Category: poetry
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Dream Sonnet with Invisible Beats
(if you are a form purist, read slowly and add invisible beats in your head) 4 am foggy, storm chases street light halos, uproots forest. Trees, like celery stalks drift slowly overhead, roots dancing free. Daylight comes, two mockingbirds pirouette among pansies, rise up on porch rail, fanned tail and wings show bands of bright…
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Approximately Dream #3.14159
last night I met with the gods of poetry in a dream they said I could ask them one question I thought for a bit and asked if we had only four fingers on each hand would sonnets be written in iambic tetrameter they shook their heads and replied for that I must ask Shakespeare…
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Pet me
Slow morning a book on a bench in the park friend stops by to record a poem It is good to have friends Last night’s ashes still too warm to throw away maybe, tomorrow Waiting for a phone call If the wind is right I hear semis miles away on interstate a friend walks by…
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Brown trout
(for all my English teachers who accused me of not paying attention in class) It took me six decades to learn what, when and how to read. In grade school, I’d read Field & Stream while releasing brown trout. High school came and I’d take a novel to the john, read until my legs fell…
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#3 reading the poet, Robert Bly
neo-cortex laughs at reptile/mammal cage match Robert’s Buddha brain 10-29-20
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Poem before dying
Lorca wrote of roosters, of eating cemetery grass, of weeping little boys, of snow, of guitars, of murder, of women dropping off to sleep, of a resurrection that will never come, and he makes me weep. I write of barking dogs and feral cats, of trash on asphalt courts, of weeping little boys, of warm…
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Two ways to eat poetry
1) Remove factory slices from plastic bag Be sure to retwist the tie to keep the rest from going stale Every slice the same thickness note uniform color and texture An occasional baked in void or bubble will drip butter on your shirt Enriched and fortified Easy to digest 2) Walk to a bakery Buy…
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The knock
2 am – knock at my window. It was not a raven or ghost of anything past. The wind had shifted and it was only the rain come calling in the night. I told Wallace Stevens to wait, went out and stood on the porch, wondered if my neighbors would be upset, if rain knocked…
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Blue
Neruda and Stevens wrote poems with blue guitars never green or red. Picasso painted a blue guitarist bent, almost broken boney hands on brown guitar. I think I know why they used blue, but I’m not sure. They didn’t explain or ask permission. 10-15-20
My husband's poetry 