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My Poetry and Commentary on Life

  • This Writer’s Beginnings: EarlyYears
  • Bread Loaf Influence
  • Rock and Roll High School
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  • A Disappointing Session at the English Teacher Conference

    by

    communication, community, context, despair, education, hubris, Language and Literacy, patterns, poetry, teaching

    I am here

    I am here abuzz on coffee

    I am impatient with the speaker who is reading her power points to us

    I am a reader, as is everyone in this room

    this is an English teacher conference after all

    the power point is structured like an academic research article

    I only know this because once

    I was, or wanted to be, an academic

    I am a teacher

    I understand research and its power

    I want my students to feel this power

    The presenter has stopped reading her power point

    a student of the presenter has stood to witness

    he was successful, he feels transformed

    so he is transformed

    another student stands to witness

    she too was successful-

    and transformed-

    Bless Us Jesus-

    which no one said, but they could have

    or did say without being religious

    or calling on Jesus

    this presentation is a sales job

    not just for the class on research

    but for the presenter’s new book on research—

    your students can feel this way too

    BUY my BOOK

    I’ve had too much coffee

    and leave to find a restroom

    (December 6, 2019)

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  • Simple Enchantments of the Young

    by

    belief, chant, control, identity formation, language, paradigms, poetry, power, process, sonnets

    The cracks proved the power

    of words. Such spells cast

    across the fissures formed

    fears of a painful death.

    Who would be willing to test

    this hypothesis on one so dear?

    Her survival, by correlation,

    confirmed the childish chant.

    She lived. Not writhing on

    the floor, vertebrae shattered,

    just oblivious to your heroic

    leaping, like a hopscotch knight,

    from slab to concrete slab

    to save your one true love.

    (December 5, 2019)

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  • Clarity

    by

    death, inner speech, patterns, poetry, sleepless, traces

    What we wish

    to hear, what

    we wish them

    to be: scolds,

    advisors, absolvers

    of guilt, devour

    us like desire.

    Yet, table thumps

    and tarot cards

    talk only

    with our tongues.

    The dead cannot

    speak except

    through ghosts

    we evoke

    in memory

    late at night

    when we cannot

    sleep again.

    (December 4, 2019)

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  • Doubt

    by

    creativity, doubt, humility, love, poetry, students, teaching

    I do not know

    what it is

    I do,

    nor if what I do

    is possible:

    a girl, in creative writing,

    says she knows

    nothing

    about love. Yet,

    she writes

    a love poem;

    so lovely,

    so simple,

    so honest,

    that I believe

    in possibility’s

    incremental

    transcendence

    in that moment.

    (December 2, 2019)

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  • Poet

    by

    definition, Dickinson, dissatisfaction, frustration, patterns, poetry, sonnets

    I am from a poem

    I have yet to speak;

    words puzzled together

    which will absolve me

    of a last explanation,

    one last precise detail

    to bend my lived framework.

    .

    Useless without function,

    my life is a broken gun

    displayed beneath glass.

    My past wears me

    like skin stretched tight

    across an empty drum.

    (November 30, 2019)

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  • Haunted

    by

    change, happiness, lament, paradigms, patterns, poetry, sonnets

    The ghosts have returned home

    slipping between the day

    to day conversations

    holding our silences

    in locked yellow boxes

    without a trace of air

    .

    I would say I’m happy

    to most circumstances

    with my small discontents

    not sad enough to search

    for bits of joy scattered

    across a field like grain

    weeks after the harvest

    was gleaned by dark sparrows.

    (November 30, 2019)

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  • Sunday Morning

    by

    aging, borders, breach, erasure, identity formation, irony, poetry, sonnets

    In downtown Baltimore

    Years after he died

    Lou Reed sings from the sound system

    Of this corporate hotel lobby.

    This is funnier

    Than it should be.

    I am almost sixty years old,

    Attending an English teacher convention.

    Back in Austin, hours later,

    I casually toss herbs into the mortar,

    And without thought, begin to grind:

    “I don’t want to know…

    All the streets you’ve crossed

    Not so long ago”

    (November 24, 2019)

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  • Preserve

    by

    aging, doubt, poetry

    Like remnant threads

    lifted from the floor,

    I collect shreds of shadows

    from my heart. Then later,

    when the room’s dark,

    and the nights grow long,

    I pack them tightly in a jar

    and place them on a shelf.

    Some nights, I’ll rise from

    sleep into the dark, and sneak

    a slice of one from a jar;

    And in an ecstatic occlusion

    to shroud what I’ve become,

    I dance bodly beneath the moon.

    (November 22, 2019)

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  • Before Sleep

    by

    acceptance, aging, death, poetry

    My commute is long;

    my mind wanders

    lost along the way:

    miles pass,

    and the exit

    is almost here.

    (November 19, 2019)

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  • To Etch the Edge of Darkness

    by

    abstract, ars poetica, fractals, patterns, poetry, ways of knowing

    Our words hold close,

    unhinge, this dream–

    a singular

    translucent dawn.

    Narrative fragments

    float around a room,

    flotsam and jetsam

    without back story,

    without connection

    to a set array

    defining truth, lies

    into difference.

    An organic flux

    tendrils arabesques

    along fractal lines

    until we shatter.

    (November 11, 2019)

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  • Lessen

    by

    acceptance, aging, difference, life, patterns, poetry, reading, sonnets, ways of knowing, words

    I read with difficulty,

    poets I once admired,

    not seeing anymore

    the simplicity I once saw.

    I worry stones smooth

    between my fingers,

    as if patterns emerge

    through a force of will.

    There must be something

    more than what is here.

    Certainties tremble, then

    fall like ash into dust.

    I’ve come to know less

    than I have ever known.

    (November 8, 2019)

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  • I’m Not Looking for a Saint

    by

    god, Language and Literacy, life, meditation, poetry, reading, sonnets

    When I read a poem, the voice

    of another being is enough.

    Someone extant in the world

    who for this moment speaks,

    resonant with each leaf,

    with each burgeoning flower.

    I do not expect epiphany

    to fall from Spring’s mouth

    for that would not be true;

    truth grows in retrospect,

    a mirror to distort the past

    reshaped to an image more divine.

    All gods are just us

    without desire for more.

    (November 7,2019)

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  • Taffy

    by

    lit theory, paradigms, patterns, poetry, sonnets, storytelling

    I tell a story:

    I am a part

    as are you

    being pulled

    apart, each

    part one.

    The horizon’s shadow

    flees before

    I write this line,

    a demarcation–

    this path

    versus another,

    which word

    takes us where?

    (November 5, 2019)

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  • The FrogPrince Without Standing

    by

    alone, chance, change, choice, desire, poetry, relationships, storytelling

    He sat by his pond content

    with the depth of his longing.

    Then one day, she dropped in

    laughing her way into his dream.

    He thought he heard a splash,

    and a glimmer near the bottom.

    She played along the pond’s edge,

    waiting for what he might bring.

    When he returned to the surface,

    the forest was dark and she was gone.

    The castle was so far away—

    and it was just a toy after all.

    He sat by his pond discontented

    with the depth of his longing.

    (November 4, 2019)

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  • continuum

    by

    acceptance, aging, change, cycle, oblivious, poetry, time

    if change will happen it will

    happen now whenever

    it happens so simple

    –

    yet still fear stays

    the turn in the dance

    the conversation the poem

    –

    where change shifts without

    the moment noticed within

    light which drifts through a window

    –

    or rose petals scattered

    across an afternoon floor

    oblivious as a sleeping cat

    (November 1, 2019)

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