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My Poetry and Commentary on Life

  • This Writer’s Beginnings: EarlyYears
  • Bread Loaf Influence
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  • “You Must Change Your Life”

    by

    aging, change, clarity, poetry, sleepless, sonnets

    Too many more days to be wished away

    with a casual disregard tonight

    for me to find comfort in their going.


    Too much of a coward to let things go,

    I tuck all my worries in my pockets

    tightly folded like origami crows.


    There are no portents hiding in the stars,

    no mysteries to be defined in blood,

    no plodding footsteps moving down the hall.


    It would be easier to go along,

    to do what is expected at my age,

    but I do not know what that even means.


    I do not know what to do any more;

    so, I turn off the light and go to bed.

    January 26, 2022)

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  • Words Form Word Forms

    by

    abstract, ars poetica, interrelationships, language, poetry, ways of knowing

    Along a fire’s periphery, I speak

    into residual silence where my words 

    are heard beneath darker whispers,

    and all I desire dissolves into effluent 

    chatter like the staccato gossip of gulls

    gliding near the sea’s vague edge.

    As within this morning’s warmth

    nestled in tangled bed sheets draped 

    against our bodies, our words take 

    shape against the shape of each other’s, 

    forming, like smoke, loose patterns

    which trail behind in subvocal trains.

    (January 24, 2022)

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  • Listen

    by

    abstract, attention, communication, difference, poetry, silence, sonnets

    As if it were easy

    to enter silence

    enough to hear

    what’s said:


    my thoughts are mine,

    static oppressions,

    null constants

    like x, or y.


    What’s replaced

    varies with availability:

    her laugh, your

    glazed eye.


    Something’s said

    too quiet to hear.

    (January 17, 2022)

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  • Summer, 1977

    by

    fear, life, memoir, memory, narrative, prose poem, storytelling

    Of course as seventeen year olds, we thought we were being quiet as the five of us grabbed the watermelons from the patch he had in his front yard. Giggling drunk and high, we stumbled over the rows to the panel van, juggling as many of the melons as we were able to carry each trip. Then the house lights blazed through the open windows, the screen door slammed open banging against the house, and he exploded onto the porch raging. We scattered like rats. “What the hell,” he screamed as if an evangelical preacher come Sunday morning condemning all sinners. Not waiting for the expected shot gun blast to rend the air, we leapt without grace over the rows of watermelons, scrambling into the van that idled nearby. Nate hit the gas before we were completely in. The van’s doors flapped open like mouths panting. We all screamed for our lives, as watermelons rolled out the back to thud like dead bodies onto the moonlit summer street.

    (January 15, 2022)

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  • to speak honestly without evasion

    by

    ars poetica, poetry

    stand still

    and breathe out

    through the mouth


    breach the rib cage

    cracking bones like branches

    shattered in winter’s ice


    until the proffered heart

    lies still in the cold bowl

    as if it were not yours


    (January 13, 2022)

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  • My Pro-Con List

    by

    aging, poetry

    I am a good man;

    I am not a good man.


    I drink too much,

    but I feel guilty about it.


    I constantly condemn myself,

    but do little to make amends.


    Remorse is a form of absolution;

    my life is compromised by remorse.


    Overthinking past possibilities,

    I am presently oblivious.


    I want to show people my poetry,

    yet feel childish when I do.


    I vacillate between insecure competence,

    and the lies of incompetence.


    What do people do with their minds

    who do not read or write?


    If I were someone else,

    I’d be bored with who I am.


    (January 7, 2022)

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  • returning to work during a pandemic

    by

    education, life, pandemic, poetry, school existential angst, teaching, travel, worry

    driving to work

    the sun shatters 

    across the fogged windshield 

    blinding me 

    with it’s sharp light 

    I can’t see where I’m going 

    walking into the building

    my mask fogs my glasses 

    the sun blinds me— 

    hammers clang and clang 

    on the black metal gate

     

    I can’t see where I’m going 

    (January 6, 2022)

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  • Tired

    by

    acceptance, aging, borders, change, lament, life, meditation, poetry, sonnets, tired

    I take off my glasses

    and the world softens;

    the edges between me

    and the grey walls blur.


    I find it harder

    to maintain myself,

    to pull free of the flood

    to swim cross-current;


    it’s easier to stop

    resisting, to fade fully

    into the mist, to let

    the water take me away—


    my eyes are tired like stones

    crumbling on the river’s edge.

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  • ikkyu reiteration: one’s own diligence

    by

    abstract, attention, borders, change, clarity, meditation, poetry, translation, ways of knowing, zen

    along the way, so many rules:

    each step precisely follows the last

    as truncheons crack empty heads


    near a garden gate, a cypress grows

    as if it knows; as if it knows

    what cost due diligence is owed


    a word’s sound is not the word:

    a lover’s last repeated cry

    cracks open the infinite sky

    (January 3, 2022)

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  • ikkyu reiterations: enlightenment

    by

    acceptance, breach, change, life, meditation, poetry, rewriting other poems, transition, ways of knowing, zen

    for years anger raged

    through me, then crow laughed

    clearing the dust from the air


    now I see—


    in dappled sunlight

    through the palace halls

    her pale face sings


    (January 2, 2022)

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  • I Have No Fear but Myself

    by

    acceptance, attention, chance, fear, meditation, patience, poetry, process, tanka, trust, ways of knowing

    I toss out a line

    in hopes it will pull something

    from the dark waters.


    A small pebble sinks slowly;

    my poetry plumbs myself.


    (January 1, 2022)

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  • New Year’s Day

    by

    aging, cycle, end, life, patterns, poetry, tanka

    Day breaks once again;

    its unrelenting hunger

    devours us all.


    My end is my beginning;

    my beginning is my end.


    (January 1, 2022)

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  • New Year’s Eve

    by

    aging, borders, cycle, haiku, poetry, tanka

    It’s all too simple—

    to watch the clock strike midnight:

    Dust settles to earth.


    Nothing much ever changes:

    we laugh, and sing, then we don’t.

    (December 31, 2021)

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  • The Strands Unravel Casually to the Floor

    by

    aging, attention, change, difference, life, poetry

    I head out on this path.

    Our dog pulls at her leash

    as if she knew where she was going.


    Each leaf, each patch of grass

    receives her full attention;

    each tuft of her fur vibrates joy.


    In division, the line cuts

    the whole into tidy parts:

    each equal to a degree.


    After returning home,

    I scratch down a line,

    quickly, before I let go.


    I’m often short of breath these days,

    gasping after air like a dying fish.


    (December 30, 2021)

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  • Books 2021

    by

    books, choice, gratitude, identity formation, Language and Literacy, life, literacy, literature, obsessions, poetry reading, reading, thinking, ways of knowing

    2021 books

    I have seen a couple of people post what they read this year. So, being the follower that I am, I decided to post my list. I read constantly, some books I have been reading for years, and have never finished, but am still reading off and on. Some books I stop reading for various reasons: I lose interest, I lose the book in the house somewhere, the book gets shelved, I get bored, I know where it is going, the writing is just too pathetic to continue. Here is the list of books I finished (from beginning to end) this year. I stress finished, because this is not a complete list of what I have been reading. The pictures are current book piles around the house I am reading from.

    Fantasyland—Kurt Anderson

    Bestiary—Guillaume Apollinaire

    Educated—Tara Westover

    The Historians (twice)—Eavan Boland 

    Poetry as Insurgent Art— Ferlinghetti 

    Interior Chinatown by Charles Yu

    At the Existentialist Cafe—-Sarah Blakewell

    An Indigenous People’s’ History of the United States by Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz

    Under the Dome: walks with Paul Celan by Jean Daive

    Norma Jean Baker of Troy by Anne Carson 

    The selected poems of Wendell Berry

    Living Nations, Living Words edited and selected by Joy Harjo

    An Unnecessary Woman—Rabid alameddine

    Selected Poems of Guiseppe Ungaretti

    Jimmy’s Blues by James Baldwin (selected poems)

    How to be Antiracist by Ibram X. Kendi

    Stone Lyre, poems by Rene Char

    An Oresteia (Aiskhylos, Sophocles, Euripides) translated by Anne Carson

    Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror by John Ashbery

    Waiting for the Barbarians by J.M. Coetzee

    Sing Unburied Sing by Jesmyn Ward

    First Person Singular by Haruki Murakami

    The Buried Giant by Kazuo Ishiguro

    Finna by Nate Marshall (twice)

    Debths by Susan Howe 

    Dark City by Charles Bernstein 

    The Essential Jim Harrison, by Jim Harrison

    Four Hundred Souls by Ibram X Kendi and Keisha N Blain 

    The Big Seven by Jim Harrison

    Goldenrod by Maggie Smith

    Life on Mars by Tracy K. Smith

    Glottal Stop by Paul Celan

    Asylum by Jill Bialosky

    The Pill Versus the Springhill Mine Disaster by Richard Brautigan

    After Ikkyu by Jim Harrison

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