Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ars poetica, friendship, relationships, story on May 28, 2020| 4 Comments »
Because you are the porch,
I am the rocking chair.
Because you are the pen,
I am the unfinished poem.
In the conversation of what happens next,
I am always the pause.
I am always the pause
and you the verb.
And if there should be a run on sentence
that jogged right through the
end of the story, way past the end,
well, I would not be the period.
But I would be ever after.
And I would be the one still listening after that.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ars poetica, camping, haiku on May 25, 2020| 2 Comments »
making up songs
as I set up the tent—
or a song making up me?
*
beside the lake
rowing the memory
of a blue boat
*
bald eagle dives into the lake
then rises quickly
in its beak, a heavy poem
*
sitting with a blade of grass
until it reads me a story—
once upon this morning
*
laughter in darkness—
this, too,
a kind of campfire
*
hiking through ponderosa
a subplot wonders
if it could become the main story
*
cold, clear night—
spiking my tea
with Cassiopeia
*
third morning camping—
waking up in a chapter
written before this one
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ars poetica, cat, ideas, writer's block on January 24, 2020| 7 Comments »
This morning the new kitten played with a hair tie
for twenty minutes, kicking it under the table,
swatting it across the room, catching it on a nail
and tossing it into the air. Meanwhile, I tried
to do the same thing with an idea—tried
to bat at it, swipe at it, fling it across the room
and then chase it and pounce on it again.
But that’s not what happened. The idea
sat dead on the desk. I barely even looked at it.
I let my paws make tea instead. And then
went to Facebook. Then vacuumed the room.
Then stared at the idea and wondered why
it hadn’t moved. Boring idea. Dumb idea.
Why did it just sit there, lifeless as a hair tie?
Eventually the kitten, exhausted from frolic,
curled down for a nap. I sat back in the chair,
wondered at what I might learn from the cat.
Picked up the idea again. Gave it a whack. And darned
if it didn’t take on some life as my nose
nudged it into new places. Curious, my whole body
readied to pounce, my tail swishing behind my back.
*Yes, friends, we’ve gotten a new kitten, Tamale.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ars poetica, becoming, poem, poetry, reading, tree on January 9, 2020| Leave a Comment »
Even then she was becoming
a dreamer, a lover of bark,
a student of solitude. Even then
she noticed how there were places
and moods that words couldn’t touch—
even then she felt the joy in trying anyway.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Alabama, ars poetica, augusta kantra, meditation, poem, poetry on December 9, 2019| 2 Comments »
Let yourself be danced.
—Augusta Kantra
The poem sits down to be written.
Instead, it stares at the bay.
There’s a highway in the distance
that could take it all the way to California.
The poem doesn’t want to go to California.
It wants to be present, just here,
on the sandy bank beside the driftwood.
It wants to find its inner poem.
It wants to get out of its own way,
to obey its emerging form.
Instead, it watches the tall grass
getting danced by the wind.
It sighs. The poem wants to know
what it doesn’t know yet.
And the poem wants to be good.
Dammit. It tries to lower its standards,
then judges, compares and tries to fix itself.
It lists. It sits cross legged till its legs
fall asleep. It is a book of sorrows,
a tree of anxiety, a wave of failure.
It’s a cage of empty lines. How
did it get into this straight jacket?
The poem gives up. It stares at the bay.
Watches the grasses sway. Notices
how the wind blows its hair,
lifts its hands. The poem doesn’t know
why it’s weeping. In that moment,
the poem is danced.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ars poetica, money, penny, poem, poetry on November 5, 2019| 6 Comments »
This year it costs 1.8 cents to make a penny.
It is, perhaps, similar to spending an hour
on an eleven-line poem that very few people
will read. And still, they mint the penny.
And still, I write the poem. Because
tradition. Because poems and pennies
are easy to spend. Because sometimes
the small things make life better—
something to wish on, something
valuable beyond its surface, something
humble to catch the light.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ars poetica, pencil, poem, poetry, science, story on September 8, 2019| 2 Comments »
The pencil, it turns out,
has never contained lead.
It’s always been graphite—
a form of solid carbon.
How much of what we think
we know is just a mistaken story
passed on for centuries?
And the human body, it turns out,
contains enough carbon
for 9,000 pencils—
that is a fact of the world,
a fact like the distance
from earth to the moon,
a fact like 99 percent of all human DNA
is the same. I’d like to think I will use up
my pencils, one every three days,
writing the story of what it is
to be alive here, to fall in love,
to disagree, to fail, to try again.
I want to write of healing,
write of the autumn air,
how it touches everything
with its cool transparency.
Write of how we are here
to revel in beauty, to find ourselves
in each other, to serve a story greater
than the one we know how to write,
serve the story that even now
is writing us.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ars poetica, love, poem, poetry, Rumi on September 7, 2019| Leave a Comment »
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ars poetica, learning, poem, poetry, teaching on August 5, 2019| 14 Comments »
I’m still learning.
—Michelangelo, on his deathbed
Sometimes I feel as if
I missed something.
Something big. The sermon
that would forge a love affair
with the divine.
The history lesson
that would teach me
how to forgive myself.
The webinar that would train
me in doing the right thing
at the right time. If only
I had read the right book
or met the right coach
or drunk the right tea. If only.
I don’t believe it, not really,
though sometimes
I wish it were as easy
as auditing a class.
Perhaps that is why
I write poems.
I’m taking notes.
Because sometimes
the truth slips into them.
Because it’s surprisingly easy
to forget.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ars poetica, poem, poetry, spider, Walt Whitman on May 31, 2019| Leave a Comment »
When you wrote of the spider
launching through vacant space,
reeling from one sphere of meaning
to another, you didn’t know then
that you wrote that poem for me.
Two centuries later, this woman
reads about the bridges we are all
trying to form, and Walt, damned
if that wasn’t filament coming out
through your electric fingers.
https://poets.org/poem/noiseless-patient-spider
