Coming Home

This poem was inspired by a tweet from a Cleveland Heights neighbor about her experience driving home after a vacation.  Here's her tweet:

Vacation to MI where I was born & raised. My comfort is road signs driving home "East Cleveland" to home, home is Cleveland!!#htspoetweet

and here's my poem:

The Sign Says, “EAST to CLEVELAND:” I Read “HOME” 

You flee the routine; seeking

change, adventure.  Finding these

you wish, perhaps, for some magic

that will let you stay – release you

permanently from the  drudgery

of every day events – give you leave

to abdicate the dull predictability of home. 

But you know well that moment

when the glow tips over into longing.

No matter what awaits; piles of laundry,

stuffy house, sorting through the mountain

of unwanted mail - your eyes blink past

each green emblazoned sign, watching

only for the one announcing “home.”

There's still time to tweet me thoughts on vacation or stay-cation - the topics for August.  #htspoetweet
Or if you don't tweet, leave a comment below and I can work from that.

Check out my facebook page https://www.facebook.com/poetartistKathleenCerveny

Bluestone (Cleveland) Heights

At the Cedar Fairmount Street Fair this weekend, there was a terrific and exclusive tour of Bluestone Heights - the name that the Heights is known by, by geologists.  We had the chance to step into the gulch behind the lovely Tudor Deming House and learn about the geologic history of this area, built on Berea Sandstone, Euclid Bluestone and Cleveland Shale.   Here's a poem that was inspired by (some of) what I learned.

Bluestone Heights 

In the Late Devonian

this place that I call home

lay at zero latitude; Equator.

Before the vast tectonic plates

settled in their current place,

my city’s global longitude

was at the locus of Peru.   

Our Heights were once submerged below

an intercoastal sea. Its depths,

a muck and silted dead zone, left

no ancient fossil trace.  Instead,

it formed the hard-pressed, layered bed

of Euclid Bluestone, Cleveland shale

that sandwiches our neighborhood.  

This rock and shale beneath our feet,

was mined for sidewalks; and above,

capped the crenelated parapets  

of all the old apartment houses

up Cedar Hill and down my street.

 

Tweet me your thoughts about our local geology, what you are doing on vacation or anything about life in Cleveland Heights #htspoetweet - or leave a comment after this poem.

What's NOT Cool About Habitat Loss

I've been away on vacation most of July, hence the paucity of posts.  But this one was inspired by a photo and story that HeightsArts' new Executive Director Rachel Bernstein shared when I returned.  And with the topic for July being 'stayin' cool', her experience prompted this negative take on that theme.  It's an experience we have all had here in the Heights - all too frequently in the recent past - but seen through the eyes of our 'best friend.'

Encounter 

For thirty seconds, he just stared;

confusion overpowering instinct. 

“WHAT!”       “WHAT!?” 

raced through his brain.

And then the barking started. 

Even from the upstairs window

he knew the backyard enemy was big. 

“BIG!”            “WHAT!? 

Bigger than the one who lives

next door and smells like meows.

Bigger than the one across the way

who’s always chasing lawn rats. 

“I would catch them if I could get

out alone. But …WHAT!?” 

From the square of green behind

the white frame house, the deer

looks up, at the familiar sound.

 

 

Send me your tweets to #htspoetweet or leave a comment below.  Comments/tweets on the July theme, stayin' cool or the August theme vacation or stay-cation, are welcome.  I'll keep making poems as long as you keep inspiring  me.

Pool Poem, Park Poem

My thanks to the staff and students of LakeErieInk for tweeting me inspirations for the following poems on our June topic of Parks and Recreation. 
Kathleen

Cumberland Pool 

The blue glass of the pool,

lane lines wavering below;

one deep breath— and leap!

Then kick, scoop, breathe,

kick, scoop, breathe, kick … 

Only me, only the water

dissolving me into summer.

 

 

Simple Pleasures 

I wonder—with each city park

now crowded with construction;

slides and swings and wooden

jungle gyms; fortresses, like

manufactured villages

for summertime amusement—

do children play the games

we used to revel in, on lawns,

in parks, those long and endless

afternoons of liberation in the sun?

 

Hide and Seek. Mother May I?

Crack the Whip and Statues; games

that need no more than friends. 

 

The Peace Park down on Coventry

has its entertainment complex;

beams of weathered timber, ropes

for climbing, chutes for sliding, perches

for the lookout, cubby-holes for hiding. 

 

Yet, down its gently sloping hill

roll a giggled gaggle—free of all

but self-directed motion, self-induced

emotion; tumbling dervishes

of mesmerized emancipation.

 

Tweet me your thoughts #htspoetweet on the July topic, "Stayin' Cool."  Don't Tweet? No problem.  Enter your inspirational thoughts in the comments section below and I'll  get them that way.  And come back soon!

 

 

On the Streets Where We Live

Some of us get our best and most restorative exercise cycling or walking the beautiful streets of our city.  Here's a poem inspired by tweets from a current and a former Cleveland Heights resident and about what one can observe on these leisurely recreational outings.

What’s in a Name? 

Was it imitation or appropriation that gave the framers

of our city’s streets the impetus for naming 

them as if we lived a Merrie Olde existence? 

My morning cycle wheels me past half-timbered

Tudor castle-lets on sheep-sheared lawns along

the quiet streets of Berkshire, Essex, Norfolk;

the shops on Coventry, and yes, down Tudor.  

 

Longer rides meander Anglified suburban ‘shires’

of Devon, Derby, Lancashire.  And while there’s

neither Hartford, nor a Hereford, many a Fair Lady

lives on Hampshire Road—tree-lined and shady. 

I prefer the names that come to mind,

spontaneously on my evening constitutionals. 

This street surely should be Lilac Lane;

another could be Mock Orange Blossom Row. 

The roses now are blooming on what used to be

the fragrant and abundant Avenue of Peonies.   

And though I know this isn’t England - it’s the Heights,

those of us who live here have the privilege

to bike and walk amid a Botanic Garden of Delights.

 

Now let's get some tweets going about Cumberland Pool, Cain Park, baseball and tennis - I see you out there on the Middle School courts and running on the track.  Tweet me. #htspoetweet

Kathleen

First June Poetweet Post, thanks to an amazingly beautiful and more amazingly talented actress in our midst.  

June's topic is Parks and Recreation. There are many kinds of recreation.  For those of us who work all day, sometimes just a drink with friends is like a small vacation.

Happy Hour 

You’re dancing down the sidewalk toward our evening;

summer in your hair and open smile.

Too long the time and far too many changes

since we said we’d meet and share our lives. 

At the Fairmount, sparkled conversation;

the tingled sting of icy gingered drinks.

Faces flushed with eager, shared connections;

two women, strong and happy - on the brink

of expectation for the coming chapter

in our lives, already overflowing -  full and rare. 

We leave the warm sorority of this hour,

refreshed from work and home and other cares;

walk home through summer’s rain-washed, ruby air.

Two Views of Hail

So this is likely the last Poetweet post for the May topic of Spring.  Soon June begins the next topic for tweets - Parks and Recreation.  Tweet me your thoughts, insights, experiences about how you re-create yourself out of doors in the Heights in the early days of summer.

Now, two very different poems prompted by a short tweet about the hailstorm we had a week or so ago.

Unexpected

Pierced by the grape-shot ice

of a late May hailstorm—

fury after unsuspecting calm—

the hostas’ green and chartreuse hearts

lay open, like stigmata-ed palms. 

The sudden shift in temperature

should have been the clue

that all the shadowed days ahead

would open onto emptiness

as the door closed, soft, behind you.

 

And, on a completely silly note …

Hail the Hail! 

The rake and hose still hang by the pail

all neat on their hooks by the mower. 

And there they will stay for a week and a day

for the sky has begun now to shower.

“Get off of your duff!” says my wife, with a cuff

of her hand—powdered in Gold Medal flour. 

“There’s work to be done! Nevermind there’s no sun.

Don’t sit on the couch and just cower.” 

But then came the sound of the hail pounding down

and I knew I was safe in my bower— 

my man cave and La-Z-Boy beckoned to me

while the hail went and knocked out the power.

OK - not great literature. But sometimes its just fun to play with words.  And my guess is there can be some minor truth even in silliness.

More in June (maybe silly, maybe not) - but only if you tweet to #htspoetweet
Kathleen