Friday, February 27, 2015
Friday Song: "Winter Song #1" by Chris Garneau
A song I've been poemin' to lately. It's so haunting, don't you think?
Thursday, February 26, 2015
Here’s the Thing
Here’s the Thing
You keep bringing places with you
Clover and brick and icicles
tinker toys and glass bottles clinging to your robe’s hem
waterlogged and heavy
This isn’t a problem
that will maul you
This is an issue
of saturation
You can’t hold anything new
if all your limbs are full
You keep bringing places with you
Clover and brick and icicles
tinker toys and glass bottles clinging to your robe’s hem
waterlogged and heavy
This isn’t a problem
that will maul you
This is an issue
of saturation
You can’t hold anything new
if all your limbs are full
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
About That Wandering
About That Wandering
It will take you
by which I mean you
will take you
to rocks that you will adore
and have to leave
all within an afternoon
Sure you might return
but this place cannot stay as it is
It will take you
by which I mean you
will take you
to rocks that you will adore
and have to leave
all within an afternoon
Sure you might return
but this place cannot stay as it is
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Three Carat Rock Salt
Three Carat Rock Salt
Salt is the residue cast aside
as the ocean remembers
remembering
dagger rocks softening
under the water’s worry
sand satisfied by even
one life disturbance
What has been made from water
will again ask for water
Salt is the residue cast aside
as the ocean remembers
remembering
dagger rocks softening
under the water’s worry
sand satisfied by even
one life disturbance
What has been made from water
will again ask for water
Monday, February 23, 2015
Kite Story
Kite Story
You and I take a kite out
of the box
creases and all we dangle it in front of the wind
like a string before a cat
to say
take it take it
When it flies we forget about the wind
and it feels good
All afternoon we wave down at the land from up
in the sky
You and I take a kite out
of the box
creases and all we dangle it in front of the wind
like a string before a cat
to say
take it take it
When it flies we forget about the wind
and it feels good
All afternoon we wave down at the land from up
in the sky
Friday, February 20, 2015
Friday Song: S. Carey's "Neverending Fountain"
Here's something lovely to listen to, courtesy of S. Carey.
Happy Friday, everyone...hope you're staying warm, wherever you are!
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Equuleus
Equuleus
I have been the horse and the erased horse
and the horse that was never there to begin with
and the horizon which is our name for that which we can
never get close to
And of these what felt most gratifying was
when I was the blue evening
and the light-wreaths the street lamps put into the branches
because you could rest
knowing you were less alone
I have been the horse and the erased horse
and the horse that was never there to begin with
and the horizon which is our name for that which we can
never get close to
And of these what felt most gratifying was
when I was the blue evening
and the light-wreaths the street lamps put into the branches
because you could rest
knowing you were less alone
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Fine Balance
Fine Balance
This is the land and these are its people
This is the land and here are its pockmarks and divots
These are the people and here are the homes they have made
Here are the homes nestled into spots between where the land is and isn’t
This is the gone away son
This is the returned home son
These are the never left sons and their songs of the land
This is the owner of that old truck
so old that the land looks at it as a pet insect
This is the mud drying as it tries to become more like the light but fails
This is the light never trying ever to be anything
These are the original trees that the planet was formed around
These are the praying rocks
This is the dust that the people brush from their bodies
Here is the aging town becoming new every twenty-five or thirty years
These are the people and here are the children they give to this place
This is the story of where your body came from and this is not
the only story This is one in the pile One in the millions of piles
This is the land and these are its people
This is the land and here are its pockmarks and divots
These are the people and here are the homes they have made
Here are the homes nestled into spots between where the land is and isn’t
This is the gone away son
This is the returned home son
These are the never left sons and their songs of the land
This is the owner of that old truck
so old that the land looks at it as a pet insect
This is the mud drying as it tries to become more like the light but fails
This is the light never trying ever to be anything
These are the original trees that the planet was formed around
These are the praying rocks
This is the dust that the people brush from their bodies
Here is the aging town becoming new every twenty-five or thirty years
These are the people and here are the children they give to this place
This is the story of where your body came from and this is not
the only story This is one in the pile One in the millions of piles
Monday, February 16, 2015
Under the Hood
Under the Hood
I make the bed
while lying in it
This is another way of saying
that a problem can be muscled through
most effectively from the inside
of the hamster ball
When the piano can no longer hear
its own voice catch the slipped pitch
in the roof of its mouth
I make the bed
while lying in it
This is another way of saying
that a problem can be muscled through
most effectively from the inside
of the hamster ball
When the piano can no longer hear
its own voice catch the slipped pitch
in the roof of its mouth
Friday, February 13, 2015
Window Watercolor
The window in my shower has been practicing its watercolor landscape/abstract work. What unintentional art have you discovered lately?
In related wonderings...are you on Instagram? I am! Feel free to share your link/account below, and I will happily peruse.
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
Fortuitous
Fortuitous
A seashell can travel
merely by the grace of fingers and eyes
just by being a pink seashell
in the right place
Every place will follow you home
you barely have to love it
Not as a pet Not as an object
As the ocean thirsty for your pant leg
A seashell can travel
merely by the grace of fingers and eyes
just by being a pink seashell
in the right place
Every place will follow you home
you barely have to love it
Not as a pet Not as an object
As the ocean thirsty for your pant leg
Friday, February 6, 2015
Longer (Beautiful) Reads
Three gorgeous pieces I recommend. Yeah, they'll take a little bit of time to read (by internet standards), but all are so very worth it.
- "The Abyss," by Rebekah Frumkin in Granta (on working in a haunted house and being haunted humans).
- "How Long Has It Been Since You Smelled a Flower?" a mini-collection of prisoners' writing curated/introduced by Richard Shelton.
- "The Fourth State of Matter" by Jo Ann Beard in The New Yorker. This is so beautiful and moving and upsetting and perfect. (Many thanks to Richard Gilbert, whose newest blog entry sent me scrambling to read this essay!)
Thursday, February 5, 2015
You Do Not Scare Me One Bit
You Do Not Scare Me One Bit
Tree in the form of a monster lunging
even you should not be ashamed of your body
Tree in the form of a monster lunging
even you should not be ashamed of your body
Wednesday, February 4, 2015
Kosher Salt
Kosher Salt
Do you know yet how the calendar
is a liar Three days ago ice and now
mud There are avocados and apples
and strawberries in the market
You can buy whatever you want
to taste The grass is alive Today I saw
a weed in February healthier than
I felt When the snow falls sometimes
I imagine standing in it and eating
a soft pretzel letting the salt rain
down around me making a puddle
of dry ground in the snow to remain in
Do you know yet how the calendar
is a liar Three days ago ice and now
mud There are avocados and apples
and strawberries in the market
You can buy whatever you want
to taste The grass is alive Today I saw
a weed in February healthier than
I felt When the snow falls sometimes
I imagine standing in it and eating
a soft pretzel letting the salt rain
down around me making a puddle
of dry ground in the snow to remain in
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
Building Code
Building Code
On this the walk back to yourself
every tree seems to shimmer under its own
history The water makes pictures
of the land and sky for the sky
and in leaving the water can say
I have been near you
You will pass the statue and see
how it was always a fountain
Bedrock of pennies some pumpkin-bright
some darkened The downtown tower
muscled with offices will live emptied of people
and light for half its life We made the buildings
in our own image but it has been tough to learn
We can empty out We can be full
On this the walk back to yourself
every tree seems to shimmer under its own
history The water makes pictures
of the land and sky for the sky
and in leaving the water can say
I have been near you
You will pass the statue and see
how it was always a fountain
Bedrock of pennies some pumpkin-bright
some darkened The downtown tower
muscled with offices will live emptied of people
and light for half its life We made the buildings
in our own image but it has been tough to learn
We can empty out We can be full
Monday, February 2, 2015
Mirror Party
Mirror Party
Your mirror and my mirror have a party
a joyless party
They invite their mirror friends
They thought they had plenty of stories
but once they were together
they saw that among the hundreds of stories there was
little variance
A face
A face
Faces
Teeth in a line
Dark hair
An eyeball
Finger stretching an eyelid for white of an eye
Finger prying off the lash that climbed in
Tears and then water tossed lightly on the face
Yeah bodies
Faces mostly
Naked skin
an appendage
Still the conversations went on plainly for hours
geez, those faces
because it felt so good to be around other mirrors
that understood what it was like
Your mirror and my mirror have a party
a joyless party
They invite their mirror friends
They thought they had plenty of stories
but once they were together
they saw that among the hundreds of stories there was
little variance
A face
A face
Faces
Teeth in a line
Dark hair
An eyeball
Finger stretching an eyelid for white of an eye
Finger prying off the lash that climbed in
Tears and then water tossed lightly on the face
Yeah bodies
Faces mostly
Naked skin
an appendage
Still the conversations went on plainly for hours
geez, those faces
because it felt so good to be around other mirrors
that understood what it was like