“How would you say this more simply and more haikuey” –
“Spring Sunset Gold-Yellow Song Upon The Sky Trumpeting Daffodils?”
How would I? (turn this observation and string into a haiku), is the question asked of me about eight years ago when it was queried, and almost five years since she passed and crossed over the rainbow bridge. I may have tried once, however I was none-too successful. She was my favorite poet, even though she hardly wrote any tailored or even casual poetry. Her words just flowed into “raspberry and tangerine images.” Ours was a forty-year correspondence with a shared love of nature and the arts.
I rediscovered the question on a sticky note in her very distinct handwriting this morning and decided to sit down and finish the conversation. I hope that I can do her proud and know that she is smiling anyway.
For Robin, forever friend – I miss you and your words:
sunset’s golden song ~
a listening sky
ag ~ June 2017
I hope the stars appreciate your special beauty.
Today’s new moon is the Imbolc moon. Imbolc is a day in between the solstice and the equinox.
new moon for want of calla lilies
I slowly adjust
to the new normal
words that are gone somewhere with the moon
Let Chaos Be
A palimpsest on Let Evening Come by Jane Kenyon
(Palimpsest: a manuscript or piece of writing on which the original writing has been effaced to make room for later writing but of which traces remain; using the bones of the original writing as the basis and springboard for the new piece).
Let tongues wag 140
characters on Twitter feeds,
#hashtag words rife knife.
Let emotions loose
like mice in a field with summer
on their feet. Let chaos be.
Let red and blue placards sprout
from neighbors’ lawns. Let fake news
rupture the resounding silence.
Let traffic snarl. Let road rage.
Let the hurricane rip down Main Street.
Let chaos be.
To the microphones on podiums,
to televised debates, to Instagram photos
let chaos be.
Let it be, as it explodes. Fearless.
A cyclone that carries us blessedly beyond our own
front porch, so let chaos be.
Wet With Rain
My heart mourns
the loss of words
once ribboned into poems
now empty – a clothesline
between two poles.
My throat lumps
at the muddle of notes
no longer giving voice
to windstorms or the sky
holding its breath.
My eyes mist over
when twilight offers its nakedness
on a purple breeze
and wild bergamot wet with rain.
And my lonely heart,
lost in a mulberry thicket,
longs for the night when the moon’s halo
no longer lingers, long and sweet
on your lips.
Can it ever be too warm in January? Yesterday, it got close to 70 degrees in town. Really? It made striding a loop around Bamboo Brook Park a very comfortable no-brainer, and I even spotted two bluebirds – symbols of spring, happiness and transition. A nice thought, but I’m not ready to relinquish winter’s introspective and quiet beauty just yet. Today was not as warm, however we had the windows open in the studio. Some like hot – some not. I worry about polar bears and polar poles’ rising temperatures and melting icebergs. Is it just about our expectations or is it about loss? Not quite sure. Snow in the forecast tomorrow.
no wolves howling last night their full moon lost in its lore
It’s just a few minutes before 4:00 AM, and it’s just a few days before the start of a new year.
Time — it’s all an illusion, and yet it fully engages, sparks and/or distracts us. So with that thought in mind, I am choosing once again (my fifth year) to commit to the practice of daily writing during January and onto February. January is for writing small stones (described below) and February for writing small poems. Thank you to Fiona Robyn, now Satya Robyn, for introducing and poeting small stones back in 2011. It’s a practice, along with painting, that satiates my inmate desire to combine presence and imagination, reality and whimsy with poetry and prose.
bourbon and blackberries — how does art get done?
Mindful Writing Tool: small stones
A small stone is a short piece of writing (prose or poetry) that precisely captures a fully-engaged moment. The process of finding small stones is as important as the finished product – searching for them will encourage you to keep your eyes (and ears, nose, mouth, fingers, feelings and mind) open.
A small stone is a short piece of writing that precisely captures a fully-engaged moment.
towels and shirts and pillowcases show me the shapes of the breeze
A found poem from the New York Times article:
The Man Who Saw America by Nicholas Davidoff
About Robert Frank ~ the photographer (July 5, 2015)
A Young Artist
One too many mornings of stubble
his melancholy eyes
collect the world.
He could have been anybody
in a casino, restroom, elevator
in a second-hand Ford.
In search of some moment
unable to explain.
A young artist.
In love. Alone.
Upriver into the heart of ambivalence
lost in a piece of the middle.
You have doubts.
You wear humanity differently.
The ache of a narrow bed.
The business of catching things
grasping at prayer
time to look for a new mistress.
ag ~ 2015