~You hear
yourselves in them
self after self
     ...
when I leave, I leave
alone, as I came.
—Denise Levertov, "Poet and Person", Gift of Tongues

Poems and people
started January 30th, 2021

Each morning I arrive
into this world anew
with a sigh and a memory
of day before day
self before self
that has tried to take up
permanent residence in this body
each one feeling right
until one morning it isn't.

This is my record of
poems and people
page after page after page.

At the end of the day
each one perches
on the edge of the night
to fly away alone into the dark.

I sleep and wait
to see who will arrive
with the morning.

~Enter now,
O bird on the green branch of the dying tree, singing
Sing me toward home;
Toward the deep past and inalienable loss:
Toward the gone stranger carrying my name
In the possible future
—Thomas McGrath, "Part One", Letter to an Imaginary Friend

Snowing up north
Started February 2nd, 2021

They say it is snowing up north
And I am back walking
over the roads I grew up on
the crunch of the snow
sings me home

past the fields
waiting spring planting
fence lines stretching off into the horizon

across the front yard
always needing mowing
now winter gives reprieve

up the front steps
mother's petunias growing riotously
ghosts from summers past

my fingers brush the doorbell
cats never learned to ring
now forever silent

I open the front door
and go into my memories
stepping on the black slate entryway

I wonder if his coat
is already in the closet or if
everyone is waiting for him to get home

in the kitchen
the table is set
the hot tea ready

maybe this is the time
everything will be properly arranged
each talisman in the proper place

so the ghosts who live here
will finally have
the longed for peaceful night

all of us keeping company
in these memories
that sing us home.

With each poem
written February 4th, 2021

I write
the same poem
again and again.

There are
slightly different words
but it is always

the entirety of my life
that I write
with each poem.

perhaps we are really
only jagged landscapes
mired in pain
disclosing our truths
inside the caverns
of written words

My words are few

they dwell in parsimony

but my heart is true

would you but accept me?



Silent is my love--its very beauty

I would blemish --it won't do-

to describe even in sweetest poetry

here I am, blessed, prayerful.

I am
theatre bred
I am
poet born
I will not tread lightly
I will blow my horn
I will make practice
of practice
Till every act is
that of mastery
I will steal history
for so long
that it will linger upon
me. For centuries

Weft and warp
started January 22nd, 2021

The cloth is woven
weft and warp
twigs and twine
bits and pieces
gaps and flaws
make the fabric
of my life.

I try to worry out
the threads that I know
aren't right
the flaws that threaten collapse
yet have become
integral parts
of the weft and warp
that is me.

I smooth this cloth
with my worn hands
then fold it up
and put it away
to work on
another day.