Ready to Make Friends with Poetry? ⟶
To listen to me read this poem, click HERE. I am the map, I will show you the way Landmarks, sideroads, the places you’ll stay. Then moving slowly, aware of the limits Of speed that are posted; this journey stay in it. I’ll reveal the direction, post signs that you need Aware…
Frequency There was always a tune in the heart of God A song that He sang over us. The melody came with a note from above A chorus from the Father of love. But the tune met resistance-titanium, stone Even water that blocked all the notes. Was everyone drowning, message nullified, absorbed? Perhaps the enchantment…
Monet’s Haystacks (or On Keeping at It) Monet painted haystacks one by one from 1890 to ’91, In all kinds of weather, Spring through Fall, Summer and winter he painted them all. Twenty-five haystacks—that’s a lot of paint But he simply kept going, this artistic saint. He prayed with his brushes and oils and such…
Complaints are afoot in certain close quarters That my poems don’t rhyme, they’re merely imposters. The grandchildren ask me, “Is that how you write one? I’m not really sure, Nana, your kind’s the right one.” “There’re no matching endings, really no reasoning. It’s like eating roast beef without any seasoning. Tasteless and boring, and lacking…
God with us in the broken place. E manu el, Yahweh whose hand steadies and steers us while we lift our face. Prayers rise. We cannot transform a heart but we can tend and feed the bodies housing hope, care for roses, prune and weed, wash and fold, clothe the people who inhabit our petitions….
I swerved around a swallowtail today, its goldblackblue mosaic translated across the glass and gone. Street’s curbed outline caught the corner of my eye as the colorburst startled me to noticing, awakened me to a sight just past the neighbors. A sudden glimpse of canines at their master’s feet—heads anon, ears aperk—then they rose and…
I’ve no chisel but this penchipping at paper like stone,carving words, not to build but bendgraphite like steel, curve the bones (Dear God, not break) but lay in place and thenform a space to hold a new edifice,sculpt and rest and tap some morewhile You hand me bricks to begin, restore.***The word contemplate is from…
Birds, their tones both winged and brightHarmonize from branches out of sightKnow their parts, score memorizedFlash and zoom before my eyes. Soprano, alto, second, bassThroaty praises from branchy placeEcho, float, reverberateA pause, then celebrate Mornings’ rise first slow and quietAgainst dull backdrops now a riotTheir songs a span of treble and bassBackground my day, this…
I’ve been awash in words of late, missing out on the wind waving through steel branches, blue and white sky. Eyes too crowded to take note of the weather which goes on without me, whether I watch it or not. A glance through the dining room glass speaks loudly in all caps. I am listening….
Something has been said about “writing down the bones” which sounds like a good practice if you’re learning anatomy. But the first time I heard the phrase, I thought it was “writing down the poems,” So I am. Writing down the poems moving my bones, the ligaments lightly holding the pen– black on paper, blue,…