Friday, November 28, 2014

Table Top


Some of my poetry folders and notebooks...


Dawn

I wake
with the knowledge
of what my body carries.
I put my hands
on my belly, my hips, my back,
and listen to
the rain slide down.

The light is dim.
This position I'll hold a while,
but what should be
my endurance?

How was I to have prepared?

I'll make the bed,
make the bread.
I'll boil water.
The tea and I shall steep.

I'll forgive,
hope to be forgiven.

This early morning
understanding
has its own posture,
needs this quiet.

Later,
setting the table
for winter,

it's no one's fault
for what can't be shared.


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This poem was originally titled Thanksgiving, and I wrote what I thought was the final version back in 1999.  I was never entirely satisfied with it though, and so in the past couple weeks reworked it.  A lot changed from the prior version.  I edit a lot while I am writing a poem, but I've never gone back to an old poem like this and so extensively reworked it.*  I'm excited that the process went well and look forward to working on more poems.  A step towards my goal of sorting, editing, organizing and such all my poetry.


* Unless it was an old poem I've dredged up to take to my writing group for critique.  Even then, I don't usually go so far back and change so much.



Wednesday, November 5, 2014

Surface




I feel like my tears are always so close to the surface.  Maybe this is why I'm a poet.



Lines

There's a road out of here
and a road back,
but never the same one.

You ask for directions.
When I try to pull the words
out of my hair, it is too snarled and makes me cry.

We sit in the parking lot.
The leaves and rain come down.

I am a shell, a statue, and inside me bones rattle.
One of the versions of you holds my hand for a while.

Maybe we're between destinations . . .
The string held by two cans,
and the words that just don't make it.


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This is the first draft of a poem I wrote Saturday.  It is the first poem I've written in a few months.  I've been having a difficult fall.


Sunday, October 12, 2014

Some Other Angel

somewhere in the city       
the night had begun
            time you had missed
a few more hours             
always noticed
it overwhelms you

            remain still
I forgive you               
for all the lost time
I still love

come over to my place
a place like this home
            I know it hurts
I’ve been worried
half-sick          collapsed
            I know it hurts

remain still
I can’t walk away
            thought you were a reason
            reasons not quite remembered
            it all seemed like too much

the night had begun

shyly holding hands
embarrassed in the shadows
the only trace
            like a warning
we’ve become a little lost

            I’ve been worried
somewhere in the city
a few more hours

take me home
you look like someone I used to know


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This is a found poem, meaning that I pulled the phrases from a book to craft my own poem with someone else's words.  I really enjoy doing that, and hope if an author ever reads my play with their words, they know it is done with respect and appreciate it.

This one is from Some Girls Do by Teresa McWhirter.




Saturday, October 4, 2014

It Always Rains At Dusk

Waiting,

while the birds fly away
and carry our secrets
to more fertile grounds,

the villagers build heavens
out of broken pots
and old jewelry.

as if that would keep
the waters from rising
over the banks
and running down the streets
and into our homes
into our beds

Waiting

for the map to settle again,
spaces to be redrawn,
histories rewritten.

Though the barn
is still the barn,
and when I stand on the hill
and look around me -
I see woods and fields and
a sky that has never belonged
to anyone, not even God.

Waiting,
for the ones
that will never come home

but still waiting.


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Inspired by  No One is Here Except All of Us by Ramona Ausubel



I'll Take the Rain

When I think of poetry, I think of bones and blood, of trees and dirt and stones, of rain and wind and the limitless sky. 
I think of salt and wine, kissing and tears, love and longing and pain.  And inevitably death.

When I think of poetry, I think of the essence of things.  Nature distilled, a heart's truth.

My poetry is my truth.  I am many things and much of it mundane, silly and/or boring. 
Within that, like my bones, like my blood, I have poetry.  This is where I'm letting it out.