Friday, November 28, 2014

Table Top

Some of my poetry folders and notebooks...


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
has its own posture,
needs this quiet.

setting the table
for winter,

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


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


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


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.


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.