Ready to Make Friends with Poetry? ⟶
Golden oil in
a bottle
liquid light
refracting sun in shimmers
a mirrored shape
reflects on the surface
and I wonder at the
drop, drop, drops
of light as they
drip, drip, drip
down.
All this tasting
joyfulness because
something was crushed
and pressed,
leaving light.
“Stretch” must be a biblical word, regardless of one’s age (an extension, a straining) like a two-year-old reaching on tiptoes towards her Father, not unlike the discomfort of unfolding old bones and well-used knees, joints so stiff they’ve forgotten how to bend. I want to stress and press past the comfortable,groan with the growing, the knowing that dailyI must…
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,…
the lights have left the leaves, golden brilliance turned out like a glowing candle quieted by the wind. the leaves float and rustle, voices, too, carried by the breeze to this place atop a hill– a slanted receptacle for sound forcing it upwards to my ears. I’m hidden–He’s not. I hear Him. He’s here.
This is just to say we could not eat the plums– they were so many pyramided together in plastic, hailing from casa de Costco where everything is sold in bulk. We could not eat the plums. unripe as they were– purple/black skins yielding to (very) firm yellow (oh! not sweet) flesh. We enlisted children, yea…
If you give a writer a journal She’ll probably say “thank you” (exclamation point) And wonder where the nearest pen or pencil is. If she finds said pen, she’ll take to writing A es a pee. Once she starts writing there’s no telling When she’ll stop—why THINGS COULD HAPPEN. People would be…
Texas Sky April 2011 Thunderclouds are roiling on the horizon, stacking up East-wise, threatening to move in– move in and dump. But they’re whiter than white can be and only so much vapor. I imagine their rumbling high over distant mountains, molecules leaving mess and mayhem, headed this way. But there’s no running for…