Sunday, June 03, 2018

She walks away

The quiet mother laps the neighborhood
(where she is new to both)
with her subtle ssh-ing shadowing her.

She's trying to keep the baby sleeping,
so when I loudly wish her a good morning,
she quickens her pace,
a faint smile: polite and painted
and walks away.

Sunday, April 01, 2018

#NaPoWriMo #UndiscoveredPoetry

One year ago, I challenged myself to write and post 31 poems: one for every day in March.  My goal was to self-publish these poems into a book of poetry by April 2017.  I posted one poem each day to this blog in hopes of getting my work out of my head and my journal and into the hands of anonymous readers.  I didn't receive a lot of comments, feedback, or criticism, but I did write and post every single day.  I did not publish a book of poetry, but I did accomplish an unwritten goal.  I kickstarted my writing practice, forcing myself to write every day.  One year later, my writing practice is stronger.  Yes, I have dry periods where I don't write, but for the most part, I journal every day and try to write as many poems as I possibly can.

So, one year later, where does that leave me for NaPoWriMo?  I think in a pretty good spot!  If you are a regular reader of Undiscovered Poetry then you have noticed that since then, I have continued to post periodically throughout the year.  Most of my poems are rough and I periodically take them down to either edit, revise, start completely over, or recently to submit a few to some literary journals.  For the month of April, I plan to write one poem each day, however, I don't plan to post them each day.  Instead, I will keep them in my journal so that I can rework them and revise them and get them ready for public consumption.  Don't distress!  I will continue to post; it just won't be every day. 

For a daily dose of what I am reading, writing, or working on, check out my Twitter profile:  I may even turn some of those random tweets into a larger poem! 

Happy writing!

Friday, March 30, 2018

When no one is looking

Pigeons descend on me and take
minutes away, seed by seed, before I reach
for more to share and give away.

I may be an amateur poet and not
the real thing -- Time is my excuse:
Everyone takes minutes and I gladly share.

A mess of minutes disappear in seconds
until I'm left with zero.  No time for myself.
So I steal away; steal them back:

Forty-five minutes before the sun and kiddos wake up;
20 minutes before I'm called into the kitchen;
Ten minutes in between loads of laundry.

It's not the best system, but it's what I have:
a condensed time frame to get my art out.
No time to listen to my soul;

No time to still myself and watch
for the words, not wait, but sit and watch
when no one is looking.

Wednesday, March 28, 2018

If these walls could talk

they would embrace the ferocious ghost of this house
and pause -- listen to father fire from
his mouth his "peaceable one-drink voice at dusk."

They would linger and drink away
liquid like ocean the celebrated perfume
of Mother's peace haunting the entryway breeze.

They would respond, Good boy!
as the son smiles, his blue poetry
stamped and swirled onto butcher paper.

If these walls could talk, they would
but breath stagnant and breathe slowly
and coll the fat fever of this happy home.

Tuesday, March 27, 2018

Answering Emerson's Questions

poetry comes nearer to vital truth than history.

What is day?
twenty-four hours that pass by
in minutes if not present,
with no sense of purpose nor direction
What is a year?
reckoning time in the ordinary;
wake-up call for missed resolutions;
revolving around your centre
What is summer?
aestas -- long and lazy
marked by intermittent naps,
family field trips and rosé in sweating glasses (in aqua sanitas)
What is woman?
fierce, soft, warm, and not to be trifled with;
daughter smelling sweet and sweat and dirt and sun;
wife companion never underestimated
family stabilizer.
What is child?
innocent          can be taught to hate;
innumerable questions; interruptions and
perfect timing to scream while I'm on the phone.
What is sleep?
much needed          never enough;
the cure-all for any tantrum;
difficult to come by when angry, anxious, or drunk. 
What is truth?
In vino veritas
painful and biting          it comes from my children
witty and wise          it comes from my children
repeatedly found and continually searching for
virtue of wisdom

Tuesday, February 06, 2018

The Tempest

slow motion
heart pounding
sweaty, shaky fingers dialing my father

A mistake realized is a heavy rock
that hurts when it hits the bottom.
(Fight of flight is not a decision)
Wanting to run, but "Wait! He's my brother!"
casts concentric circles
in the pond of my mind,
as the mistake sinks
I face Tyson.
I want to laugh because he looks so funny
when he's angry.
(Tyson disappears)
His shell punches me in the head.
(The shell of a man is no less strong than anger)
My throbbing head feels no pain.
I dive into Tyson's waist
for protection.
I'm angry. I'm scared.

A storm is invented,
producing bowling-ball sized hail
crashing down on my back.
"If I play dead, the storm will stop."
"Where's Tyson? Why won't he shelter me from this storm?"
the storm rises from the ground
kicking me in the stomach.
(Shoes hurt)
I want to throw-up blood,
so it will stop. "Will I die?"

(The storm has stopped)
I want Tyson to pick me up.
I don't think he's coming back.
(It's dark)
I can't tell if my eyes are open or not.
I want to drive home
to Ellen.
I can't see.
I can't remember the drive.
(Ellen is crying)
I can't hear myself.
Ellen doctors my wounds,
while I wonder
what happened to my brother.

Saturday, December 16, 2017

no words coming out

a month since a post
no words coming out

quiet room
hum of heater

quiet mind
hum of distractions

hot tea
no words

frosted concrete
no words

no leaves on the trees
no words on the branches

awkward typing
forcing words to come out

forcing thoughts to come down
out of the clouds

a month since a post
a few words coming out