Tag Archives: writing

To the Lovely Green Beetles Who Carried My Notes into the Afternoon

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To the Lovely Green Beetles Who Carried My Notes into the Afternoon

Such beauty should not be bound,
thus I tied loose knots,

knowing you would slip free
and shed my words

as they were meant,
across browned lawns,

just over the cedar fence
or at the curb’s edge,

never to be assembled,
and better for it.

 

* * *

This appeared in riverSedge Volume 29, Issue 1, released in October 2016, and is included in my chapbook, From Every Moment a Second. I first encountered riverSedge in 1983, and vowed that one day my poetry would be published in this journal. It took a while…

Landscape with Jar

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Landscape with Jar
(after Wallace Stevens)

What vanishes more readily than the breakable
and transparent? Not here, not now, it says,

never voluble in the morning. I have work.
The horizon exists simply in perception.

Try to touch it – the hill meets the sky
only from afar, offering discordance

up close, no measurement possible.
And among the trees and vines, a glimmer

of spite, twisted open. Moving closer, we see
through. We see rocks, a bird. We see air.

 

 

“Landscape with Jar” was first published in Birch Gang Review in July 2017.

 

Flowers

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Flowers

How they share our
desires, shape
our days.

Passion to hope,
fingertips to
lips. Some bud

easily, others
struggle. A little
water, light, a kind

voice. Sometimes so
little achieves
so much. Yesterday’s

sunflower droops on
the sill. Today’s promise
arrives with rain.

 

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Letter to Hamrick from the Century of the Invalidated

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Letter to Hamrick from the Century of the Invalidated

Dear Charlotte: The sun here winces daily, stumbles
across morning before smudging gray like an old slate
scarred with decades of chalk dust and erased messages.
I’m hunting work, and there are days when it feels
as if past experiences have been rubbed out, or maybe
I can’t make myself slog through the powdery white
crusted blend of ennui and discounting youth. Those years
spent chiseling out budgets and manipulating spreadsheets
have wrought zilch. Even the service seeking writing
tutors shot down my application. Seems SAT scores
from the 70s can’t be validated, and how else might they
measure one’s qualifications. But somehow I still exhale air
cleaner and more carefree than any I’ve taken in since
the century rolled over. Funny how that is. The more shade
they throw my way, the stronger I feel. Seated at wobbly
tables by restrooms in near-empty restaurants. Chipped at,
ignored, reviled. Questions answered with curled lip and
haughty tone. Laughing, I relish it all. L* the kitten
just launched herself at the table, scattering across the fake
wood floor mail and bits of poetry which might be
hammered into a collage of shady loan offers, crappy
lines and massage therapy ads, if my talents leaned
in that direction. But scooping out the litter box seems
my crowning achievement lately. I wonder how a creature
so pure and new to the world produces something so
vile, without intent? I have other questions, too, but will
leave them for a subsequent whine-fest, which I’ll scribble
in smoke or invisible ink on another long-shadowed
day. Until then I’ll dream of southern winds and coffee
and beignets under bright skies in a life I should have
lived. If only. Your virtual and faithful friend, B*.

“Letter to Hamrick from the Century of the Invalidated” first appeared in January 2021 in the inaugural issue of Book of Matches.  Thank you, editors Kelli Allen and Nicholas Christian, for taking this piece.

Katharsis

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KATHARSIS

The questions, as always: which rocks to ignore, who will
place them, and how to defy the laws of mathematics.

Note: you will create two separate walls to build one.
You will measure length and depth. You will weigh consequence.

Dig a shallow trench, and set your first two foundation stones
at a slight angle, high points on the outside, low ends meeting

in the middle. Count your failures and multiply them by 100.
Let gravity share the burden, then discard every one. Take

care in selecting your stones. Scorpions lurk in the dark,
underneath. Wear heavy gloves. Use leverage. Seek balance.

Avoid the smooth and rounded, as they too readily relinquish
their footing. Select hard-angled, rough pieces. Accept

faults, and work with them. Stack carefully — the two walls
should lean inward, touching, each bearing the other’s

weight. Work alone, but think to the future, with strength in
mind. Be deliberate. One stone, followed by another. Repeat.

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“Katharsis” was drafted during the August 2015 Tupelo Press 30/30 Project. Many thanks to Plain Jane who sponsored and provided the title.

The Garden

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The Garden

But what of this notion
of the romantic?

It rained last night.
I could smell it

before it fell,
each drop a perfect

sphere until the final
moment. This

is fact, impractical but
lovely for its truth.

 

* * *

Initially posted here in January of 2014, the poem was published many years ago (30?) as a poetry postcard offered by the literary journal Amelia. I admit to being wrong about the shape of raindrops. But hey, they start out spherical…

A History of Particles: Ash, Wood, Shrimp

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A History of Particles: Ash, Wood, Shrimp

Unsettled and predisposed
to flight, they
rise. Or, awaiting the process, receive
the glow as prelude to transformation, a

nocturnal exegesis inscribed in flame
and black swirls. Death in the air,
settling upon us. The bitterest
taste. But how to explain

the tongue’s sweet tremor? And the narrow
margins between the transition

from wood to smoke?
At 250 degrees
their pale shells redden,

become vessels of radiant
heat and its attenuated function,
moisture retained so as

to delay and heighten the
delectable flesh, once freed, become
virtue, become fate

sliding down the throat,
the course of deterioration hastened
and endured in perpetuity.

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This first appeared on the blog in June 2015.

I’ll Turn But Clouds Appear

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I’ll Turn But Clouds Appear

You gather and disperse and nothing I do salves my hunger.
Where are you, if not here among the roots of dead flowers

or inches below the window’s opening
in the leaf-filtered light. Or spread across

the ceiling, caught in filaments of expelled
hope. Savoring motion, I look up and address the Dog Stars,

longing to catch your attention. But clouds muffle
my words, and instead I turn

to the fragrance of tomato and garlic and spice
wafting into the night. What could bring you back?

Not love. Not wine. Not solitude, nor the sound of my voice.
I spoon out the sauce, cautiously, and wait.

 

* * *

“I’ll Turn but Clouds Appear” first appeared in Bindlestiff.

 

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Nightmare Charm

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Nightmare Charm

To awaken     undisturbed

or at all

I unclench my fist
freeing darkness.

How to transcribe the dead’s tune?

They float

within     they      float

within,
fear’s cascading grip      transcending sleep

nightmare

“Nightmare Charm” first appeared here in May 2016.

The Echo is Neither Sound nor Hope

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The Echo is Neither Sound nor Hope

empty trees

a darkened
window

the void
between chairs

unchanged

as if you’d never spoken

 

* * *

This first appeared in April 2015.

 

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