Poem: From Where does Poetic Inspiration Come?

From Where does Poetic Inspiration Come?

So here I sit feeling scholarly

While reading the poems of Coleridge

Thinking they’ll inspire me to write

Something worth your while to read

But his inspiration is so removed

From my life and thus, probably, yours.

How much do I know about an albatross

When I live in a land locked town?

And a medieval tale of Christabel

Who feels abandoned by her father

As he cares for the daughter of his friend

Who was apparently raped by ruffians?

The romance of these tales 

Is so removed from my life here

That inspiration to write

Seems little by you to be desired,

Yet here I sit and with my pen

Writing of nothing but how all

Seems dull and old, yet day

Has itself renewed while water

And dust remain the same.

Somehow the combinations of all

Seem to inspire, perhaps divinely,

The renewal of each new day

So that none is ever the same

Though seasons come and go

In their own plain way

And Coleridge seemed to speak

Of renewal on the sea

And nature supernaturally reviving

Even while poor old Christabel

Seems to have grown tired of Geraldine

And I probably did too

So poor old Samuel can’t inspire

If I grow old and lack desire

To find the renewal in new day.

No doubt, it’s true, I have to see

In each day what’s new

And not beleaguer STC

With needing me to inspire.

How can he, if it’s not my desire

to pull the poetry from his grave

Telling tales of days gone away

When my day is born anew?

And yet, it is true

That I love that old guy

And his friend, Wordsworth, too

Because, in fact, they really do

Inspire me to write

Every day, even if it’s dull.

That this is dull is more my lack

Of remembering some deep emotion

From my life while I sit and write

And read their poems. I have to seek

The things in my life that mean 

So much, or at least they did.

It’s of those things I should write

Because that’s what Wordsworth said…

March 2023

About This Poem

This one is about how many times I taught a poem or author and had an outcry of boredom. Kids aren't alone in that. I read a lot of poetry that doesn't strike my fancy, or I just don't get it. And because of that I move on. Life is to short for bad books and bad poetry. The same goes for writing poetry. Sometimes you just can't do it because there is nothing you feel inspired to wax poetic about. I stand by Wordsworth's comment that poetry is intense emotion recollected in solitude. That probably explains why kids don't get into it as much. Granted, most of their emotions are intense because it's the first time they've had them. But emotions are very singular for an individual and getting that intensity across to others effectively is not easy. As you age more poems make sense. That doesn't make them good, but at least you get them. That's what I'm trying to get at in this poem. 

The picture is of an albatross in Hawaii because "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" by Coleridge has an albatross central to its storyline. And it also answers the question I posed in the poem about how much I know about the albatross. (Now I know a bit, but nothing when I first read the poem some 40-50 years ago.)
 

Poem: Rancho Mirage, California

Rancho Mirage, California

Not exactly Palm Springs, but almost.

I sit at this little table outside

On a balcony overlooking a fountain,

An occasional fly buzzes about 

Me as the heat of the afternoon now

Begins to settle into the spring of

The Mojave Desert. We’ve come here to leave

The northern cold of home for a little

While since winter was brutal this year.

It’s good to be able to do that now

As I begin to grow old and don’t have

To work anymore. There is a strangeness

To it, this retirement. I could still 

Work but I don’t have to and I guess I

Don’t really want to. Seeing places I’ve

Never been to, taking runs far away

From home then returning to familiar

Can bring a sense of accomplishment and

A feeling of getting old while knowing

There won’t be much left of me for my kids

Just as I know there’s not much time left of 

My parents. It seems like I have to see

All I can before there’s nothing left of 

Me. And that, you see, can be a little

Bit of melancholia that we all have.

Some of us are plagued by it just a bit

More even while we experience joy

Beside fountained ponds in the afternoon

Settling heat of the Mojave ‘neath

Palm trees under blue skies near snow capped hills.

April 2023

About This Poem

This is just a reflection I felt (and sometimes feel) as a retired person. I was vacationing in the Coachella Valley of California with my wife's brother and his wife. We had a great time, but the sense of being in waiting for the grave sometimes just hits. This poem is about that. The picture is from exactly where I describe in the poem, minus the fountain.
 

Poem: Purloining Power

Purloining Power

Oh, I know what you say: a great honor

It is to be elected legislator,

You get to write laws that we must foller

As we country bumpkins dwell in the holler.

Doesn’t it say in the constitution

An educated electorate is

Necessary for the good of common

Welfare in a democracy? It is.

Yet here you go writing laws to destroy

Schools and prevent in every way their

Ability to levy taxes, your ploy

To derail schools so we are unaware

That you have stolen the power from us

Who, as the people, need to be kept from

The darkness of an autocracy, plus

You say the Blaine Amendment is just some

Old fashioned way to keep God out of government

Because we must follow His ways as it

Says in the Bible. But wait, that’s a blunt

Way of forcing your beliefs down our throats.

The serpent was never as deceitful

As you, gently legislating away

Our democracy because it is well

Known you are honorable, as you say.

Forgive me if I don’t go out of my way

To kiss your hand that would slap the power

Out of my educated head, that way

You can have honor purloining power.

March 2023

About This Poem

I have had a negative feeling about the Idaho legislature's need to control local education and make demands while underfunding for years. This poem is my frustration about that. It seems that it's only getting worse. And I seriously do believe that many of the people in power are corrupt and want the populace to be uneducated so they are easier to control. Look at the American desire to believe the craziest of conspiracies! Just gets worse as we go. The photo is of the Senate Chambers in Boise.

 

Poem: The Universe Converges at Dinner

The Universe Converges at Dinner

Around the dinner table the universe

Converges—gathers?—collects? Perhaps is?

The future sits down as past dishes out

Nourishment and the eternity of 

Generations finitely gathered to 

Celebrate infinity that brought them

Here to commune of things that do matter—

Never mind the fluff, the posturing of

Class or caste or whatever you call it—

Because each member gathered here can tell

Of things infinitely important like sense:

Smell, sight, touch, sound, and taste (for here we dine).

Of these we must not deny each other

While inexpressibly giving all our

Thanks for our communion through the senses

Of existence, that is something difficult—

That is inexpressibly beautiful

In its pain and pleasure because it is.

In our communion is our sustenance

Lead by recognition that it gives life

For which we must be eternally grateful.

It is here that we feast upon that known—

That divine power that has given us 

Existence that without we would be naught.

Bring here your burdens and all of your joys

For here you can be everything you 

Were meant to be, forgiven wholly now

For missing that point that you are forever

And you were meant to be nourished with His

Bread and wine, his body and blood always.

March 2023

 

About This Poem

This poem is clearly about communion in a Christian sense, but not necessarily in church. I feel like anywhere we dine together we are the two or three gathered in His name and that makes Him part of the dinner. Eating together is communion whether you are Christian or not. That's what this poem is about. I just happen to be a Christian so that's my approach. It also occurred to me that I could write an entirely different poem, or even a comical short story based upon this poem having next to nothing to do with communion in a spiritual sense. Maybe I'll do that... And the picture is of the dining room in the House of Seven Gables in Salem, Massachusetts. That could lend a bit of witchcraft to the communion, but I really am a muggle in spite of my name. But it is a nice dining room situation....

 

Poem: To Watch the Sunset

To Watch the Sunset

To watch the sunset

in a different part of the world

for the first time

is to see new colors,

shapes unknown before,

feelings new within your being,

youth renewed.

Step away from your own life

for awhile,

feel the intensity of living

and shake off the January frost

of routine becoming monotony.

A sunset on a prairie lake in Minnesota,

a change of the guard in Ottawa,

a little house on the South Dakota prairie,

an A frame in the Green Mountains of Vermont,

nestled in a deciduous forest

far removed from the Samaritan Mountains

of the desert of southern Idaho

and then to return and breathe 

the dry mountain sage as if

it were the first time.

January 2006

About This Poem:

I haven't posted on here this month, National Poetry Month, because I've been away in Hawaii being a beach bum. This poem, while not mentioning Hawaii or Kauai (where I was), touches on the importance of travel to me. So I wanted to share it here after my travels. The photo, while not a particularly beautiful sunset (though later it was) was from Poipu Beach where we were watching the return of the parakeets that roost in the palms there. So I hope this poem inspires you to take a trip, no matter how far or near.

 

Poem: Snow Fairies

Snow Fairies

In the silent hour of winter

Just before the black of night

When the last pinks and blues 

Have recovered themselves and 

Scuttled away from your sight,

Mothers and fathers have come home from work

And school children have brought home their studies.

The lamps have been lighted, the fires burn bright

Then snow fairies come out to play in delight.

November 2000

About This Poem

It's April Fool's Day, so I thought (since it has snowed both yesterday and today at times) that I should share a snow poem. I found this one in my journal and noticed a childlike sense of audience in it, probably because my boys were little when I wrote it. I like childlike poems and snow. So, since we're all tired of it, one last snow for the season. April Fools! 

The picture is, obviously, of snowflakes on my deck. The glitter of a true snow fairy is seemingly not photographable (like unicorns and other seemingly [but perhaps not] mythical beings) but snowflakes in all their intricate design are.

 

Poem: In Tandem

In Tandem

You mentioned having seen a Bald

Eagle yesterday coming home

From Spokane—or was it two? Yes,

One flying, you said, the other 

Guarding its prey. Then this morn

I read a poem “To a Lady”

All about falconry, those birds 

Of prey. He was on distant seas

Writing to his love what he thought

Were his last words and I don’t see

Falconry anywhere in it

Except those aboard the ship when

It was about to wreck, hence he

Thought he would die. I don’t even 

Know if he was Coleridge or

Fictional, though I know Sam died,

Not in a shipwreck, but perhaps, he

Knew ship of such named Falconry?

So my thoughts spin twixt you and me

And birds of prey and ships on sea

And poets long since died away

Except in their verse that lingers 

Still on page, in thought and memory.

I know these are not my last words

But, at times, it seems, we’re tossed

Upon a raging sea and there

Together we see two eagles

Wild and free together catching

Updrafts in the wind and floating

Sometimes in tandem and sometimes apart

Yet always together. That’s how 

We are.

January 2024

About This Poem

This poem is basically about how people grow together as they age in marriage. And, yes, it's about seeing Bald Eagles in the wild, which is fascinating to me because it is no longer rare. Growing up you just didn't see Bald Eagles. Now, perhaps, they will continue in tandem with us as something normal, not rare. Strange things like eagles, people--dead and living, land and water, have a way of intertwining here and it is something, like marriage, to celebrate. I don't know where I took this picture. It's just in my camera roll.
 

Poem: Faith or Control?

 Faith or Control?

One sometimes questions their own faith

(Which they should): Is there really a god?

Will snow ever cover the ground

This year? While memory dictates

The snow will return, it still

Questions the intervention of divinity.

One cannot prove events were not chance

Anymore than one can prove they were not.

But certainty dictates that one must be so

It’s quite contradictory to say one does know.

Yet men and women continue to teach

Children that all is true, though out of reach

Of mere man, but these precepts are how

God says we should live as written

In books they can’t even read

And the circuitous route to belief in God

Can often come off as some kind of fraud.

Can we assume belief is inherent 

When existence of God is not all apparent?

The truth is it’s faith, not certain,

Just as written precepts are hid by curtain

And someone certainly controls the show

That’s not of any god that we might know.

January 2024

About This Poem

I wrote this a little over a year ago and I don't really think it's ready for release, but here it is anyway. I have been questioning the role of religion in the government lately and how there is a growing trend among politicians here toward Christian Nationalism. It's in direct contrast with our constitution which they swore to defend, but until we vote them out we are stuck with it. As a Christian, I don't believe there can be "Christian Nationalism" for the reasons I describe in the poem. So while the poem is in its infant draft form, the ideas are relevant for now. And the picture is out my window this morning answering the question that yes, snow will cover the ground this year on March 17!

Poem: Made to Rage by Me

Made to Rage by Me

The night settled slowly

And I tossed and turned

Because you were not there.

Anger invaded my sleep and

I tossed and turned thinking

Of cruel things you had said 

To me.

    Gradually anger subsided

To drowsy dreams of lakes and waters

That always come to me in turmoil

And make me calm. Those waters

That always come to me in turmoil

And make me calm. Those waters

Drowned me in their care

And I slumbered until you came

To bed. Then again, I lay awake

Thinking you had been drinking,

Being still, perhaps angry with me.

But waters came quickly flooding in

And, again, I drifted off to sleep

While light snow gently fell outside.

When morning came I was awakened

By a phone call confirming an appointment

When I’d finished with the call

You told me you had been up 

Texting your dear friend

Who had lost her father

Sometime around midnight.

These little things come crashing in

Like violent storms within my mind, 

Yet typically they are made to rage

Not by reality, but by me.

January 2024

About This Poem

This is a poem about being angry at my wife for no reason, except my preconceived notions of what she is thinking which are too often wrong. But, as any married person knows, sometimes we do know what our spouse is thinking. And sometimes that makes us mad. But sometimes we are just wrong. After being married for several years you can learn a little bit about not only your spouse, but also yourself. That's what this poem is about, what I have learned about myself. And, of course, thinking about large bodies of water is my self soother which is why that's in this poem. The picture is the lake where Cooperstown, New York is.
 

Poem: Human Trinity?

Human Trinity?

Eternal Shadow of the finite soul

The soul’s self symbol

it’s image of itself,

It’s own yet not itself—

ST Coleridge

The body, mind, and soul are the makings

Of a human. Body is temporal

Made up of ash and dust while the mind is

That which melds body to soul and saves all

That it learns from the body transferring 

It to the soul, the eternal finite

Part of the human. I don’t know if this 

Is how a philosopher would define

The parts of a human or if any 

Theologians would agree but it is

How I have somehow learned it, the triune

Nature of man created by our God

In his image: triune. I defer it to 

Philosophers and Theologians

Yet claim, as a poet, to be both those

And present my findings to pages prose

Filled with the magic of imagery

To dispel it to you from merely pages

That come from my all too human hands of

Corruption that are anything but divine

For your all too human mind to believe

Or discard as you will the musings of 

Man eternal or merely temporal…

December 2023

About This Poem

I think poets typically consider themselves philosophers and theologians and I'm no different. This poem is my take on being created in the image of God as it says in Genesis. And it simply poses a question, not an answer. What do you think? The photo is of three men simply because I mentioned trinity. This is me and a friend and his son, a former student and runner of mine.

 

Poem: Desire to Be

Desire to Be

In daylight the mountainous shore

Rises off the sun dappled waves

And happiness buoys me up

On the surface of unspeakable

Joy that escapes contemplation

Living in the moment of now

That slowly effervesces to

Night where moonlight reflects its thoughts

From the depths of this joyous lake.

We take to the shore, a sandy

Beach, collecting driftwood and cones

For a fire that will sparkle 

In unison and contrast with

Moonlight, keeping us warm while waves 

Lap us to restful reverie.

Morning light comes damp and still through

Clouds and water dogs clinging to

Crags where bits of last winter cling.

Now we’re groggy and damp, holding

To embers’ last warmth, me looking

For more wood while you scramble for

Coffee so we can enjoy this 

Moody moment in the after—

Glow of yesterday’s joyous sun

Now misted over and lurking

Like a sea monster waiting to 

Burst through glass and consume our joy

Into its belly of bluster

That doesn’t concern itself with 

Moods of joy or sorrow or mist

But the simple desire to be.

September 2023

About This Poem

I always find myself going to nature to judge my own mood. This poem is a good example of that. I use the larger lake and corresponding weather to compare to my own being and desires. In the end, I really just want to be. Even the clouds and rain are beautiful on the lake. That's the same with life, even if we don't recognize it at the time. The picture has a lake with some sun and clouds, so it matches the poem well. It's a lake in Glacier National Park, Montana. It has been several years since I took it (about 25).

 

Poem: Thoughts on Coleridge

 

Thoughts on Coleridge

To read lines in a notebook from 

A man depressed, one who became 

Addicted to opioids for

Pain from illness, bereft his friends

And family due to that

Addiction; a man who wanted

To die—to read that is painful.

Who hasn’t, whether real or feigned,

Felt so alone that would wish

To be dead? This man I speak of 

Has gained immortal fame from his

Friendships and his poetry, one

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

But another poet of e’en greater

Fame for dramas has written in

His character that one knows not

What comes in death, hence we live still

In cowardice. This poet was 

Shakespeare, his character Hamlet

Speaking in that ever famous 

To be or not soliloquy.

I cling to the words of Hamlet

While empathy for Coleridge

Flows from my pen. But yet I will

Ever seek joy and pray that I

Though bounded in a nutshell find

Myself king of infinite space

Living in endless joy where my 

Cup runneth over and I no

More like Jacob wrestle with God

But live in peace with creator

Mine and friend for eternity.

December 2023

About This Poem

I found this in my journal and typed it up. It isn't the greatest poem, but it shows how authors have influenced me, authors such as Shakespeare and Coleridge and the Bible. I also connect to these old authors and I wonder what I have to leave to the world, sometimes feeling depressed as if I have nothing. I think the reality is that I don't know just what I will leave that people see as important, but I know that my children are important and they will leave their own marks on the world. So I have done my part however small. The picture is Rydal Mount in the Lake District of England. It is where William Wordsworth lived and Coleridge often visited him there. Wordsworth was the friend who kind of wrote Coleridge off.

Poem: Darkness Falls Suddenly

Darkness Falls Suddenly

Darkness falls suddenly

At this time of year

And we all cling to lights

As brief as falling stars

In the December meteor showers

That we seldom see

Because of winter’s clouds

And their frozen meteor showers.

Little twinkling lights

We scatter electrically

Upon trees, in windows

On the sides of our houses

Hoping to dispel some of it—

Darkness, gloomy and cold.

And in a few days 

It begins to gently break.

Each day gets imperceptibly

Longer and snow covers all

Reflecting all those little 

Twinkling lights,

Making the dark of night

Seem not so dark

As all the little lights 

Spread their brightness

Into the dawn

Of a new year.

They may not bring it back

In and of themselves,

Nor do we by placing them

But they remind us 

That darkness is fleeting

As lights continue to twinkle.

December 2023

About this Poem

I just typed this up today and it seems appropriate for now when here it is hovering around zero and the snow of winter finally made a showing. Obviously it's about Christmas lights because I wrote it in December a year ago, but it's still appropriate for winter, the darkness, and the lights that we still display even if we've put away our Christmas decor. And that Christmas decor is what the picture is as well. Keep the light in mind and stay warm.  BP

 

Poem: Friendship Circles About

 

Friendship Circles About

I went a walking o’er the hills

With my good friend

And we noticed in the air

Still after Hillary’s rain

The smoke hung heavy everywhere.

Two days of rain should 

Put out fires but the path

Was narrow and circling about

Like the remains of a hurricane

So that the smoke from fires

Now put out were flamed by winds

So fires still raged within the eye

Much like the presence

Of an evil over the people

That makes them ignore all

The commands, forcing others 

To meet their demands

That have nothing to do 

With the deeds they reprimand.

This is the path of ethics

these days—to circle around

Bringing flames to burn it down

In spite of the raging rains.

The ethics of humans

Are really quite strange

But, thankfully still, as we walk

The joy of being human

Still remains—

Or so it seems 

With this, my rambling friend.

So, friendship too, like a hurricane

Just might circle about.

August 2023

About This Poem

The remnants of hurricanes don't hit Idaho very often but in 2023 during fire season we got the last of Hurricane Hillary. I don't think I'd seen anything of a hurricane since I was a little kid in the south. This one rained like crazy and cleared the air for awhile, then the smoke came back while it was still cloudy and moist. Eventually the air cleared and the fires were dampened, if not completely put out. My friend and I went out walking on that damp, smoky day and it inspired me to write this poem and the hope friendship brings to our lives.

Poem: Sin's Story in the Leaves

 

Sin’s Story in the Leaves

Leaves in the rain fall from the tree

Paginated all over my lawn

Covering it like those first leaves

Covered Adam and Eve.

I collect them like the treasures

They are, bibliophile that I am,

And pile them in heaps

Upon my garden space

Where I will till every word

They evoke into the soil

So that in spring they will

Grow more words of joy

And sorrow in the fruits of harvest.

And the nakedness of my sinful

Lawn? It will be covered again

All too soon, not with the pages

Of the trees but the shroud 

Of the grave. And I will open

The book and recite the prayers

That are written there hiding

Like those Edenic leaves.

The nakedness of our shame

And humanity that is so cruelly

Collected in libraries guiding

Us to the original sin that we

Always forget even as we hold 

The book, copies upon copies

That tell us, yet we see it only

As a ruse, not a daintily sewn

Leaf paginating the daily reality

Of our lives to be raked up

In the autumn leaves.

November 2023

About This Poem

I like this poem in light of all the book banning that's going on these days in libraries across the country. In fact, that's what inspired it. I get tired of legislation that controls what others can see, in this case minors but in reality everyone. Of course you can't really ban anything because it is within our very selves. That's what this poem is about. I like the old way pages were called leaves, so I went with that in my metaphor for this poem. The picture is really a shot from my lawn. I realize this isn't the time of year for autumn poems, but it is the time of year that the legislature is in session in Idaho so the poem is absolutely relevant to January. 

Poem: The Eventual End

The Eventual End

I took a video while I was running

In the woods. It’s best without sound

Because if you listen it’s almost—well,

Terrifying. It’s as if whoever

Is running to escape something—

As if their life must depend on it.

Swishing grass, heavy footfalls,

Frantic breathing. You just forget to

Look at the sun setting through all the trees

And the crimson of the sky, beautiful

In it’s closing of the day. 

                                          But, if you

Turn off the sound it’s a steady stream of

Sunset in the forest, a smooth walk to

A relaxing evening sunset now,

Calm and beautiful, the ending silent.

With sound, it’s a terrifying jaunt

Ending in such uncertainty, even

When you know it was a terrifying

Death, blood spattered through the trees, 

Even skies mimicking his bloody death.

I watch it and I forget that it was

Me on one of my favorite calm runs

Where the visual is all that matters.

Not the terrifying sounds of murder.

I didn’t take the video to be 

A horror story, symbolizing cruel death

At the end of day, but a view of what

I saw—I see—when I run in evening.

I can’t decide if it’s a lesson in

Perspective for the viewer or lesson

For me in how to approach living and

The eventual end.

September 2023

About This Poem

This poem is about a video I took while running. That part is self-explanatory, but what it made me think of when I watched it was both humorous and sobering. That's what I tried to capture here in the poem. Of course, when I run I don't think about the fact that I can hear my own heavy breathing or quickened heartbeat but in the video it was all there as the brush was pushed aside. It seemed terrifying, so I wanted to capture in a poem that contrast and then it made me think more about the whole life death thing. The photo is one I took in the same place I took the video, but I can't find the video. Probably deleted it. 

 

Poem: Notes of Naught

 Notes of Naught

Within this notebook seemingly bare I

Find little notes randomly written here

And there. Somewhere past I took notes about 

Students and groupings and things I would teach.

Some of the handwriting is mine, I know,

But other scribblings to me now unknown.

Students’ names, I still remember them all,

Skip down the page every other line

Like a stone skipping across the smooth pond

Of my memories—those that are intact—

And I wonder why I have groups of kids

Listed as genius and idiot?

I was never inclined to be cruel

Or to pick favorites, let alone write

Such hidden thoughts in notes for all to see.

What, you suppose, was the matter with me?

Was I taken in such a fit of rage

As to record an emotion of mine

To later be seen by someone or

Was I grouping upon selections I 

Had pre-determined based upon my Muse,

Or the whim of one of my students near?

And that other handwriting with seven

Boys at the top and an extra line in

Between with four girls down at the bottom?

And then in groupings the idiots all

Boys and the genius groups two with mostly

Girls but one boy? How must that boy have felt

Separated from his mates, made genius

On his own or by his grouping with girls?

I suppose I read far too much into

Notes of naught from a teacher’s hand years past.

October 2023

About This Poem

I sometimes run across things from teaching that strike me as odd. This is an example in poetic form about an old notebook. I can't imagine why I would ever classify students as genius and idiot and I suppose there was something more behind it than some cruel labeling because that is not how I ever felt, even about the most brilliant or most misbehaved students. I played psychologist and always tried to figure out why kids behaved the way they did, sometimes (not very often) taking blame upon myself. It's odd that I taught for 35 years and find so little photographic evidence of my profession except in classroom displays. The photo is a rare example in my later years. I did have video evidence for my National Board Certification, but that has long since been trashed. During COVID there are plenty of pedantic videos I made, but they were mostly me reading something, not actually teaching. 

Poem: Who is This Him, Anyway?

 Who is This Him, Anyway?

This modern age seems to question 

Our very language plaguing us

With darkness and misunderstanding

Suggesting it’s a culture war,

But can the artist formerly 

Known as Prince stop the Tweets

Of a president who trumped 

Us all with his election deceit?

Can X save us from

Happy Holidays of Starbucks’

Black coffee that makes us woke

To the posts of the singular They

Who demands to be one

Of which no one can determine?

If we change the language 

While we sleep, will we awake

Without culture? And why,

Pray tell, in this day would any

Woman want to be anything 

But They so that their body

Is their own, not the object 

Of the Him? Who is this Him

Anyway?

August 2023

About This Poem

I wrote this a little over a year ago and it could use some tweaking, but you can see the politics of our time in it, the looming presence of "culture" wars, politics, and the corporate world. Most of it is fodder for the press and doesn't have great impact on our daily lives, unless you watch the news or read it. Then your blood pressure goes up. So I like to just play with it so that my blood pressure drops.

Poem: Just Water a Bit and Let Me Be

Just Water a Bit and Let Me Be

Each day the morning arrives a little

Later, a little cooler. The leaves are

Just a little off color, not much—

Edges of trees lose their green to tints of

Yellows, reds, oranges, and even some brown.

I find myself sweeping them off the steps

And patio every time I go

Out the door. Flower pots still

Need water and I oblige them but one

Morning I know they will be blackened

And I’ll be pulling them up and storing

Pots for spring somewhere in the mess from

Summer—hoses, pots, fertilizers, tools

That do me no good in drifts of snow.

I feel a little like those flowers these days

With all the doctor’s visits for my blood,

My heart, injections in my fading eyes.

They seem to be pruning me, a squeezing 

Out just a few more blossoms, knowing it

Won’t be long before the impending frost

Beckons to me, blackens me to where I 

Bloom no more. 

                           But just because I have less

Time, I know that my green’s fading and

I don’t have any problems letting my 

Colors show—oranges tinged with aches, yellows

Curling at the edges of my moods and

Sometimes bright red outbursts that drive the greens

Away. But they’re just tinges now, nothing 

Much to show I’m anything less than green

In my prime having plenty of summer

Left and plenty of flowers to spare you.

So, just water a bit and let me be.

September 2023

About This Poem

This poem is entirely about myself. I used the early autumn as backdrop to the reality of my aging. I love gardening and, like the plants in my gardening, I need a little tending. But, also like the plants in my garden, I'm not going to last forever and I feel it more now than I ever have before. The photo is of me sitting on a platform from an old building while waiting for the cross country race to begin. I no longer coach, but I volunteer. The monochrome is because I was just fiddling with my phone camera.

 

 

Poem: The Thirst For Poetry

The Thirst for Poetry

At times I have immersed myself in poetry

As if I were diving into a lake

Fully cognizant of my existence

In the pools of beauty

But unconcerned about anything

Except the waters of soothing calm.

Each day I try to capture a drop 

Of that lake—to just take a sweet taste—

And let the romance overtake me.

For the most part these days

It’s just a glimpse into a droplet

Of a much larger body so fluid,

Not stiff and clumsy like my aging body.

Sometimes the reality of my day to day

Eclipses that great body of water

So that I hardly see the Frosts,

The Cummings, the Hughes, the Plaths,

The me that longs to drink forever 

From the lake—no, sea—of poetry

So that I’m left with the musty scent

Of used books and the scribblings

Of troubled minds, adventurous minds,

Just human minds moldering

In a dried out bed shrunken to cracked mud

Empty of metaphor, meaning, even the lists

Of a Whitman singing America.

But even Homer’s unfaithful Odysseus

Adventured across the seas

Only to find, after all those years,

His ever faithful Penelope.

So I will continue to pray for rain

To use again in a poetic refrain.

September 2023

About This Poem

I honestly don't remember what caused me to write this poem, except the fact that I feel like I never get enough poetry. I love it and, in spite of feeling I don't get enough, read and write it every day. But there is just so much. And maybe I'm just being like Odysseus, adrift on the sea looking to find my faithfulness in a single poem? I don't know.