stripped down now, she adorns herself with winter an invisible layer exposed by absence a rough coat of ragged bark and spindled sticks with a scarf of last summer’s decay
little birds hop at her shoulders while squirrels dig at her feet the hoard of autumn now silent the revelry of abundance put away but also strewn about
everything suggests the whiff of ice everything harbors the promise of growth and she is asleep but wakeful paused and still, waiting but wandering, a bedhead unbrushed, a bright yawn, a beautiful mess
I am not a fan of being cold, but I love the quiet, bare beauty of winter all the same! Living in a place that has a short, mild one, I welcome the chance to enjoy the season while it lasts. (I will admit I did not feel that way when I lived in New York.)
my shadow is tall she can reach all the glasses on the top shelf
she fills them to the brim with strong cocktails because alcohol doesn’t bother her stomach, and neither does any quantity or combination of food
she drives fast and says “f*ck it” more than I do, because that field of hers really is barren and she lords over it a lanky scarecrow in bright red Jimmy Choos waving a shotgun at the crows who come to troll
she speaks her mind without regret, picks fights, and wins doesn’t hold on to the past or worry about the future: my shadow is the present’s present a gift blissfully unencumbered by memory, family, or responsibility
she does what she does wild and free, hooting and hollering as she passes you in a cloud of dust wheels spinning, middle finger raised in a salute with a perfect nail painted to match the sparkle in her gorgeous, long-lashed beguiling eyes
This poem is a result of an exercise in Poemcrazy by Susan Wooldridge (you can see a photo of it on my homepage). Basically she suggested invisioning your shadow self, in the Jungian sense, and having a conversation with it, among other things. I didn’t stick to the guidlines offered in the prompt, but I did let myself imagine the opposite of what I see in the mirror and feel inside my own skin.This poem is what emerged!
just a scratch and the library bleeds words and sentences fluttering page by page gushing forth a gouge or a stab will yield a hemorrhage of information, heavy stacks, puppets, even CDs, the weighty atlas strains on the reading table with a longing to break free of the bricks and iron that hold it in place, so many maps and destinations burgeoning, just beneath the skin
Hi and HAPPY NEW YEAR! I’ve been absent from here for a while now – basking in holiday time and trying to get myself back together when it comes to my creative life. I didn’t write much over the past couple of months, but I’m working on getting the engines fired back up. My first step was to open up a book that has served me well for inspiration for a while. . . . in fact I feel like I have written some of my favorite pieces over the last year thanks to prodding by this book . . . . .
If you are searching right now, I would highly recommend getting a copy. My local library had it, but I found it to purchase because I like to write in my books (and I don’t think the library would appreciate that much!).
Here’s to a productive, joyful, and creative 2022, y’all! Thanks for reading.
Reposting from my daughter’s blog! The writer’s journey continues. . . .
So I’m back, and as you may have noticed I did NOT overhaul the website like I said I would over the holidays. Instead, I decided “hey, wouldn’t it be a great idea if I rewrote the entire thing in a completely different time period and with a majorly tweaked story?” So. Um. Yeah. I’m […]
iPhone photo, Hipstamatic app | double exposure by author
After midnight the storm’s breath came fast and fierce between the houses, snuffing trees and patio furniture like errant candles it gripped the stars and stripes like a sail, unmooring our flagship with a single blow so it drifted into the depths of the garden fences folded like a house of cards, harkening to the maelstrom’s beguiling whistle
But you would never know it now – if it wasn’t for the debris, chaotic markers of weather’s late night party, litter from the cold front’s powerful parade – you’d never know the remnant is this blue sky and golden sunlight where the trees toss in their autumn splendor like proud ladies just back from the salon
More on breath, this time from the whopper thunderstorm we had the other night! Thank you for reading!
Holga and kodak film | multiple exposure photo by author and daughter assistant
Breath – indicator “Breath our own personal tie with all the rhythms of the natural world”
The wind that blows in through open windows I pull in through my own musical pipe aeolian tunnel, the long gateway to the myriad of tributaries that swell and feed my body through the river of lifeblood that meanders through its parts east to west, and north to south, pole to pole, tip to tip, in and in forevermore becoming a part of my living self, this body that cages my spirit while I stand looking out of the casement through my own personal, screenless windows.
This wind enters my house and enters me and for a time I hold onto it until my metronomic brain exhales and pushes the wind forth again, upward animating the music of my voice so it becomes part of the push and pull and whispers its way back up to the clouds.
The wind will shift from south to north again as the earth tilts her way along the year and my breath will enter the tapestry as I weave my own way along, in time.
I wrote the above blank verse poem in response to the idea and quote at the top, which I noted come from page 3 although I’m not sure if that was from Mary Oliver’s Poetry Handbook or from her Rules from the Dance. It’s one or the other! Thank you for reading!
Maggie the Magpie, Taos, 2018 | iPhone hipstamatic photo by author
This morning a song is happening outside in the trees kissed by sunshine slyly slanting in the window frames the din notes tumbling and fine sneaking through with ease this morning a poem is happening
A little something for National Poetry Day, which is today in the UK (not that I am in the UK, but I did call it my home for a while, once upon a time). Thank you for reading!
PS meeting Maggie the Magpie was a memorable experience. She is / was a verysociable bird.
In a darkened, protracted watery world, the roots snake and swarm together like so many nerve tendrils seeking nourishment to stimulate growth
a clipping, clearly bottled up for future life little leaves drink in the window light, send signals down into the feelers that long for soil
icebergs and snowbirds stare, stoic, from the wall uprooted from arctic climes brought here, to this cafe for a stretch of the imagination, almost a canvas against which this hot September afternoon feels like a joke
ridiculous: the difference from aquatic birth to solid earth, so far north to deepest south espresso sings: hand to mouth
Following on from yesterday’s post, another scrutiny poem. Thank you for reading!
nearly empty filthy teacup | iPhone hipstamatic photo by author
Floating in my cup of tea: the bric-a-brac chunk leftovers from the small scoop of flavorful dust I stirred in, along with honey, to give it an extra something
this zest, now unattractive — no matter how tasty — in its warm, gentle brown swimming pool
a finer mix would have disappeared, become one with the cream-kissed elixir yet this one will not go so gently: wryly it proclaims its presence as if a little bit of the garden had blown over the tea table by an inexplicable gust of mid-morning
it wants to be seen like leftover leaves, it wants to be read its one final parting message to the ever-refreshing world
On page 99 of Mary Oliver’s Poetry Handbook, she says “The poet must not only write the poem but must scrutinize the world intensely. . . ” Reading that line made me decide to spend a part of my writing day scrutinizing whatever stood out to me as a potential subject. My cup of tea came first! Tomorrow, I will share another. There are lot of poetry books that suggest this kind of exercise; no matter how often I do it, I find it rewarding – whether or not the poems it produces are amazing, I find the action of paying closer attention in general is a good habit to develop.
She’d said that to herself a thousand times, making secret promises while she lay awake in bed at night, in the morning’s vacant space of teeth brushing and lunch packing, in the car quiet of the commute. She knew it would only take a moment’s firm decision, and then it would be done. But still the clock ticked and the days passed one after another, piling up into a heap of years.
A promise is a promise. Lacy’s mother had sworn she would go back to that place of fairy tales, the one they always talked about. She had sworn she would make the trip, with or without her, for both their sakes, to confront the memories and make them real again, make them whole. She said she would bring them back in a box that she could open if she wanted, or could slide under the bed and forget until the time was right.
It turned out that her mother’s journey didn’t include travel. It never opened up enough for her to carry out her careful plan, no matter how many times she had called Lacy and said, “Honey, I am going this year: I am. You’ll see. I am going to manage to get away. I’ve got all the money saved up right here.”
Her voice, like honey; her idea, like a sweet hidden comb in both their hearts. But she never did manage. Time and life were the bee keepers that smoked them into somnolence and acquiescence. Reality put their dreams in a back bedroom to sleep in forgotten darkness.
Two years ago, Lacy had found the box of money under her mother’s bed while she was cleaning out the house. It still smelled of new shoes. Wads of bills and handfuls of coins crushed and rattled, tied together with a piece of red yarn. For two years, it had stared at her from the windowsill. She heard its dry voice whispering all the things that could never be said, telling all the stories that were still waiting to be told.
It was a Tuesday, and she was already late for work. The kettle was screaming at her from the stove when the phone rang, and while she walked to answer it she heard her mother’s voice, clear as if she was right there in the kitchen.
“Hello –“
Always everything was impatience, a refusal to wait, the grinding machine that she allowed to make decisions for her. Lacy had been putting everything she used to hope for on the back burner for so long that she hardly even noticed the overcooked, burning smell anymore. Her dreams had caramelized into a solid, blackened crust. Now, when she stood listening to her boss on the other end of the phone, the acrid smoke of neglect filled her nostrils. She felt her mother’s eyes on her; she heard the rattle of all those saved coins in the box.
Lacy turned off the stove. Her boss paused, and she replied, “Yes, I realize all this, and I realize that I am late. I am going to need more time, at least a week. After that, I will be back and set it all right.”
She absorbed the stunned silence, and said her words to end the call. Lacy picked up her keys, her purse, turned out the light and locked the front door. The car dinged a welcome to her and revved with confident obedience. She saw the shoebox there in the front window, safe for some other rainy day. She picked up her phone and sent a text to a number she still knew by heart. “I am on my way.” She put on her seatbelt, slipped the gears into reverse, and backed out onto her own private highway.
I am considering doing NaNoWriMo again this year, so I am playing around with prose a little in preparation for what I might write. The other day, they shared a 31 day prep challenge thing on their instagram; this is my beginning. I don’t know if this is what they intended, and also it’s supposed to be posted on instagram, but whatev’s. Some rules are meant to be broken, right? “More of a guideline. . . . ” as Jack Sparrow would say. . . .
The Poetry Patio 