A handful of my poems have been published since January, and in the grip of my illness I did not properly acknowledge the publications. I hope to make up for this, at least in part, by providing links to these journals.
My poems “In That Moment of Clarity,” “Hearse, Departing,” and “In This Gray Morning I Think of Hiroshige” were published at The Big Windows Review in March. I am grateful to editor Thomas Zimmerman for taking these poems,
A handful of my poems have been published since January, andI’ve been remiss and have not kept up with my end of the bargain. I hope to make up for this, at least in part, by providing links to these publications.
My poems “When Madeline Said No” and “Poetry in the Dark” are live at Within and Without Magazine. I am grateful to editors Gracie DeSantis and Heather Curran for taking these poems, and to poets Lynne Burnett and Ken Gierke for providing the titles during a mini-fundraiser for Brick Street Poetry a couple of years ago.
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Today I celebrate the betweens, those fragments, those intangibles captured in the micro-instants between flicking the switch and the arrival of illumination, the thoughts wedged within action and its aftermath. Parentheses opened and closed. That moment directly preceding the first sip of coffee, right after you’ve smelled the dark roast’s fragrance, but before the liquid touches your tongue. Sunlight. Clouds. The anticipation of your loved one’s smile mingling with the male red-winged blackbird’s morning proclamation and the realization that more will follow. A chef’s knife callous and its long history. All that’s blossomed since that first kiss. And other conjunctions nested together. Laughter. Wind chimes. And more. Always, more.
Tell me, please. What are your favorite betweens? Where are they?
We’re all terminal, but some of us have accelerated time lines.
A few months ago I was diagnosed with late stage metastatic lung cancer. The prognosis, as you might imagine, is not good, and the timing is uncertain. Do I have six months? Three years? More? Less? No one can say.
Before the diagnosis I lived for months with intense pain, a wildly plummeting heart rate, a lost voice, and questions. Many questions. As of today, the pain and heart rate are under control, the voice is returning, albeit sporadically and in a diminished state, and the questions have dwindled. WHAT has been answered, and WHY no longer matters. I am left with the ever-wavering WHEN, which I refuse to dwell upon, and HOW, which has morphed into “how shall I spend my remaining hours”?
To that end, I choose to celebrate, to share those brief wonders and observations, the sights, feel, smells and sounds of tangible and intangible joys, the moments and experiences, no matter how small and seemingly insignificant, that weave through our days and add immeasurably to our lives.
I’ll post these brief notes here from time to time, as circumstances allow. I hope you might join me, lend your wisdom and insight, tell your stories, offer poems, share your moments, memories and precious time. Life is good! Let’s celebrate!
Self-Portrait as Hoot Owl
Who do you think I am, what will
grace serve, where in this moonless
void might you lie, can we echo
through the hours and never attach
ourselves to one discernable tree?
Is query my only song? Is sadness
yours? Wrapped around these
priceless silhouettes, our voices
merge downhill near the creek’s
rustle, below the seeping clouds
and stars yet somehow above the
night and tomorrow’s slow ascent
into more questions, more doubt.
* * *
“Self-Portrait as Hoot Owl” first appeared in Issue 125 of Right Hand Pointing. Thank you to editors Dale Wisely, Laura M. Kaminski, F. John Sharp and José Angel Araguz for taking this piece.
This much fondness numbs me.
I ache behind my drink, and cannot smile.
The candle too, hates parting,
and drips tears for us at dawn.
A non-poet friend asked why I’m dabbling in these adaptations. After all, she said, they’ve already been translated. Why do you breathe, I replied, admittedly a dissatisfying, snarky and evasive answer. So I thought about it. Why, indeed. The usual justifications apply: as exercises in diction and rhythm, it’s fun, it’s challenging. But the truth is I love these poems, these poets, and working through the pieces allows me to inhabit the poems in a way I can’t by simply reading them. And there is a hope, however feeble, of adding to the conversation a slight nuance or a bit of texture without detracting from or eroding the original.
Much feeling but seem all without feeling
Think feel glass before smile not develop
Candle have heart too reluctant to part
Instead person shed tear at dawn
This first appeared on the blog in October 2014.
Somehow Dawn
I don’t know what to say. Or how.
Feeling that I am on the upslope,
not close. Not wrong. I want
to be that hollowed space
in the hackberry’s trunk,
the calm of darkened light.
And more. Some honey, dripped
from the spoon. A house finch,
fluttering. I will whittle my losses,
carve out needs. She will tell me
the history of our days. She will
smile, engrave her initials on my
chest. Somehow, the birds still
sing. Somehow, dawn trickles in.
“Somehow Dawn” was first published in August 2019 at Vox Populi. I am grateful to Michael Simms for his support, and am thrilled to be a regular contributor to this lively publication.
Shadow
walking,
crushing juniper berries
at dusk
the dog shadows me
in his absence
* * *
“Shadow” first appeared here in April, 2015. It could be considered a companion piece to “Mother’s Day,” which is included in the July 2016 edition of The Lake.
Music: “Thunderbird” Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com)
Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 License
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/
Dashi
I make dashi with water, dried bonito and seaweed,
and maybe a few drops of soy sauce for added flavor.
A simple broth, assembled by hand to enhance, a
concept mislaid in this pre-packaged world.
Today I have blown three notes through the shakuhachi,
each one separate, but all gathered under one roof
for no tangible purpose, released to entropy
and the drops coalescing on the window.
We never know what stew will result from the day’s
efforts, whose lips will force air through which root
end. I close my eyes and imagine the second note’s
shape, how it bells over raindrops to absorb
their sound, bending into the third note spiraling up
and away from my hands, my eyes, my breath.
* * *
“Dashi” and “Inheritance” first appeared in The Closed Eye Open, a publication focusing on consciousness. Many thanks to editors Daniel A. Morgan, Maya Highland and Aaron Lelito for taking this piece.
My poem “Limping Uphill through the Mist, I Consult My Dead Dog and Dream of Indianapolis and the Woman Who is Not Yet There” is live at Compass Rose.. I am grateful to editor Kelly Easton for publishing this piece, which appears in my latest chapbook, Buddha’s Not Talking, available from Slipstream Press. Signed copies are also available via Loud Bug Books.
O at the Edges 