Ready to Make Friends with Poetry? ⟶
Pressed into Joy Golden oil in rounded vessel liquid lightrefracting sun in shimmers. Mirrored shape reflects on glassy surface and I wonder at thedrop, drop, drops of light as theydrip, drip, dripdown. All this tastingjoyfulness becausesomething was crushedand pressed,leaving light. True Wood Pears thunk and plop on barren, yellow grass alone, not-gathered. The tree bore fruit but there…
To hear 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 of your…
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…