Rio Grande | Big Bend National Park | Polaroid photo by author
The wisest ones are always called crazy ratty and preoccupied pockets full of proclamations muttering their way through the crowd with bits of wilderness stuck behind their ears
Possibly he could carry on in that fashion forever if people didn’t start to listen, gathering with hesitation that turns to alarm and then conviction around his street-corner sessions, each day a new rambling making more sense answering the questions they had forgotten they needed answers for, lulled as they are into sheeplike acceptance of the status quo
But once a flock grows, the state takes notice, grows its own alarm, makes its own convictions to reinstate the order it prefers, brings its fist down to scatter the people again, driving with their ruler to compel them apart again, reinstating complicit silence
nipping wisdom’s voice in the bud cutting hope off at the head
So I’m writing on Medium again, but as many of you (most? of you) aren’t members there, and I want everybody who would like to read what I write to have access to it, I’ve decided to share those poems here too. Right now it’s all Advent all the time!
On the cusp of Advent with the fires lit but the bells still stowed away in closets, cabinets, boxes, and shelves all decoration trembling like tinsel in a soft breeze waiting for the starting whistle
the blessed season stirs in its slumber subtle movements behind the eyelids show signs of awakening
the dawn holds its breath in anticipation heralding that midnight long ago when the stillness ripped open with rapture to the sound of angel voices
the halls begin to rouse in humble preparation to be decked out like a bride pine-scented for the birth of her long-awaited groom
I’m a little late posting this, since Advent started on Sunday. I wrote it beforehand, however, sitting around impatiently waiting to celebrate Thanksgiving so I could start decorating the house! I have been extra impatient for this season to start this year. . . . Thank you for reading!
Nostalgia is a warm soft bed downy, drowsy, a burrow well insulated by last year’s leaf-fall the earth turned and fragrant welcoming a snug hollow where memory can dwell
what slept all year awakens now brought forth by the changing light, the yawning season stretches and emerges bedhead crazy wild with prolonged hibernation, stuck with twigs and leaves like an old nest
the kitchen fills with smiling anecdotes taken down carefully one by one from their storage places at the back of high cabinets
the table is laid, the feast waits for preparation
a gathering is called and so the flock assembles drawn by a scent of recollection drifting with woodsmoke through the air, descending with its own soft reassurance
window light beacons reminders reach out from the padded soil, stone markers etched with names and house numbers map out the path for each synapse to follow
each passing moment carries the breath of belonging long forgotten but transported forward and held dear again for a time for the present’s gift
All this week I have been sharing this poem in pieces on my Instagram, along with instant photographsmade on one lovely November afternoon when I let myself have a day of rest and creativity. Thank you for reading!
Standing in the cold lifeless air of Westminster Abbey, surrounded by marble morbidity, the good and great and privileged interred at every turn, monarchs at the head of the table and poets consigned to a dim corner, and there, amid the flag stones of the nave lie the mortal remains of Charles Darwin, a three lined epitaph for the founder of the theory of modern evolution, we need little explanation of who he is or what he contributed, your attention soon wanders, you glance at the neighbouring grave, so close they could be related, the Latin inscription reveals little and you could be forgiven for wandering off in search of dead poets and princesses.
The obscure tomb suspiciously close to that of Darwin’s is that of Sir John Herschel, astronomer, biologist, chemist, and mathematician. He was a mentor and source of inspiration for Darwin. Herschel came from good stock, his…
breaking the silence brooding over the laptops: a loud group of friends socializing is daring participating in life
When I was young I remember coffee shops / coffee houses as lively places I would frequent to hear live music and hang out with my friends. We would talk and laugh, people watch and play games. Nowadays it seems like they are remote offices and study halls for everyone with a laptop, so it pleases me when I see a group of people daring to enjoy themselves instead of just staring at a screen. What can I say, I was born in the 70s. . . . . Thanks for reading!
The Poetry Patio 