I wrote this for a poetry contest that called for poems by runners inspired by running. I'm not a poet but I figured, eh, why not?

Ode to Swamp Ass

Nothing is better than swamp ass

on a Sunday morning. I prize

waking as the sun starts her pass

when others doze or daze through mass.

Wipe the hangover from my eyes.

Nothing is better than swamp ass.

On trail, I pound stress into grass.

Beneath flying feet self-doubt dies.

Waking as the sun starts her pass

rejuvenates tired brain mass

and earns cheeseburgers and French fries.

Nothing is better than swamp ass.

Therapy would cost major cash.

I’d rather tell my mess good-byes

waking as the sun starts her pass.

You should know I’ll never be last

or waste time whining to the skies.

Nothing is better than swamp ass

waking as the sun starts her pass.

Found this little diddy I wrote in 2009. It's a sonnet. Check it: I'm like Shakespeare. Bahahahahaha. Right.

Saved

The white silk dress snagged on a fence post

Waves in the breeze like flag of surrender.

If it were night, the dress would be a girl’s ghost,

But in the summer sun it is a dancing reminder

Of days past. Upon closer look the dress

Is dirty with holes. Alfalfa sways

Tickling the hem in a gentle caress.

Behind this picture, a house is up in blaze.

The fire ate all who lived there, including

Little Susie May. A photo of her catechism is licked

by flames crumbling to ash in her home, her grave.

The dress flying in the summer sky remaining

The only proof of her commitment made.

In that dress, she was saved.

New for me for June:
Week 1: I got my car detailed. Holy cats. Greatest. Idea. Ever. It's still cleaner than when I bought it. I rode home to Norfolk afterward though and had a wet butt. At least it wasn't from swamp ass, I guess. There was one summer when I was driving my first car without air conditioning. Swamp ass central. I also went out for wine and cheese with my dear friends Kim and Dana. I've never gone for wine and cheese before. I see what the hype is about. Tasty.
Week 2: I went to LA for residency. My girlfriends Dalia and Christin and I stayed together in a hotel close to campus. It was awesome--9 night sleep over. We had the best time. I forgot what it's like to just hang with your girls all the time and didn't realize how much girl time I was missing. Over the course of week two and three of June I did a 5k-a-day challenge where I ran at least a 5k every day that I was in Los Angeles. My mentor for the residency was John Corey Whaley. Read his book, Where Things Come Back. It's fabulous.

Week 3: At residency, I explored West Hollywood and downtown LA. West LA on a Sunday afternoon is like Omaha at 2am on a Saturday night. Bumping. My girlfriends and I also went to Malibu and had dinner at a restaurant over looking the ocean. As the tide came in waves would crash against the windows. We also slammed some major dessert. In like 3 minutes.

Week 4: I had the busiest week of work of my life. And my little brother turned 21. Scary--kid loses his keys, wallet and/or phone on a weekly basis. I'm not sure how he'll survive now that he can go out in public. My mom and I took him out to lunch in Lincoln, where he goes to school, to a restaurant I've never been to before, however, I seem to have forgotten the name so I guess it wasn't that exciting of a new thing. My exciting new thing was that when I got home from LA the College World Series was still going on in Omaha and the company that owns my gym has club seats to every game. If there are no clients who big wigs get to take to the games then someone draws names and we employees get to use the tickets. My friend Elisa's name was drawn so she, our friends Jenny and Kerry, and I got to go to the championship game of the College World Series. It was awesome. We also met Bo Pelini, Nebraska's head football coach, in the club suite. He did not smile when we asked for the photo, he did not smile during the photo and he did not smile when we walked away. Even when my friend Kerry said, "Ah, hold on my boob is in the way," when she was taking the picture. He did pat me on the back as I walked away. And another new thing for me: Sing "Chicken Fried" on the way to a baseball game and then eat fried chicken and waffles at the baseball game. Then sing "Chicken Fried" again on the way home. Good times. Good times.

There are some people in my life who are so easy to write about. In my Writing for Young People workshops at Antioch, I find myself writing to or about my brother so easily. A lot of that is probably because my workshop leader has asked us to write about our childhood. I would really love to write something for every person in my life that I love. I think that's the best way for an author to get their feelings out. I've written poems about my brother, Tanner; Haley, Claire and Grace the girls I babysit; and my aunt Karla, although I'm not sure they've all seen the poems. I've also written non-fiction pieces about my dad, his dad and a trip I took with my mom's family, mostly focusing on my Grandma, but I'm not sure if I'll ever be ready to show that to anyone. I really want to write something for my mom, but I don't know how. Here's what I wrote for Tanner in my June 2012 residency during a workshop free write:

Tannie,

     Remember how, before mom and dad got divorced, we used to dress in dad's coveralls, rolled at the bottoms and sleeves, to go out to the farm and cut down a Christmas tree? We had to stomp through snow drifts in the field to find the perfect tree. This isn't a real memory, but I'm sure if you chose a tree, I probably said it was ugly and picked a different one. We would pick out the tree that would perch in our in our dining room beside the fireplace. You and I would decorate the tree together each with our special ornaments.

     Remember that last year mom didn't want to get a real tree so we tackled her on my bed and poked and tickled her and threatened to fart on her head until she said we could get a real tree? Remember how I used to make footprints in the ashes in the fireplace so you'd think Santa came? I don't remember believing in Santa, but it meant so much to me for you to believe.

     That was before there stopped being snow on Christmas.

      Remember in the summer going out to the lake and building sand castles for our toads? I don't remember this, but I probably stole all of your toads and smashed your castles. I'll never forget how you once told me that there is something in every man that just really wants to dig a really deep hole. I loved when we used to bury each other in the sand, feeling the weight of the sand on my chest, wondering how much sand it would take to crush me. I don't remember feeling this way, but I know I was awful to you, so I'm sure I probably thought about sand crushing you or I probably at least dumped some in your mouth or something.

     "No boobs at the table," mom would say when we came inside. "Hehehe mom said boobs!" we'd giggle, would still giggle today if she said it. She'd mean your boobs, not mine in my bikini top. You'd put on a shirt and we'd peel our sun burnt skin, meaning I'd make you let me peel your skin.

     Jenni told me I chased you with a butter knife once. I don't remember that. Do you? I seem to have blocked that out. You probably wailed like a fire engine when I did that. I do remember your crying. How could any of us forget that?

     Sometimes I'm afraid I damaged you. All you wanted was to hang with me and my friends or with me, Philip, Cameron and Darby. I know. You had Scuba Ken. I promise never to tell anyone that. There are plenty of boys who had Kens. I don't know why I didn't let you play.

     Remember how I taught you to ride your bike. On your fifth birthday I marched you outside and you learned in seriously, like, 5 minutes. You rocked. You probably don't know this, but I had training wheels forever. I remember having my bike out at the cabin and Grandpa took off my training wheels and I couldn't get it! So, go figure, I got pissed and threw my bike down and went off to pout. You complain that I pick everything up so easily. It's not true.

     You probably don't remember what happened that night Mom and Dad took that picture of you that everyone loves, the one of you butt naked looking out the front window with the cat watching the streets flood. I do. It was one of our family bike rides. Mom, Dad and I rode to Hy-Vee. You were in the children's seat on the back of Mom's or Dad's bike. While we were getting our groceries, rain started pouring down. We tried to wait the storm out, but it wasn't stopping. So, we peddled off. People were splashing us in their cars as they drove by. When we got home, we were soaked. We were going to take warm showers, but you escaped to have your famous pose which all of our family members have hanging on their refrigerators, your bare ass, I know, it sucks. You were kind of cute, I guess, from the back--don't get me wrong, you grew into a great-looking adult, but when you were two I had some reservations. After you were clothed, we ate popcorn and Mom and Dad told us stories because the satellite dish wasn't working in the rain.

     I know you remember playing Slap Jack on Mom's bed on nights when Dad was at the Firestation. Watching Baywatch? We used to save games for weeks. After the show was over, we had to go to bed, but we would save our stacks of cards.

     I hope these are the things you remember. I hope you remember us reading Harry Potter and us making cookies and sharing beaters and how the only food we both hated was those awful sugar-free popsicles that made your tongue feel fuzzy.

     Always remember that I'm proud of you. I don't know if you remember when Carrie and I told you how to not be a douchebag when you got to junior high (because we apparently only hung around douchey guys), but know that I've never worried you would be that kind of guy. You are one decent human being, my dear Tanman. Remember that.

I wrote this about my brother during my yoga and writing retreat free write:

     All of my early memories of my brother are of him crying, wailing, like a fire engine. Tanner, red-eyed and mad, throwing a boomerang at my forehead. Tanner crying with mud stained teeth because Philip threw a clod of dirt at him and hit him in the mouth. Tanner, bawling about me beating him at a game of hoops.

     I don't remember most of what I did to him. Selective memory. But I must have been awful because he was always crying. There's rumor I chased him with a butter knife. I remember the satisfying thwack of my six year old palm smacking his white, duckling-feathered baby head. He's maintaining a 3.0 GPA so it seems I didn't do too much damage to his two-year-old brain. 

     Only I could make Tanner cry though. When Riley bit him at school, you better believe Riley ate a mouthful of playground rocks from Tanner's big sister. His protector. When Mom or Dad sent him sobbing to his room, I'd crouch at the vent in the office next door, changing my voice, telling him I was Chipper his favorite stuffed dog come to life and that everything would be OK. 

     These were the nice things I did for my brother. Beat the crap out of him every day and then put him back together the second someone else tried to hurt him. 

     And I taught him how to ride a bike. The day he turned five, I said it was time to lose the training wheels. I marched him out the back door. His bike was small and spray painted black. A hand-me-down like almost everything else he and I owned. We went to the retirement hom behind our house. The Meadows had a private drive with few cars. This is where my dad had tried to teach me to ride without my training wheels. It took years for me to get it. I'd throw down my bike in frustration and stomp away. With one hand on the back of Tanner's seat and one hand on the handlebars, I ran beside Tanner and pushed until I knew he was ready for me to let go. He learned to ride his bike in less than 20 minutes. Today Tanner complains about how I am good at everything from the start. He probably doesn't realize that is because I want to cry and give up whenever I'm not. 

     I didn't cry when my mom told me she was leaving my dad. I did cry when I told her he was cheating on us. She told me that she was kicking him out before she did. He stayed. Legally he could stay in the house for three days. On Monday morning before school, before Tanner was to walk across the street to fifth grade, I walked into the kitchen where Tanner sat on a chair at our kitchen table, set for four soon to be three, eyes flooded and red, my dad kneeling before his son holding his hands. Tanner yanked one hand away from my father's and motioned for me to come over. 

     "I know," I told him. 

     Tanner stood. I held him. I held him as his snot stuck to my shirt--I was a freshman, snot should have pissed me off. Instead I glared at my dad over Tanner's head. "How could you have told him now?" I asked. "He has to go to school."

     "Are you mad at me, honey?" Dad asked me.

     Duh, I thought. You cheated on us. I didn't say it out loud. Tanner didn't know. My ride came and I had to leave. I left my brother to walk to school alone. 

     I was a sophomore in college when my grandma, the rock of my family, died. My aunt Sara threw our laundry baskets in the back of her SUV and picked me up from the gym. No shower. We were on the road in less than an hour from the time she called to tell me. My mom wasn't answering her phone. Was she OK? Where was Tanner? Did he know? Who was there to take care of them? How would they drive the three hours to Lexington?

      My mom had to go back to her classroom of twenty preschoolers after taking a phone call that said her 70 year-old mother who worked out six days a week had a heart attack. Mom finished out her morning class and then drove to the Senior High to pull my brother out of class. He was scared. What was she doing there in the middle of the day? She told him our grandma died in the center of the high school commons area at lunch with all of his peers bumming around. My six foot-five brother hit the ground with his tears. I wasn't there to pick him up. I was only there for him to lean his head on my shoulder through the funeral while he wept and I couldn't find a single tear. 

     Being the one of the smallest Class A schools in Nebraska, the only sport Norfolk Senior High is consistently good at his boys' basketball. In freshman football, Tanner's 6 foot 2, 120 pound frame was horribly awkward. Somewhere during his freshman basketball season, Tanner found a way to grow into his hight and our name, Gesell, and find the grace in movement that everyone asked why he didn't get from me. My four years of undergrad, Tanner's four years of high school, he, Mom and I ate, slept, and breathed high school boys' basketball. 

     No more crying. No more family pictures with Tanner's bloodshot and glassy eyes. Here was a boy with confidence and drive. Still awkward sometimes--I'd grab my mom's arm and attempt to shield my eyes whenever my giraffe boy tried to dribble on a breakaway. It was like a bad reality TV show, though, you couldn't look away. But he shot with assurance, lead his team, set picks and dunked the shit out of the ball over a D2 recruit from out most hated Omaha Creighton Prep foes (who have yet to beat Norfolk--suck it). 

     If I missed a game, he'd call, "I dunked HAM tonight, Erin! You missed it! By the way I had to tell Mom what HAM meant."

     "Haha, can't be any worse than when we had to tell Grandma what teabagging meant last basketball season."

     "Word. You going to be at the game tomorrow?"

     "Of course. Love you, buddy. I'm proud of you." 

     The last time I saw my brother cry was when his team lost in the basketball state championship game to Omaha Central. I couldn't find him anywhere after the game. I didn't know where to go or if I'd even be able to talk to him. I left him. Our hometown newspaper had printed a photo of Tanner and two of the other boys, heads hanging, arms around each other's shoulders, and tears spilling down. I knew that was happening and I wasn't there for him. But I am always the first one to have a huge smile and wet eyes when he wins a big game or when I introduce him to my Omaha family and people tell me what a kind, polite, and wonderful brother I have. I would give my life to never see him cry in pain again. Damn I'm proud of that kid. 

So I'm at residency!! I know you're pumped for my sloppy free writes. I actually have written two poem-like things in the last two days. Go figure. I haven't written a poem in probably 4 years. Anywhosies, here they are:

The first is from a lecture on dealing with trauma and how writing can help us deal with the traumas in our lives. This lecture was put on by my wonderful mentor and top YA writer Francesca Lia Block. She is fab. Check out her books! Francesca spoke about how sometimes whatever is bothering us in our daily lives can inhibit us from whatever it is we are working on and that if we confront the trauma by writing about it, this can clear the air and let us move on. I wrote a poem about my relationship with my dad. Remember, sloppy free write!

You taught me how to count while I rode on your shoulders and we walked around the block at night before bed.

            “I love you one.”

            “I love you two.”

You taught me to throw a baseball and snap peas from the garden.

            “I love you three.”

            “I love you four.”

You showed up for all the class trips and never missed a chance to take me water skiing or ice skating.

            “I love you five.”

            “I love you six.”

You challenged me to games of one on one and gave me my first job mowing lawns.

            “I love you nine.”

            “I love you ten.”

You started coming home angry.

            “I love you eleven.”

You lied when I asked if you cheated on Mom.

            “I love you twelve.”

You left us.

            “I love you thirteen.”

You missed almost all of my games.

            “I love you fourteen.”

You weren’t there to protect me from myself.

            “I love you fifteen.”

You’re trying to come back.

            “I love you sixteen.”

You play the best host for me. You answer my calls about cars and “dad things.” You hug me and tell me you’re proud.

            “I love you seventeen.”

You never question my judgment because you’re afraid to lose me.

            “I love you eighteen.”

I needed you to be my dad. I needed you to be there. I needed you to talk to me and tell me when I was being stupid. And you weren’t. You didn't. But I get it. You’re here now.

            “I love you nineteen.”

            “I love you twenty.”

The next is from a lecture that ties into the one above. This one was about getting over writer's block. The instructor asked us to confront that which is stopping us from writing. She had a handout with several poems in it and I flipped the pages around because I couldn't think of anything and landed on the poem "I Give You Back: A Poem to Get Rid of Fear" by Joy Harjo. Please excuse my language. And again, I ask you to remember: sloppy free write!

Poem beginning with a line by Joy Harjo

I release you, my beautiful and terrible fear.

I release you. I once held on, self-loathing,

unconfident, but I am letting you go.

I am letting you go so I can open my heart

without being afraid. I honestly open my heart 

to life and love. I will get hurt you whisper.

I can't trust anyone you say.

How can I know? How can I expierence life

if I close out the world and hold only you,

my fear, close to me? I will get hurt, yes, 

probably, but I trust myself and I must

be open to grow. 

So fuck censorship. Fuck protecting my heart,

my soul, my being . I want to live. What is life

without love? I cannot protect myself from loss. 

I thrive on loss. Being my best at righting chaos.

Why can’t I thrive on life?

Why? Because I have been afraid. Because I

have you, my beautiful and terrible fear.

I will be open.

I will be my true self.

I will lead with my heart.

I will not be afraid.

I release you.

And my most wonderful Gayle Brandeis who always gives my favorite lecture of residency gave a talk about what would you write if you only had a year to live. She had us do an exercise that I encourage you to try even if you aren't a writer. You will certainly discover something about yourself. I found I have an obsession with love and, surprisingly, food did not show up once in my writing. So take the topics in italics and write your own lists. We know I heart lists. I repeat sloppy free write. Do this exercise though. Really. See what you learn about yourself. Life is short. Why not see who you are and be that person every day. Every moment. 

Things that attract me to a person:

Kindness; big heart; caring; funny; adventurous; brave and confident enough to be one’s self; compassionate; easy to be around/makes me comfortable; has fire and passion; active mentally, physically and socially; ambitious

Things that repulse me in a person:

Greed; arrogance; selfishness; complacence; doesn’t have time for me or others or is closed off or plugged in (my top love language is Quality Time can you tell?)

Biggest fears:

Closing myself off to others; not taking chances; inbreeds (see earlier blog post); failure; loss of my mom and brother; abandonment but, oddly, not rejection—good, I guess, since I’m a writer; helplessness; not being able to give up control and just live; living in my day dreams rather than actively living life here and now I wonder why I don’t have more physical fears—why in this free write didn’t I think of being afraid of rape or illness?

Biggest dreams:

Falling in love; publishing a book; traveling; my family living long, beautiful lives

Places like home:

The lake; the cabin; anywhere with my family—my blood family, my friends family, my work family, all the people I love; on the beach; in the sun; my gym/work but that's because of all the people I love there; in yoga class

Places that freak me out:

Inescapable places; being alone—I like my alone time. I love living alone but I guess I mean more emotionally alone

Places I want to explore:

Spain; Brazil; Mexico; Greece; Argentina; myself, my soul; the thoughts and lives of others and my characters; the whole world!

Passions:

Life; love; writing; my family; people; reading; running; biking; swimming; helping others; changing lives This is the first time I have ever, ever, put writing before reading. I guess I'm a real writer now. Also I didn't list any food. No chocolate, no cooking/baking. Odd. It was right after lunch though. 

Aversions:

Failure; limitations and parameters

Favorite books and a few words about them:

The Time Traveler’s Wife—love, impossibilities, possibilities, setting, story The Great Gatsby—language, story

Social issues I care deeply about:

Equality; choices; harmony; peace; animals; the environment

Philosophical issues I care deeply about:

Being one’s self; peace; humanity

What am I most ashamed of?:

What I haven’t told my mom; giving up; not being the confident person I tell others to be; not opening up and letting the world in; guarding myself; not being honest with myself; not being honest with others

What are my most blissful moments?:

Reading at the lake in the sun on the beach; baking with my mom; being with my family/everyone I love; riding my bike; water skiing; running; racing with my dad; going on walks and talking; staying up late and talking; good dessert

Things I’ve lost:

My innocence too early; my childhood; my grandma

Things I want:

Love; hugs; smiles; happiness; simply to be myself; a dog; my health and that of my family and loved ones; travel; experience; time with those I love; nothing wasted

I'm not big on quoting other people's words. I'd rather we all embrace our own thoughts, but Gayle gave us some great ones today that I want to share:

"Only put off until tomorrow what you are willing to die having left undone."

Pablo Picasso

Top five regrets of the dying:

1. I wish I'd had the courage to live life true to myself and not the life others expected of me

2. I wish I hadn't worked so hard.

3. I wish I had the courage to express my feelings.

4. I wish I hadn't lost touch with old friends.

5. I wish I had let myself be happier. 

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2012/feb/01/top-five-regrets-of-the-dying

"Tell me, what is it you plan to do/with your one wild and precious life?" from the poem "The Summer Day" by Mary Oliver

So go out there, live your one precious life true to yourself and yourself only. Express your feelings, follow your gut, take chances, pass up things that don't inspire you, but never leave for tomorrow your dreams of today.