April 26-30 Graupelling with the end of Poetry Month
This is going to be a combination blog for the end of Poetry Month. I have had a very full and fun past few days, but the writing went on the back burner. People come first, and being with friends and family had to take precedence. We also went from nice and warm (70) to freezing with snow, back to mid-warm 60 and then today we have graupel (Montana-speak for little hail mixed with snow). So think of my blog as a journal for the past four days, with short entries.
I open with a poem, written on April 26:
/I saw the future to come is here,
/Wandering through empty libraries,
/Staring at keyboards in the land fill,
/Comprised of soldiers on their smart phones
/Selling health insurance;
/Giving anarchy its backhand due,
/Power to the individual
/But only in isolation.
/Socrates has slipped away,
/Along with Johannes Brahms,
/Humming to archaic songs
/Playing on a phonograph.
/The Brave New World has come,
/Where paintings hang on virtual walls,
/Texture, size and meaning misunderstood;
/Where poets tweet in character,
/Their global shorthand on shallow fields;
/Where the Renaissance Man warms himself
/By the trashcan among the homeless.
/The Brave New World has come,
/And I feel less than welcome here
/Seeing in this future past
/A slaver trade expanding.
/A desert storm
/On an ether sea.
April 27: Hot. Whoa. It’s hot! Of course, that’s a relative term, but yesterday the thermometer registered a high to 71 degrees (21.5 C), topping 70 for the first time this year. For us, that’s a heat wave, not quite warm enough to take a dip in the lake, but time to dust off the shorts and tees.
April 30: It went from 49 to 35 in half an hour yesterday as the snow fell, stuck for an hour, then melted. This morning it hit 29 and we had graupel up to about ten minutes before two. Snow fell as I drove to get Xander, then stopped, then snowed again when we got home. At 5:30 the snow is melting again. Just what you need – a play by play on the weather! But they say next weekend, 70 returns. Don’t like the weather????? Wait ten minutes.
Now for something completely different: a few thoughts on serious issues.
One: “You can no more win a war than win an earthquake.” – Jeannette Rankin
Two: Not one dead soldier ever brokered a peace nor won a war. Not one.
Three: War is not diplomacy, it is failed diplomacy.
Four: As to Syria, we must remember that it is a UN problem, not a US problem.
Five: “There never was a good war, or a bad peace.” – Benjamin Franklin
//Farewell to Poetry Month
/Poetry month is ending.
/Today is the very last day,
/Although this does not mean
/We poets will go away.
/So as we depart from April
/We still have so much to say
/That collectively we ask you
/To watch and read, okay?
/And thank you one and all
/For the time and thought you give.
/It is for your eyes we write,
/For your hearts and hopes we live.
I love the uncertainty of certainty. I love the curious brain, of which I have been blessed to have one inside my own head and one inside the head of my precious bride. We ask a question, regarding something we see on TV or read in a book or article somewhere. We enter the information highway and begin driving down the road at a comfortable clip. We do not speed. We do not want to miss any interesting road signs. The side roads are often more revealing and interesting than the highway you chose to be on. On which you chose to be, properly put. Technology has its terrors and its impersonalizations, but there are really powerful up-sides to it. There is one major downside, though – distraction. You get on that highway and down those tangents and you can usually find your way back, but it takes time. Sometimes it takes so much time that a day slips away and your work is left undone. But then, tomorrow is another day. In that spirit I present today’s poem.
/Poetry has left me.
/It comes in fits and spurts,
/By the long awaited sunshine,
/The flavor of the month,
/And an unexpected bill.
/I scramble for the words
/Like a turkey after grain,
/Gobbling them down
/With no regard for order
/At times like those
/I no longer feel the poet,
/I just feel abandoned,
/Waiting like a soldier
/For the next call to arms.
/When the words refuse you,
/Even the most idyllic quiet space
/Ticks louder than a time bomb.
/When the words begin to flow
/You can write in the middle
/Of a hurricane.
This one is harder for me. I find it difficult to stay away from the tricky issues while trying to preserve the basically more beatific ideal of writing poetry for poetry month. I wanted to write uplifting tomes with beautiful words cascading around themselves in a whirlpool waterfall of emotions and images. But life intervenes. The events of the past seven days since the Boston Marathon bombing have moved quickly, in one respect, but with deliberate slowness in another. It was like watching paint dry, then suddenly being able to touch the wall.
All the while, I kept thinking about America beyond the obvious resilience – one commentator called it defiance, and that may be a better word – of our people, from Boston outward like an earthquake. I kept thinking about how the bombing was different, but in many ways just another act of violence on American soil. Wasn’t Aurora an act of terror? Wasn’t Newtown the most heinous act of terror imaginable?
Being insatiably curious, Diane and I wondered about the gun legislation shot down by the Senate mid-week. We wondered how our two senators voted. With 90 percent of Americans wanting stricter background checks and the Democrats seemingly united on the issue, we still realized that Montana is one of the most gun-friendly states in the Union, and sure enough, both our senators voted against the measure. Four Democrats broke ranks – John Tester and Max Baucus among them. I understand: they were afraid to mess with their base. I understand: the vote fell 6 short; even two yes votes would not have passed it. I understand: I am deeply ashamed.
Memories are short. In the four months between Newtown and the vote, over 3,500 people died from gun violence on our streets. On Sunday night, near Seattle, five people lost their lives in a multiple murder suicide-by-cop outburst. As tragic as Boston was, and it was unforgivably and unforgettably horrific, the death toll last night was higher. Death tolls of more than one at a time seem to be rising. The problem is obvious, but nobody seems genuinely interested in talking about it, especially not in Congress.
So today’s poem is an angrier, sadder, certainly less flowery effort. Forgive.
//The Buffalo People
/Grow up, America!
/Stop and smell the cordite.
/Galvanized by tragedy,
/Our evolution travels
/Only as far as our memory
/Until the next time
/The earth shakes, the bullets fly,
/The shrapnel takes a few,
/The wolf cuts out a straggler.
/Like a herd of buffalo
/We stand firm in the face of hunters
/Plucking us off one by one
/Until we stampede
/And they follow.
Sometimes I get so tired I just want to stop. But my brain is always busy. Some part of it is always running around, thinking or watching or watching itself think.
What once seemed so important now seems irrelevant. I watch politics play politics like a perpetual motion machine, and realize that politicians rarely get anything significant done unless their backs are against the wall. Self-interest always plays first. That’s why all the great fictional scenarios about people with great power and influence using that power and influence to end things like, oh, poverty and war, are just fiction. Oh, yes, there are good people out there who have an abundance and use it for the greater good, but they are so rare that they might be saints or certainly saintly. As for me, what little power I have I generally keep to myself these days, except in words. I always have words, and I use them often, freely, and in great number. It’s just that so few read my words, and the majority who do are seated in the choir.
So I complain. I grouse. I write, shout, think. I grow tired. I ask myself why I bother, and then I bother. It’s in me, I can’t help it, I have a big mouth and my mind is always busy. And then I remember – I always remember – how bad things are for so much of humanity and I feel shame. I could do more. There is so much to do. But the shame does pass – I will not let shame rule me. Guilt, okay, a little, but not shame. Shame is a disaster. Shame is a spirit-killer.
So, when I sit down to write, I go wherever the spirit takes me. sometimes it’s a sketch for a future idea. Sometimes it’s my blog, sometimes it’s a two word refinement of a finished (I thought) project. Often it’s a journal entry – I call my entries poems. Those poems often are sad, or angry, but most of the time when I sit down to write one, I want to be happy. And you know what? When I finish it, I am, at least for as long as it takes for the next thought to enter my head.
/Life finds a way, yes.
/My grandson warns me with much enthusiasm
/When the kickball slides down the hill
/Toward the bushes, “Stop it! Opa!
/It must not reach the pokey field!”
/I watch him scramble on five year old legs,
/Always a race, always grabbing a head start,
/Changing the rules as he goes along,
/And I marvel at the future
/With all the trepidation of a cautious deer
/And all the hope of an osprey in flight.
/Extinction and mutation are the same thing,
/And life always finds a way, smiling
/From the top of the food chain all the way
/To the bottom.
/We are the caretakers who lost the manual
/Somewhere in the pokey field.
It has been a few days. Again, the events in Boston had me paralyzed. I keep thinking about the victims, how their lives are forever altered by the violence done to them. Yes, the nation feels a deep and abiding sorrow for them and with them, but we will move on. The victims will have to struggle with the aftermath of these cruel acts long after we have turned the page to the next news flash. I want to remember them, and I do keep a spot in my heart and my soul for them, but, I too, will move on.
Having said that, and having duly noted the gravity of what happened, and also remembering the other great tragedies that have befallen human beings over the same few days, I offer two poems today in make-up mode. I also want to toast Paul and Marsha on their wedding day and raise a virtual glass to your happiness!
So, here are the poems, one for the victims and one for the future.
/A monumental end
/To a horrific week
/And I sat there glued to the screen
/Watching things not happen.
/An abundance of caution
/Is not a phrase we much hear
/But praiseworthy trend,
/And now once again
/We are left trying
/To make sense out of senseless,
/To put the bomb back in its container,
/The genie in the bottle,
/Our own lives back on track,
/Our path littered with trite expressions,
/Resilient, proud, undeterred
/And desperately unchanged.
//The Last Cold Day
/The last cold day
/Sprinted through the forest
/With frost licking its heels.
/The last cold day
/Filtered through the sunshine
/Like a contradiction,
/But clouds are warmer.
/The last cold day
/Before summer comes
/Was stubborn, was late,
/And all of us here,
/With the first day of spring
/Circled in bold dark red
/On our calendars
/Hope it’s the last cold day.
April 16 (14-15-16)
Sunday I ran out of time and energy. Yesterday left me speechless, processing the events in Boston. It seems like an endless list of violent acts happening throughout our country (and the world, for that matter). Cheerful poetry seems somehow out of place for the moment, although it must remain. Life must continue. I know that the lives of many people were damaged yesterday in ways that will never leave them. for the rest of us, it is vital to note and record what happened and how we feel about what happened. Then move on, live our lives as normally as possible, and not allow cowards and bullies of any kind to defeat our spirit. In that vein, I offer three poems today.
//Thinking About the Unthinkable
/In Boston holiday crowds
/Ran ro honor heroes Greek
/Or watched to honor Concord,
/Tax day, anniversary
/Of 42’s first ML at bat.
/A good day, it should have been,
/Sun shining, people shining
/Like beacons of the possible.
/Shaken. Shattered. Bloodied.
/I think too often about such things,
/Bewildered by cowards with bombs,
/Mystified by anyone so callous
/It could be war or terror,
/The act of one or many.
/I shake my head
/That we still are
/So completely insane.
/I shake my head
/That whoever did this gets
/More story time than the dead and buried
/And the living soon dismissed.
/It is unthinkable, unwelcome,
/And yet is always there,
/More constant than the sun./
/It was like an iron fist
/Thrust against a healing wound.
/It was chaos drenched in blood.
/It was proof once again that man
/Is his own worst enemy.
/And yet, overwhelming the tragedy
/Were first responders
/Rushing toward the blast
/Ready to help their fellows
/As if it were
/The most natural thing
/In the world,
/Angels in America./
/My radiance no longer shines
/For all the world to see.
/I have pulled back a bit,
/Retreated if you will,
/Where far fewer people find me.
/Where once outside my window
/Asphalt rivers tumbled
/Between concrete slab foundations,
/I now see gently swaying trees.
/I miss you all, my friends, my kin,
/I wish you weren’t so far away.
/But I can’t get down off the mountain
/And I don’t want to anyway
/(Unless air travel is involved).
/So come to me, there’s always room,
/The front door’s open wide.
/We’ll hike the lakefront and the trails,
/Then cozy down inside.
To blog or not to blog. That is the question. Whether it is more clever of the heart to stumble over words on a snowy April Saturday afternoon . . . First it falls, then it melts, then it rains, then it dries, and now we await a deeper storm to come with the dusk. It is a good day for poetry and independent movies.
/Off the Main Roads (4-12-13)
/Are you okay? they asked.
/I laughed and said
/I’m desperately un-rich
/And seriously under read
/But aside from that
/You’re hard to reach,
/They observed. I said
/My Stegosaurus computer
/Travels the information highway
/With all deliberate hesitation.
/I still like snail mail.
/My cell phone has a flip lid
/And is seriously app deprived.
/I do plug in, I do explore,
/But I always stop when
/Virtual flowers exude
/I’m letting civilization
/Pass me over
/As any good anachronism
/Should. But do not ask me
/To crawl off to die
/Within these vibrant living
Short again, today. Xander spent the night and I worked early this morning, so fatigue and burning eyes are my afternoon tea. I’ve done some sketching earlier but turn to an older poem for today’s entry. It’s a poem written during a darker time. I can’t help thinking about the darker moments in my life, still garnering their lessons and comparing them to now. It does no good to deny they happened. It gives perspective to say others suffered much darker times than I ever have, but the truth is that when I was going through them, I could not see past them. This poem reflects that. That, and the fact that help is always there, just not immediately effective.
/Sitting in an office, waiting,
/like a corn fed box of snails.
/I’ve gone postal to myself,
/emotional tsunami crashing.
/I need help. Time. Peace.
/I catch them in snippets, but
/each time I grasp one in sweaty hands,
/it slips away again, and life
Grandson Xander got to see the fire station today. Eight five year olds and nine adults; I think the adults were as excited as the kids! With a schedule change, Xander is spending the night tonight instead of his usual Friday overnight visit, so my blog today is these few words and my poem for the day:
/The Flathead Fill
/The lake is slowly filling,
/Winter runoff early,
/April snowstorm coming
/They say it was a mild one
/And now they’ll remember
/How long winter stayed,
/Like an unwanted guest
/You need to see,
/Uncle Albert or Auntie Em,
/Who missed his flight
/Month after month
/And now shows up
/Smiling pearly white.
/The boaters make ready,
/Clean their engines,
/Check their oil
/Buy fresh gasoline
/And dream of crossing
/To get to Wild Horse Island
/For a picnic in the sun,
/Whenever he finally shows.
Just looking around my house, this is what I saw. I like my Kindle, and I know that e-publishing is the wave of the future and the future is here, but I still love the heft of a book and I still have a nice library. I also have discovered the library in Kalispell, which connects to almost every library in Montana and can get me almost any book I might need. This is a writer’s heaven, both inside my house and out! Pinch me, I must be dreaming!
//ON MY BOOKCASE
//Stephen King rests on my shelves,
//his battered brain quiet now
//but just for now (always now)
//in temporary dead zone respite
//until the next idea hits like a
// freight train
//barreling out of control.
//And near him Michael Crichton
//ponders global warming readouts
//and dinosaur DNA
//along uncertain timelines soon forgotten.
//The lost boys home from Neverland,
//Dirk Gently battling American gods,
//and in this corner floats
//the island at the centre of the world
//awaiting the peg legged Dutchman
//along the great walled street.
//Captain Kidd and Santa Claus
//rest near Carl Sagan’s Cosmos
//amid dragons, to the code breaker’s delight.
//Van Gogh’s early portraits
//captured in a tabletop
//barely fit the lowest shelf
//and my own books hide thinly
//in plain sight. Eclectic, I am,
//a hodgepodge of plots and twists
//and true tall tales
//and captured interests, enlightened,
Most of the snow is already gone. A little bit stubbornly clings to my lawn and the surrounding tree branches. Every now and then a clump of snow falls hard to the ground, sometimes jostled by the wind, other times shaken by our resident leaper, Jumpy the Squirrel. Mostly, now, the snow just drips downward as it converts back to liquid. South and east of us the storm hit much harder, and still is working its way across the country's midsection. But for me, as I sit at the keyboard and gaze out at my lawn, this was winter's last gasp, which prompted the poem.
//The trees stood still
//The breeze gave way,
//The Arctic blast
//It was a snowy glich,
//A last gasp, winter dying,
//His psyche escaping
//On that final breath.
//The sun returns,
//A bit chastened, perhaps,
//A bit less certain
//A bit more mindful
//That seasons change
//With the wind.
//And I, shivering
//Under a blanket
//Throw it off in haste
//When the fire within
//Its own season.
It snowed last night. By the time we went to bed there was a dusting on the deck and ground. By the time we got up there was a strong two inches all over the yard, the decks, the handrails, and the trees. Strangely, the driveway was almost clear; the earth beneath our tires must have been warm and the snow, although exuberant, not powerful. It is now four-thirty in the afternoon, and I have spent most of my day working on my work (i.e., writing and fact-checking), and watching the snow melt. The lawn is almost clear now, and shockingly green. Only the few trees that outline the area that Xander calls the prickly patch still has evidence of last night’s deluge. And I am happy, contented, even dare I say it, satisfied. Eight hours at the computer and I have accomplished less than a tenth of what I hoped to do, but it was a good tenth. And tomorrow is another day.
The poem I give you today is an old one tucked away in a computer file long ago. It rhymes. Most of my poems don’t. I find rhyming to be restrictive and forced most of the time, but every now and then a poem begs for a rhyming pattern and practically writes its own as I go along. Often that happens when I think about the lyrics and melody of a song and start playing with my own lyrics to that melody. Sometimes two words attack me in their similarity and I find I have to knock them down and surround them with other words in self-defense. All this – usually – makes for more cheerful verse, something W. H. Auden would call “light verse.”
//INSIDE THE BOX
//Some poems rhyme no matter what you do.
//You think you control them but they control you.
//You stab at the meter, you strangle the rhyme
//but they lie in wait underneath all the time
//and if you slip up and let your mind wander
//the rhymes come out laughing metric out yonder
//where words meant for Scrabble are all that exist
//as if in your frenzy the Watchman you kissed.
//And though you’ve tried nobly to stifle the rhyme,
//give up, surrender, you’ve committed the crime.
Sometimes writing is about listening. Maybe that seems obvious, but a writer often forgets that what he or she hears, and how they listen to what they hear, finds its way back out again in what they say. It’s like learning a language as a young child: you hear a word, you think you understand it, and you find a way to work it into the conversation to test your understanding. With poetry, what you hear is emotion. You write to play it back and see if you got it right. You become an active listener.
Sometimes you are feeding back directly into a conversation. Other times you are feeding back generally to your understanding of life itself. I don’t think it matters so much what you write about, than writing itself. Of course, it is nice to have something clever or poignant or spot-on to share. But it is the writing that is the work, and it is the work that matters.
Given that preamble, my poem today is about what I can and cannot do as a listener. I hope you like it.
/I can’t help you.
/I want to but I can’t.
/Your burdens are your own,
/I cannot lift them
/I cannot lessen them
/Or make them lighter,
/Or take them away altogether.
/It irks me, this inability,
/This handicap I’m plagued with -----
/My burden, my load, my weight.
/I hear you tell me things
/I can do nothing about,
/Cannot make better,
/Cannot set right.
/Each word, each thought
/Enters my heart like a dagger point
/But the pain I feel is yours,
/And I am no empath.
/What you feel is yours alone.
/I cannot help you
/But I can hear you
/Let you talk
/And let you cry.
Just a short note today, dear friends. I am tired, fighting a bit of a cold, and grandson Xander was here last night and half of today. He is a wonder but he’s five and I’m 63. Need I say more? Oh, yes, and he loves playing chase. So this afternoon there’s no rwal introduction to my poem. It’s Spring. Summer’s coming. The grass is growing . . .
//WEEDS ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
//I express my individuality
//Dandelions and foxtails
//show my contempt
//for everything uniform
//My rebellion, right there on my lawn
//for all to see.
//It’s patriotic -- my
//Declaration of Independence,
//that all weeds are created equal
//and entitled to the pursuit
//My Magna Charta,
//that no King ever shall
//strip me of my brambles.
//I’m not lazy, you see,
//or gardenally challenged
//as some might suspect.
//I’m making a statement here.
//I do not believe in lawns.
//They corrupt the nature of things
//and require too much
//I’d rather eat thistles than grass.
April 5, 2013
How does one choose a theme for a poem? It seems like most of the time I just wait for the theme to choose me, or I just start playing with a thought or a word and see what develops. Much depends on my mood, on whether the sun is shining and the air is warm (which does not mean a cold snowy day is depressing – far from it). Sometimes I am inspired by or intrigued with a blurb on the news or a line from a book. Sometimes my thoughts are highly personal, other times they are absorbed by lofty ideals or colossal failures. Now and then I am sad, and I write about it. Most of the time I am happy, and often bemused, and I write about that.
There are times when your soul dwells in a dark place. That needs expression just as much as, if not more than, the joy around you. Most of those times, you can say with a wry smile, “Just visiting.”
//THERE IS, THERE IS
//Pirates and dragons and silly old men
//take up my time while they play with my pens.
//Magic folk hiding from the uninspired
//dance furious jigs in my head ‘til I’m tired
//and cannot abate them, nor to do so I yearn,
//for it is in their lands where I travel and learn.
//Drink, merry old elf in your red suit and tie,
//climb on your dragon, away! and don’t cry
//that we have forgotten the image we caught,
//‘cause some among us still cling to the thought
//and travel in nightshades we must until dawn
//knowing you linger, forgotten, not gone.
April 4, 2013
Just a word or two or seventeen or whatever. Poetry is. I was going to make some sweeping obvious statement that poetry is – whatever. But poetry, like most forms of art, depends both on the writer’s intent and the reader’s interpretation. If the reader does not know the writer’s reference points, they have to supply their own to make the words make sense. Maybe this seems obvious. If I write about how beautiful the sky is outside my window, you bring the sky outside your window into the poem. As subjective and personal as my sky might seem to me, the interchange between my words and your imagination makes that same sky universal.
Sometimes, that’s easy, as when I write about universal themes. But sometimes it is a little bit of work for you, to assimilate, understand, and re-apply my words to your frames of reference. That makes a poem a dialogue. I like that. No writer really wants to be shouting at himself all day.
//I’m vain about my hands.
//You couldn’t tell it
//from the cat scratches
//and paper cuts.
//It’s how I hold my pen.
//Firm in right hand, left out
//for balance, Star Trek mug filled hot.
(//I could write left-handed
//but nobody could read me
//and what’s the point of that?
//If I’d wanted to be unread
//I’d become a cryptographer.)
//I use both hands on the keyboard,
//hunt and peck, peck, peck.
//I’m vain about my hands,
//they’re how I reach out to you.
Once again into the breech, my friends! Language is what it is, but what it is, is forever changing. Writing it down is always a challenge and a joy. Playing with words and sounds and images makes me feel both alive and free.
What does a writer do, and why? For most of us it is answering a creative urge that will not be silenced. Often it is also a way to discuss a subject or idea or feeling openly (though often clouded in symbolism and metaphor for the fun of it). No matter what the subject of the poem or story or article or novel might appear to be, this is the ultimate truth behind it: I write it for you, but it’s about me.
I don’t mean to sound selfish, just honest. I write what I want to write, and each piece somehow reflects the person I think I am. I am sharing myself with you – my philosophy and my soul – with every word. All art is based on that inner need to create outward expressions. And all of us are artistic, creative in one way or another and most often more than one. So, once again into the breech, my friends!
//TO YOU, MY GENTLE READER
//My poems read quickly
//Meanings hidden from view
//might take a second look,
//but that is up to you.
//Though I don’t rhyme often
//-- I find it hard, confined --
//Lib’ral arts and language
//are being left behind
//Poets, they die nightly
//as they try to survive.
//You each have the power
//to keep this one alive.
//Thank you, gentle reader,
//for giving me the chance
//to make you cry and smile
//and join me in the dance.
On Today today, there was a discussion of the least favorite words in the public conscience, with each of three famed Today personalities chiming in with theirs. It was much fun, thinking about words that might be repulsive or conjure up repulsive images. My favorite combination from some of the suggestions is: “Moist, oozing cheeses.”
Luckily, you won’t find images like that in the poems I present this month. Who wants to read stuff like that?
//OUT ON A LIMB//
/the earth tugging from below,
/holding onto the thinnest branch
/I ever saw.
/A thousand vertigo feet
/my problems gape, wide mouthed
/full of gnashing teeth
/and slippery hungry tongue.
/were all sorts of people
/who needed me cool, collected.
/But they’re gone.
/Things began to fall into place
/and then it dawned on me
/like a tightrope walked in a spell
/that I’m afraid of heights.
April is National Poetry Month. So what, you say? Well, yes – George Carlin once wrote that far more people write poetry than read it, and he was right. But, still, it must be remembered that poetry is the diary of the soul and a powerful way for many people to find creative expression, and must be encouraged. Besides, almost every one of us hears poetry on a daily basis every time a song is sung or declaimed on the radio. Adele is a poet, though not all poets are Adele or even close.
Doctor Bren Brown explained beautifully that each of us is creative. It is part of who we are as human beings. We need to find an outlet for our creativity. We need to do what we love and find expression of ourselves through it. Making money is not the paramount concern. A few get lucky enough to combine career and creativity, very few. And very very very very few of those are poets. The point is that everyone is creative and poetry is one very personal and beautiful (or funny, or poignant, or sad, or even pointed) way to write entries in the journal that is your soul’s progression through life.
So welcome to all poets, those who rhyme and those who don’t; those who write epics and those who write haiku; those who tell stories and those who tell jokes; those who play with the words for the words’ own sake or use the words to say something else. All are welcome. It is April. Shower us!
I hope to lodge one of my own poems on this blog every day. I hope you will read it and enjoy the imagery or the thought or the sigh of breath.
So, here goes poem number one, called Backlook.:
Eleven years passed, I blew the dust
from yellowed pages, and tried
to read the chicken scratch
that was a poem once.
A diary of the soul, poems are,
like fine Bordeaux, kept cool and dark,
aged to perfection, a time capsule,
a window to the past. My past.
I loved you then, and baseball,
books by Stephen King.
the sanctity of the individual
within the power of partnership,
Nothing much has changed.
I was born in Holland in 1950. My parents immigrated to the US when I was two. I have many close friends and family on both continents. My wife Diane and I have been happily married since 1974. I have four children and one grandchild (two more are on the way). I love writing and sharing what I wrote most of all..