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
Category: Writing
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…
Red Delights and the Limits of Ambition
Today has been full of tiny competitions for my attention. At times, I’ve told myself, “no more! If it’s not related to x, y, or z, I’m not going to give it my time.” – x, y, and z being goals like getting some poems published, or figuring out the meaning of life, or building…
The Car, Again: So It Goes
I walked across the strip of grass on the side of the repair shop cursing that I can’t seem to catch a fucking break. Really, this is how 2022 starts? Not more than three or four miles into my morning commute, the car nearly stalled out in the middle of an intersection approaching the highway….
Poetry, Books, and Broccoli
I have a few hundred books. Most of them sit packed away in boxes downstairs in a room I seldom visit. I have a nice bookshelf made from a repurposed door. That’s where the unpacked books stand mostly at attention, snug and shoulder to shoulder: poetry, books on Buddhism or relationships, a few novels and…
I Like That
It’s Sunday morning slow and I like that. Down the street someone is using a leaf blower. On the sofa opposite me, the dog is breathing heavy but not quite snoring. I’m sitting by a lamp, wearing a gray winter hat that was given to me as a gift a few years ago. I’m fighting…
Seeking Mentors, Taking Steps
It feels strange to be approaching 50 (I have a few years yet) and to want a mentor or a teacher or several. It feels like I should be approaching the age of being a mentor, and yet I know so little about so many things. I’m being vague here – though not intentionally so……
New Toy: Golden Shovel
This morning I learned of a new poetic form (well, new to me) called the golden shovel. The rules are simple: take a line of poetry from someone else and make each word the last word of a line in your new poem. If the line has six words, the new poem will have six…
Details Both Blurred and Fine
I’m surrounded by mountains and haven’t hiked very much. This morning I wrote a poem based loosely on the image of the sunset and hues of purple in the sky and in the hilly silhouettes that I often see when I’m driving. For now, I feel more content to be driving through these mountains as…
Looking at a Rubber Band
On the mornings like today and earlier this week when I’ve found a groove with writing and playing with ideas and words, I don’t want to stop. I resent the need to stop, the need to pay attention to the clock, to get a shower and walk the dog and drive to work all to…