Penguin refrigerator, frog stove. Fisher Price merry go round With cranky plastic carnie– How they afforded it All cash then. No plastic. Day 2, July, A River of Stones.
Category: Poetry
Middle of Night
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All those hours, maybe wasted Spent instead –Blackness or blankness– Sorting memory// Organizing me. Day 1, July, A River of Stones.
A Small Stone Late
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I agreed with myself that I would write a small stone for Fiona and Kaspa on their wedding day, which was June 18. What with the whirlwhind of (fill in list of excuses here), the entire weekend disappeared somewhere. I didn’t realize that I’d even forgotten until today, driving, I heard Mary Chapin Carpenter singing “Late For…
The Day, Stripped Down
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If you ask this question, I answer: Wake up, Kiss cheeks, Move sheets up to pillows Move aside blinds. (Daylight must have its way). Eat food. Water from a tap. Frozen bagels scorched In that metal box. Spread plates around the Craigslist table. Brush crumbs from cheeks. Get dressed. Move the hampers to move The…
Becoming Absorbent
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I haven’t been posting as frequently lately. I don’t consider this writer’s block, though I once did. This is because I have been thinking. A Little Story Once I sign up for a pottery class. My friend, Rita, forced me. She berated me until I went. Fine, I said. I am not writing anyway. Might…
How To Write Around It
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Yesterday in class, my student Mike had clearly lost faith. I didn’t know why. But I could see that he was lost. I had asked the entire class to write for a page in response to the question: “Who are you in a group?” followed by “What do you fear about working in groups?” They…
On Home and Horizons
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At least three times since I have been back to visit my parents, I have thought: “It’s nice to be home.” Then I remembered that I haven’t lived here since 20 years, half my life. Home comes when I feel my heart Drop its weight in relief At the sight of flat land running Forever…
My Favorite… Poem
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Want to torture me? Ask me who my favorite AUTHOR is. Or my favorite film. AAHHH! It’s really like asking the old woman who lived in the shoe which is her favorite child. I mean, can she even remember all of them? But I do have a poem that I love and come back to…
A Poem to Those Who Love Me
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Make the day pause, A top all done now the spinning: But not yet toppled. If (for just one day) I am the morning sun, Then You are the luscious hills I peek over; The refracting air dew –In winter, air’s mirror– And that single ecstatic Songbird rambling Her grocery list. And if, At noontime,…
On Not Walking
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Walking is joy. I love walking like I love Ira Glass and peanut butter cups. I am surprised that since I moved back to America from London, that I have given it up. Just basically decided that even though it is one of my favorite things to do in the world, I am not even…
