Grab a pencil and pull up a chair, this is the place for poetry!
on the plains
with the grains
and the cattle
ag’s rich battle
for a way of life
free from strife
and city’s urban strangle
out here they wrangle
nature, instead
of traffic’s
supply and demand
out in the field
a ziggurat of hay
grassland’s bounty
spun into towering
bricks of gold
Thank you for reading! Road trip poems continue. . . .
folded, rolling sky
over wide open country
red dirt, golden sun
I don’t feel like this photograph I’ve given you above accurately portrays the landscape, but I don’t know if it’s possible for me to do it justice with ANY camera. I remember that day, the ride down a quiet road through red dirt hills under a changeable sky. We rolled out of Amarillo early and headed northwest. It makes me long to hit the road again! Thanks for reading, y’all.
out at the crossroads
a macaw on a road trip
free bird, pretty boy
We’ve been home a week and I am sorting through what I brought back with me from this year‘s camping road trip. I’ve decided to keep things in chronological order, at least for now… . so here’s a haiku and a polaroid from the first day, one of our first stops. Who expects to see a macaw at a gas station at a crossroads way out in the country? NOT ME! His person was happy for me to photograph him and told me he was on his way to some kind of “free flight” get together with his other macaw friends.
Thank you for reading!
On Sunday morning
everywhere smells of breakfast
eggs, biscuits, bacon
waffles in the cramped lobby
coffee at the gas station
Back home now from our annual summer camping road trip, I’m trying to settle in again, but reading this tanka I wrote on the morning that took us to Colorado makes me long to head out again! Thank you for reading, and happy Sunday, y’all
Written as a tribute to Shelley’s The Cloud on the 200th anniversary of his death
Once I floated with heavy choke
above these plains,
poison laden, a viscous cocktail
of ash and gas
above a boiling sea of rock
My sisters rained to cool its wrath
who responded with a hiss
and a blackening visage
that would capsize if it
could only reach the bay
Land forming, land expanding
hot earth in flux
with violence becoming
a decade of upheaval, spawning offspring
that made clouds of their own
Transformation complete, the mountain
rests, and I, more benign,
bring life instead of death
raining green breath, tied with a bow
that smiles through pointed teeth
Trickster, I float above the
silent mouth in pretend recollection
of what once was
striking with fire at the stone in petulant mood
but mostly I remain a shady memory
of the drama of the past
Recently (July 5th) we visited the Capulin Volcano National Monument, on a whim since we were driving past. It’s a terrific place! I noticed as we left that a cloud was floating above the mountain, obviously *not* a volcanic cloud but a pleasing echo of one; I made a couple of photos with a couple of cameras and we drove on.
When I learned, thanks to The Poetry Society‘s instagram, that it was the 200th anniversary of Shelley’s death, I decided to read “The Cloud“ and write whatever it inspired as a tribute to a wonderful poet who lived an interesting life and died young. Of course the first thing that came to mind was the cloud over Capulin, and yadda yadda yadda, here’s the poem! Thanks for reading!
PS another photo of Capulin, from the truck, and one of Baby Capulin (both digital photographs, made with Canon MarkIII and a Lensbaby Burnside 35 – a lens I adore for both film and digital)
Thanks to The Poetry Society (which I highly recommend checking out if you haven’t before), I just found out it’s the bicentenary of Shelley’s death. So it’s a good day to read him! Got a favorite poem of his? Comment below!
My plan is to read, and hopefully maybe write something inspired by him. It won’t be the greatest poem in the world, it will be a tribute (and if you get that reference, friends, HIGH FIVE).
These days of sun and languor
where a cool breeze brings a
clash with Mother Nature,
interrupting what she’s busy
cooking up, with a clash of
pots and pans her face like
a thunderclap she shouts
from the threshold, letting an
oven blast unleash from
the open door
This time of cats in pools of
light from the blazing window
and dogs smiling in the
shade, tongues lolling, lapping
noisily at water bowls like
ripple waves at the lake,
boat wake tickle-lapping at
the wooden legs of the dock
This beating heart of the year,
a day when day wins
overtaking the night in a
moment of triumph,
everything vibrating in its
full luscious glory, trembling
at its peak, the bask of
vacation in the glow of
fulfillment, desire winking and
beaconing from beneath the
trees at twilight, when it
sneaks in on sunset’s coattails
and the stars shine with
special brightness, knowing
their reign is fleeting for now
but still sister Moon will pull
everything along in its season
and the clock will wrap it
all in a pretty shining bow
until the days of August
arrive, fresh from the kitchen,
fat and tall-layered,
iced and candle-bedecked,
ready to be sliced and
devoured, while the bees make
their liquor and the melons
ripen, while the tractors
tune up for the harvest, and
crickets awaken, ready to
greet another sweet September night.
I’ve been reading some Whitman, and I’ve been experiencing a HOT summer. Thanks for reading, y’all!
The Romantics wrote poems
to pay for European walking tours
Wordsworth and Coleridge
traipsing across the Alps
with boots and packs
made of words.
Jules Verne quit his job
on the stock market, having
brokered himself such a
golden position, penning
the extraordinary, he poured
out jingling tickets with
his morning cereal.
In classic Russian novels
there are poets by trade
not just by name or nature
fiery brooding legends
in their own lunchtimes
arguing around the samovar
and over glasses of vodka,
always wary of the pistols
lurking in a drawer,
the fearsome rope strung
in innocence across
the handle of a door.
Mary Oliver earned her keep,
by her own admission,
at uninteresting jobs
to keep her mind free and wild
rising in the pre-dawn darkness
to illuminate the page with
her daily genius.
The University of Texas’
College of Fine Arts used to sell
a t-shirt that cheekily asked
if you’d like fries with that
Once, I was paid $20
for a photograph published
in a magazine
read mostly, no doubt,
by the vast commodity
of artists who hunger
in their deepest bellies
to be treated like their
work is worthy
of a paycheck,
for the effluence
of their creative efforts
to be given more than
just a pat on the back.
It ain’t a living,
but it’s living.
The details in this poem are not exhaustively researched, so please don’t assume it’s all historically accurate (except for the part about the t-shirt, because I considered buying one, being a CoFA graduate myself and appreciating the comedy of it). It seems like a lot of writers, especially on Medium, spend a lot of time and energy discussing how to make a living at it. I’ve thrown in the towel on that little piece of pie-in-the-sky, but it doesn’t mean I don’t still ponder it and at least half wish it could really happen without having to completely compromise everything in order to work the system. . . . .
By the way THIS is the magazine that paid me for publishing one of my photos. Y’all go check them out and give them some love!
Because I subscribe to the Paris Review – one of the two magazines whose subscriptions I can’t bear to cancel yet even tho the rest have gone the way of economy (sigh) – I get daily emails from them with lovely poems. On the 22nd, the poem was the one you see in the above screen shot…. except that I got to read the whole thing. Yes I could have just screen shot the entire email or even copy-pasted the text, but that didn’t seem right. Hopefully y’all get the gist BECAUSE ….
My point in sharing it with you – lovely readers, poetry enthusiasts that you are – is to suggest doing the same thing. Make an anagram with your name (or someone else’s name, or a sentence, or something else), and make it into a poem! I’m going to do it, for the sake of play if nothing else; I suspect it will inspire several poems.
So, ready-set-go if y’all are up for it! I’ll share mine eventually here, hopefully with some relevant photos attached. Happy writing to you! ❤️
I took a slow stroll around the square
I saw a man with
a Westie who ambushed children
the woman from the cafe
looking at real estate
in a window
three men with beards
discussing the theatre
“And then, my character says. . . . “
a new fancy restaurant
in the old post office building
Texas Formal dress required
the wonderful presence of a
classic car, convertable,
top wantoly left down
fawn colored leather seats
built like a boat to sail
down local streets, sharkin’
an old couple with their
own portable table set up
for wine and cheese from home
so many picnics
fathers double-fisting
plastic-cupped lidded beers,
hurrying back to the family blanket
I saw a summer Friday night
easily sighing its way
into being, a languid
lay back under the trees
and wait or the fireflies
evening sauntering in,
the real life of what tries
to remain a small town
in spite of an encroaching
city on the move,
the slow blossom of taking it easy,
the joy in spite of it all
I love my town, but I also have a special deep love for the next town north, with its fabulous old square which boasts the title of “Most Beautiful Town Square in Texas” – and I can’t argue with that! It’s a great place to hang out on a summer evening. Thanks for reading!
The Poetry Patio