The morning sun is a two-bit player in a scene where the clouds, dressed in pauper grays, shuffle across the stage with lowered heads. Except, that’s not really right, and the scene keeps shifting. I tried to write about it…. how many ways might I describe the sun, what verbs could be attached to it?…
Category: Writing
Morning Punctuation
I don’t say this enough, much less think it, but I am thankful for the small moments of splendor and wonder that punctuate my days. Em dashes and ellipses that are more about pauses and parenthetical asides than they are omissions and deletions. The sky this morning has all the makings of a painting… stripped…
Morning, Noon, and Night
Morning: Hunger It’s early. The sky is starting to show the first pinks of light. My view of the horizon is blocked by trees and I’m tempted to run out to a field where I can see all the colors of dawn. I’m hungry – enough so that my stomach feels…. I can’t figure out…
Wasting Their Sweetness (and Resenting It)
Expectations are resentments under construction. -Anne Lamott A few weeks ago, I sent a few poems off to a friend for some feedback. I’m not sure why. In my mind, I feel like I’m at a crossroads of sorts. I don’t really need someone to tell me to keep at it, but I kinda want…
Rafters Revisited
Over twenty-five years ago I had the audacity to start a literary journal. I say audacity because I was a know-nothing undergraduate student who had taken a few writing classes and suddenly thought I was qualified enough to read, judge, and publish other people’s work. The thing is, all I needed to do was hang…
A Bucket Full of Knots
Say you promise to be at your desk in the evenings, from seven to nine. It waits, it watches. If you are reliably there, it begins to show itself – soon it begins to arrive when you do. But if you are only there sometimes and are frequently late or inattentive, it will appear fleetingly,…
The Great, Big World Calls
Tonight felt larger than most. I drove out to a sunset bar – ok, maybe not exactly that poetic, but it was outside and the weather was divine. I sat above a small stretch of lawn lined with tables and Adirondack chairs and a brook with silvering rapids. I read some poetry and wrote. I…
Speak to Me Wild and Precious
Attention without feeling is only a report. -Mary Oliver I wanted more and I didn’t know how to get it. -Joy Harjo I found another new-to-me podcast: On Being. It too, is about how to live a purposeful life. Among the episodes I’ve listened to have been interviews with the poets Mary Oliver, Joy Harjo,…
Slow Walk to the Edge of Admission
Friday Morning
During one of my earlier quiet phases – one of those one- or two-week unintentional hiatuses from writing when I wasn’t sure what the point was or just felt tired and confused
Purpose Like a Ham Sandwich
There’s no way I can get this right. Quite literally, no way. So instead, I get up and water the plants. That’s how I’m beginning a poem of the same title. It won’t go very far – so few of them do. Already, I’ve walked away from the poem like a half-eaten sandwich. From a…
Work, Passion, and the Monkey Mind
If I could choose those things over which I obsess or focus, I’d like them to be things that make me smile… things that bring me joy… things that make me understand better what it means to be human. A counter to that way of thinking is to smile at more things, find joy in…
The Process, or Lack Thereof
A poem is never finished, only abandoned. – Paul Valery Once every year or so, I abandon a few poems in the inboxes of some literary journals. After few months, those journals politely tap me on the shoulder, litter in hand like soiled tissues, “um sir… sir…. I think you dropped these.” I look around…