burn as bright as you did in youth,
but Papa – that candle hasn’t burnt so low yet.

Where Poets Go To Die

Ah, the smoky bar, likely joint
for the disillusioned and disabled,
for the drunk and the drinking,
for the those unfortunates
that happen to thrive on misfortune.
This is where poets go to die.

The gin and tonic drinkers mingle together;
I can see those nubs where fingers once grew.
Darts wiz through the haze and somewhere
a fat old man coughs. Smokers’ Lung.

Slumping heavily on the bar
three wrinkled men gulp
pints of amber beer.

They don’t taste it.

One man, hairless head glistening,
thick eyebrows framing deep-set eyes
drums his fingers without rhythm
tap-tap-tap
tap-
tap-tap-tap-tap
summoning his poems from
some Morse code memory
of the war years.
Tap-tap-tap

He looks at me, that lumpy bag of bones
and grunts,

“What?”

In those inky eyes, a lifetime floats
buoyed by the beer, the rising smoke.
In those somber sockets I see

The beach at Normandy
a baby boy in a red wagon
a curly haired woman in nylons
three small Asian children holding bowls of rice
a duffle bag, a uniform, boot shine.

Those memories are so far removed
from the dingy shriveled body of a man
that hunches on the bar for support.

Tap-tap

“What do you want, kid?”
Raspy, smoker voice box.

He looks me over,
my blonde hair, my slight smile
my ideals worn like ranks on my sleeve.

Tap

I want to scrape from these walls
wisdom and words,
lifetimes of broken promises,
wanderlust,
sex, cigarettes,
newspapers headlines.

What, old man?
Rotting and forgotten, your words
dotting pages in anthologies,
flanked by pictures in glossed magazines
stacked in cardboard boxes under your bed,
I found you
drowning in the congealed smoke
and sea of dark ale
washing away in that dim light
the memories of war and women
of ’57 Chevelles, hunger and hangover mornings.
I found you, wiping up this spilled existence
dripping down that stool
losing your hair, your wife, your badges.

Is this what becomes of all the imprints of living?

You are poised; ridiculous
and rude with the leftovers
of courage, the lost generation
losing themselves in the fog of age.

In those faded blue pants and stained white shirt,
fingers now too thick and clumsy for writing
you come here seeking communion,
where poets go to die.




I've been working on this all evening. I am really proud of where it's going. I know it still needs something. Any suggstions or comments would be *much* appreciated!

If this song doesn't give you chills up and down your spine, nothing will.

Eavesdropper

I wasn’t trying to listen
to the two lovers quarreling down the hall
but their bottle-necked words
just seemed to find me as I smoked
my ex-boyfriend’s cigarettes on the fire escape.

How many times can a man say I love you?
Apparently about eleven times in succession.

Really, children, pull yourselves together;
don’t drop those pieces of your cracked hearts
all over my hallways making a mess for housekeeping
and forcing me to step over the puddles.
It’s rude.

Give yourselves a week
and those broken tea cups and shredded
photographs will just be scraps in the green dumpster
that Big Joe hauls away on Tuesdays.
You could recycle that love note.
Save a tree, at least.

And that particularly loud crack when the busty brunette
slammed that lovely guitar against the door frame
ought to be an offense to musicians, music-lovers
and human decency. All those strings just popped
and the neck hung, cock-eyed, limp.
Like his love, I’d wager.

But, children, this is what we writers thrive on:
all that angst, that passion, that emotion.
Keep thrusting your private wars out into the public
don’t mind my smoke rings and rapid typing
I’m just using art to mimic life.



This needs something, I just don't know what it is.

Howdy ya'll!
I've noticed there are some new names on the f-list that I've not run across before. I don't automatically friend back, so if you're wanting me to read your blog and/or include you in any of my friends-locked entries (which are about 90% of what I write) please leave me a little note about who you are, how you found me and why in the world you want to read my silly blatherings. :)
Brekke Out.

Hooks of thick steel
embedded in the fat of my arms
and the soles of my feet
drag me under.

It's like forgetting to take a breath
after swimming underwater
eyes blurry from chlorine
skin tight and clean
disinfected.

But I feel infected.
Diseased.

Rotting wood smells better.
Not flesh.
Rotting flesh turns stomachs,
tears eyes,
revolts the taste buds.

I wish I were made of wood.
Ceder. Pine. Red wood. Oak.
Tall, firm,
hardened core and thick skin
I wouldn't have let your blight
eat me up, inside out.

I could float along the surface
buoyed up like cork or beech
instead of sinking.

It's not the drowning that is frightening,
no, those gulps of water
instead of air
are a calming feeling of pressure
fullness.
What I fear is that dark water
and my putrid body
tangled on the sandy floor.

( Wellspring )

( Love Song )




tweaking, yes? Gimme your thoughts.

Why, hello there, LJ land, it's me, your favoriestest Brekke, back from some wanderings in the sand. I'll catch ya'll up on my beach trip in due time, but now I need your help! Yes internets, I need your sage wisdom once again.
It's that time of year, when us grad students begin to gear up for academia and get to choose our classes. Since the Presbyterian church requires proficency in BOTH Greek and Hebrew, I really don't get to choose an elective for this semester (grumble grumble), but I do get to choose a Contextual Education site. What is Contextual Education, you might ask? Essentially it's an internship at a designated site (4 hours a week, for a whole semester) that is practical, hands-on "field work" for ministry. First years are placed in social-justice type settings. Each Con Ed site has a corresponding ministry class that helps prepare and engage students on an academic level with what they're learning/doing at the internship.
So, I need help choosing. Of the 12 possible locations I have 4 that I feel strongly about. I can see myself at each one, for varying reasons. My concern is less with the placement and more with the corresponding class. I am most interested in Urban ministry, but 2 of the placements I am interested in aren't signed up for that class, they are Pastoral Care - which is useful, don't get me wrong.
So, oh knowledgeable internets, I need your advice and opinions. :)
Here is a link that has descriptions (and more links!) to the 4 sites that I'm interested in.

Poll #1415915 Con Ed placement I
This poll is closed.
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All

Which Site should Brekke choose?

Give me your feedback. It's much appreciated! :)

They sing me a lioness, fearsome.
The Hand of God,
Striker of the Enemy,
Deliverer of Israel.
But, what is it to be an paladin?
To coyly offer soft sheets,
to smile with honey on my lips,
to promise sweet cream and deliver
in a single quivering strike
sharp, real, instinctive death.

The stake felt heavy and raw
as it smashed down into the earth.
I am used to tangled weaving, to hot
pan handles, to nursing babes.
I mend shephard wounds, not
rend open a man to the sky.

Did his vision explode like tiny lamps
dancing out across the desert sky?
Did he feel the gushing of broken vessels
as his blood stained my carpets?
Did he hear the thunderous crack as his skull
crumbled inward, spilling all his thoughts
to be eaten by camp dogs?

Champion for Israel,
I see mangled flesh in my dreams.
My husband turns away, his dark eyes
reflecting resentment. Those broad shoulders --
once the fortress guarding my weakness --
now stiffly turn from me. There are no caresses
before sleep. Just the cold plain of his back.

Why must I be the instrument of Divine Will?
I snuffed out the light of conquering Sisera,
now I outshine my husband.
I will be remembered in history, and he
will float nameless in the tide of time.
How can a woman stand so tall on the shoulders
of the prophets, yet live wrapped
in a shroud woven of rejection and bitterness
by the same fingers that wear her wedding band?

My unfinishied handwritten note
sits by the bedside table, next to the lamp
my grandmother gave us to furnish
this small apartment in the sweltering
asphalt city of people and noise.
I'm sorry I omitted my location, my vocation,
my annuciation and a reason
of why I grabbed that red backpack
and left.

Something about the way the streets,
humming with the ever-present heartbeat of neighbors,
strangers, lovers, fighters and the occasional
stray dog, made me bristle -
like an old tabby arching her back,
red hair spiking out, wildly -
and without doting my 'i's
I slipped away.

You cannot see from our third story window
how beautiful the sun looks as it yawns
over the Mojave Dessert. I left
for that tingling moment of joy
when the waves kiss my toes
and I sink deeper in dark California sand.

That unfinished note beside
my Bible didn't leave a map,
no treasure hunting. My hiking shoes
and I are off of commune with each other
and whatever wild wonder stumbles
into my unplanned, unexpected,
unforgiven path.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY britta43!!!!

I hope you have a super-fantastic day!

Icarus

Unfold that broken wing of yours
and let me hold your naked body.
I found you, half alive,
fished you out of the sea.
You limply rolled with the waves,
have you lost the will to live?
But there are so many flowers left to pick!
So many walks through green pastures,
So much sunshine to soak in,
but then I learn the sun burned
more than just your tender flesh.

( Edits )

Marry us together, the way the wind and water
are wed in a late night thunder storm.
I have these two hands, that old truck,
and an imagination as wide as the Montana sky.
Simple beginnings blossom wild, like the butterfly;
plain black caterpillar blooming rainbow wings.
There may be dirt under these nails, but honey,
there's honesty there too.

EDIT: I added more poetry and put everything behind LJ Cuts to save your friend pages.


( Adoration )

( Church Pot Luck )



I have found that the more regularly I write poetry, the more I am inspired*. Funny how that works.

* I never claimed that any of it was any good, though.

( Orange Spider )


Yes, yes that is one of their songs. Amusing, yes? Especially since they're a quasi-punk-christian-rock band. Yep, love them.

Me: "You're scratching your balls in front of me, ew!"
Brother: "No, I'm scratching the upper side of my pubes, big difference"


This is what I live with.

Batter my heart, three-person'd God...

Rip, crack and tear asunder
those glass walls that I have foolishly
erected in the hopes of salvaging my salvation.
Those pains that quake across the plains
of my chest, my ribcage, my uterus
take those clenched-fist, teeth-ground tremors
and explode open the canal to my heart.
Displace my joints, stretch me wide, welcoming
your new life in me. Shudder my soul, Oh
God, expand me, rend me beyond all recognition
and labor in this human body a new beginning.

So, I need to get the update windows stuff from my aunt, but I haven't, so I can't open new word files. Awesome. And I can't sleep, so I'm going through old poems and seeing if I can salvage anything from them. awesome. Feel free to skip this entire post.


( A Cinderella’s Lament, original )

( Revised )

It still needs work. Lots of it. But these are the preliminary changes. I still thinks it's too...juvenile? I need better words, they just weren't coming tonight.