bookmark_borderValentine Poem

Here’s what I wrote for my darlin’ of 18 1/2 years:

There’s not enough words for me to tell you
I can’t find the words to tell you
How much I love you, that I love you

I can’t sing any lyrics
Write any prose that says
How much I love you, that I love you

And then, I reach over and touch you
Your arm, your leg, your face
And words are not longer needed, are they?

copyright 2008, Paula Offutt

bookmark_borderInt’l Blog Against Racism Week

Noun: racism
1. The prejudice that members of one race are intrinsically superior to members of other races
2. Discriminatory or abusive behaviour towards members of another race


No one race is superior to another. Intrinsically or other wise-ically. We are all the same. Some have more skin pigment, some have less. Some have different eyelids, some have curlier hair. It is what makes us unique. I am of an allegedly superior race. I am Caucasian with blonde hair and blue eyes. But none of those characteristics makes me better or worse than others who do not. I like the believe I am “colorblind” but I know I am not. We try to not be, we who are learned, but I wonder if we ever can reach that goal completely.

I’ve kissed a black man. I’ve had sex with a woman of Asian descent (half Japanese, half Irish). I’ve considered adopting a child of a different race knowing the vast majority of families want white babies.

I get angry at young men, white or black, who wear their pants down around their knees (nobody gives a shit what type of boxers they wear!!). I don’t “get” rap nor hip hop music. I’ve tried, but I just don’t like it.

If a young rap singing boxer showing male were to need my help, I’d not hesitate. After all, other than taste in music and clothing, we are the same.

Sandra Barrett’s post
Icons from Oyce


the smell of rain
on dry ground
you can hear it sigh

lightning flashes
thunder booms
the window rattles

the dogs run to hide
afraid of
the end of the world

bookmark_borderHappy Mothers’ Day

Thought I’d re-post the prose I wrote last year.

So, called your Mama yet?

Called your Mama yet?
The woman that birthed you?
Had labor for 48hrs in a
snow storm/thunder storm/heat wave/insert-appropriate-cataclysm
while stuck in rush hour traffic?

Twice a year, maybe three,
Mama expects to hear from you.
Mother’s Day, her birthday,
and maybe at Christmas.

Called your Mama yet?
The one that picked you out
from all the others
on the orphanage list?

The one that waited
for the court to decide
who was your mama,
who was family.

Called your Mama yet?
the one that lived down the street
the one that you went to
with questions and problems

Called your Mama yet?
Both of them?
The woman that birthed you
and the woman that married her?

Mama – she who patched your booboo
she who said your clothes didn’t match
who said your hair was perfect
and that pimple didn’t show.


Something is broken
Not like the first morning
More like the rip-tide
Took me without warning

Tears without reason
Anger without a goal
Disapointment and
Pain: all out of control

Why were all my dreams
Built upon sifting sands
And gone when I wake
Not at all like I planned

bookmark_borderSmells of Spring

The smells of spring make me sneeze
The smells of spring make me wheeze
I sniff and I snot
From whatever allergen I’ve got
Hand me a kleenex, would you please?

The smells of spring are in flavors
There’s pollen in the air, I wager
From brambles to trees
They all make me sneeze
The honk of my nose is in C major

The smells of spring, like mowed grass,
Are just pollen and histimines en masse.
They may all smell nice
And succeed to entice
But Mama Nature can shove them up her…

bookmark_borderDay Dreams

Mind too fast
Brain too hyped
Can’t sleep

Wish I could turn it off
Wish I could shut them up
Can’t sleep

Awake is my martini
Good mood–awake
Bad mood–awake
Something on my mind–awake
Can’t sleep

Eyes won’t stay open
But brain won’t shut up
The roar is too loud
Can’t sleep


The universe is a constant dance. Swing your planet, do-si-do. Orbits are synchronized to within a nana-second. Early humans used the sun to keep track of time. Stonehenge is one example of how old the concept of time is.

Inside of all of us is a clock, a rhythm that is still ticking, despite us being far removed from the hunters/gatherers. Some people can tell themselves to wake up at X o’clock and they do, right on time. Others wake up the same time every day, no matter the day.

They say dogs have no sense of time. Tell that to the dog that awaits the bus at the same time every week day. Tell that to Jake who, starting at 3:15pm on the dot, will start demanding dinner.

Some folks need that 8 hrs, others function just fine on less or more.

Me? I’m all screwed up. Night Owl poster child. It is as if my clock is just never set right. It’s not blinking 12:00 like the VCR. But it’s never right.

I got stuff on my mind and didn’t sleep last night. Haven’t napped yet today. I am trying to stay awake as long as I can in an attempt to reboot my clock again. I don’t think I will make it till 8.


‘Tis Christmas. Time for laughter, time for cheer.

Time for all things mushy and sweet.

Time for us all to remember what the world is all about.

And what it is about is the stuff of fiction:

A deity, one proud enough to demand to be the only one, wanted the mortals to understand. But how could they understand if the deity did not understand? He, for lack of a proper pronoun, thought it over and decided the best way would be for him to become one of them, to become mortal, human. But even deities have constraints and actually becoming one himself wasn’t truly possible. So he took a part of himself, a small part that he could just barely spare, and experienced humanity through that. As the child, for lack of a proper noun, he would still feel what they felt–despair, hunger, poopy diapers, a cracked toe on a table leg.

Because even that small part of him was special, because the very act was, to mortal humans, a miracle, it could not pass unnoticed. It is indeed a rare thing to hear a child-deity cry out that first gasp for air, bloody and wrinkled and real. What a shock that must have been! To suddenly feel!

This deity is too large to put into one box, one body, one faith. Is that child, who grew to be a man, the only path? Are the other paths less feeling, less shocking and real?

Christians, Muslims, Jews–we all follow the same deity. None is greater nor smaller nor less real than the others.

In this time of laughter, time of cheer, time for all things mushy and sweet, remember as you open your gift that God isn’t in a box, isn’t wrapped in pretty paper, isn’t written in just one book. That child experienced life as a mortal human, feeling what we all feel. God is as universal as a cracked toe on a table leg.

bookmark_borderRace Those Ethnics

I recieved an email the other day from Cherryl, thanking me for some links she found on my site. I replied, she replied and sent me a link to the Red Bull Word Clash. I’ve never been to a poetry jam but I think someday I will attend one. I have it in my head it is people in all black clothing with black tilted berets who spout some powerful words but their bodies are still and spouting nothing. The audience shows their appreciating by snapping their fingers.

I then went to Cherryl’s websites: The Heavy Mentalist and The Last Nerve. She is about hip hop, poetry and writing. I fell in love with her freedom of language.

This post started as an essay about language and race and ethnicity. But it grew to be huge so I moved it to another section.