Falling into
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Posted:Aug 10, 2021 7:16 am
Last Updated:Aug 15, 2021 3:59 pm
7912 Views
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Falling into
written July 7th, 2021
always a
never a
without a face
suspended in this twilight
no-where and in no-time
floating in air
my faith is
the tight grasp
keeping you from
falling into the abyss
where are crushed
like fallen fruit—
or am I keeping you
from falling into grace?
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5
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Deception
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Posted:Aug 7, 2021 2:34 pm
Last Updated:Aug 18, 2021 8:14 am
8495 Views
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Deception
written July17th, 2021
I write deception
fabricating fictions
layer after layer of
perverse prevarications
surrounding my subject
with inventions and evasions
so that the truth
can be revealed
in the serpentine curves
of these words.
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6
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The unknown in me
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Posted:Aug 6, 2021 1:28 pm
Last Updated:Aug 9, 2021 12:58 pm
7764 Views
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The unknown in me
written July 22nd, 2021
I collect words
and try to fit them
to my experiences
trying to capture
this moment right now—
it is all I have.
I—looks at the page
and writes a moment
while others peer over her shoulder
shaking their heads
curling up to sleep from the overwhelm
reaching out to change a word or phrase
we are all here
sometimes all at once
other times one at a time
I always think I know
who writes these words
this word right now
Until I look back
and don't recognize
words just written
I guess we are used to it
the wonder and startlement of
the unknown in me.
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2
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Koan me
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Posted:Jul 24, 2021 8:05 am
Last Updated:Sep 7, 2021 4:46 pm
8405 Views
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Who is writing this?
I am.
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8
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River rushing below bluffs
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Posted:Jul 19, 2021 6:40 am
Last Updated:Aug 8, 2021 1:11 am
7337 Views
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River rushing below bluffs
written July 7th, 2021
I dream of the bluffs
we visited that day
river rushing below
demarcating freedom
these years of practicing
flying away across fields
in preparation for this night
have made my wings strong
can I reach the bluffs?
float out over the river below?
escape these fields and rows
encompassing my life
I fly towards my future
until wings collapse trembling
on the edge of becoming
or breaking into pieces
I fall to the ground
Not to the bluffs
and river rushing below
not this time
but one night soon
with these wings made strong.
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5
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Poet after poet
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Posted:Jul 17, 2021 5:10 am
Last Updated:Aug 11, 2021 6:24 pm
7481 Views
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Poet after poet
written July 10th, 2021
Day by day, and poem by poem
my home and my life
fill with friends and lovers
who took the time to write to me
through the years and distances.
Jane Kenyon sits
on the corner of
my dining room table
a pool of calm
for me to dip into
anytime I need.
1 poets (I counted)
from Copper Canyon Press
are in residence between the covers
of The Gift of Tongues.
They enliven the desk where I write
always falling into respectable order
when I peak in before writing.
Mary Oliver, Pablo Neruda
Olga Broumas, W S Merwin
and other dear friends
sit on my shelves
sometimes amiably discussing
other times heatedly debating
each other's sock choices.
George Bilgere, Ellen Bass
and Gregory Orr
have seduced me
filling me with awe
as they stimulate my mind
my lovers far away
who talk to me in chapbooks.
Poet after poet
I wonder how many
I have not met
because I have not found them yet
or they were not preserved or published.
I bow my head
in a moment of grateful silence
to those known and unknown
who make my world
a more lively place.
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6
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Fatigue
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Posted:Jul 16, 2021 12:25 pm
Last Updated:Jul 16, 2021 5:14 pm
7321 Views
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Fatigue
written July th, 2021
Fatigued
I swim
up through the years
overshooting
into a desert dry
future wasteland
so I dive
back down
trying to reach
today.
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2
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Sudden grace
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Posted:Jul 9, 2021 7:04 am
Last Updated:Jul 10, 2021 5:13 am
7204 Views
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Sudden Grace
written July 6th, 2021
I wait
for these moments
of sudden grace
light piercing dark storm clouds
a perfect note improbably held in song
the golden hawk on a suburban tree branch
when suddenly
I can breath.
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4
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Definitions of hurt
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Posted:Jun 28, 2021 12:09 pm
Last Updated:Jun 30, 2021 9:07 am
7994 Views
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Definitions of hurt
written March 14th, 2021
My story is not
of physical violence and love withheld.
My story
is of violation and love mixed together.
When love is defined that way
with things that don't leave marks
on a afraid cry
different definitions of hurt
are learned by the body - by my body.
You reach out touch my pussy
I say, "Please don't hurt "
you say, "I would never hurt you"
and then you touch
pushing things into
not understanding
that my body learned
my body knows
my body screams in pain
at that intimate touch that
the world defines as pleasure
"Don't hurt ?" I ask
you don't understand
my definition of hurt
my inability say
I know you would want say
certainly any sane adult would say
"No. That hurts. Stop. I don't want this."
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4
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Happy endings
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Posted:Jun 27, 2021 4:28 am
Last Updated:Jun 28, 2021 4:38 am
7609 Views
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Happy endings
written June 8th, 2021
I think about stories
with happy endings
that everyone recognizes
as appropriate and proper.
It is what people expect
resolution, the good guys win
happiness rules the day
the story is completed.
My life is a story
which I write in my poems
though I am not sure
what the ending will be.
I want to tell my story
with the ending unknown
I need for this
to be enough.
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6
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I wouldn't save much except...
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Posted:Jun 22, 2021 8:00 am
Last Updated:Jun 23, 2021 7:07 am
8005 Views
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I wouldn't save much except...
written January 22nd, 2021
There is not much
I want to save from my childhood
growing up in a small farm town
except for...
Sunsets exploding gently over the fields
colors rolling as far as the eye could see
red orange yellow pink
marking the transition
from day into night.
Sitting on that swing
hung on the swing-set
we used to play on as .
I would sit there at night
staring up at the stars
imagining the night air
wrapped around me
like a blanket.
Books sitting outside our garage
when I got off the bus
donations for my mom's club
would I find rabbits that talked?
architect's grand visions?
those books my ticket
to far off worlds.
Neighbors and pets
in the yards around ours
part of the fabric
of my life day to day
running through their yards
playing with their dogs
wondering about their lives
so close to mine.
The plum tree
that profusely gave us
bushels of plums one summer
then died.
The walnut tree that my father
and then the squirrels thought
was a fantastic idea.
The raspberries
that never made it into the house
because I ate them
still warm from the sun.
The ballet in Chicago with my dad
magical every time
but sitting at eye level that first time
for the Nutcracker
and being taken away
by dance, costumes, sets, and music
to a fantastical world.
Playing stamps
with Grandpa
in early elementary school.
I was the quiet
He always said
he didn't know how
to spell the countries either
but I think he really did know.
There is not much
I want to save from my childhood
except for these things
which make me smile
and transport me
to happy moments
which did exist.
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3
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Thought for the day from Ursula K Le Guin
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Posted:Jun 21, 2021 8:46 am
Last Updated:Jul 6, 2021 2:42 pm
8125 Views
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From the essay: "Where Do You Get Your Ideas From?"
by: Ursula K Le Guin
In: The World Split Open: Great Authors on How and Why We Write
"Fiction results from imagination working one experience. We shape experience in our minds so that it makes sense. We force the world to be coherent, to tell us a story.
Not only fiction writers do this; we all do it; we do it constantly, in order to survive. People who can't make the world into a story, go mad. Or, like infants or (perhaps) animals, they live in a world that has no history, no time but now."
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3
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Visible
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Posted:Jun 20, 2021 6:44 am
Last Updated:Jun 21, 2021 5:41 pm
7108 Views
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And everyday was difficult, walking around and knowing that people saw me one way, knowing that they were wrong, so completely wrong, that the real me was invisible them. didn't even exist them.
So: If nobody sees you, are you still ?
—Akwaeke Emezi, The Death of Vivek Oji
Visible
written June 5th, 2021
I slowly approach
the idea of
being visible
after a lifetime of
being afraid
of being seen.
Being invisible
is a kind of protection.
If I can be invisible
disappear even myself
the pain
won't exist.
I can testify
the pain still felt
even when
holding perfectly still
invisible the world.
Self is something
we are alone with
by our selves
but also
something we are
in relation
with others.
I reach out with this poem
declare my self
you.
claim my space
in this world.
begin reveal
me.
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4
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