April 7, 2020 § Leave a comment
The prompt is luck. Good luck, bad luck, luck. You decide. In the absence of a descent title, this prose shall remain Luck.
I have just what you need, she smiled, and dropped into my hand a luminescent sphere as pink and tiny as a newborn’s nail. It floated just above my skin. Dream, she said, and waved her mermaid’s hands across my eyes. My sailor’s shirt (my hat long gone) began to stitch into my chest; the rocks that were my home dissolved. I gulped, the pure sea salt like sugar in my belly. She tugged me down. It’s time, she smiled, it’s time.
April 6, 2020 § Leave a comment
Today’s prompt is trap.
the arid New Mexico air bleaches
the dream of space and freedom
from humid Austin, the City Weird
a treasury of memories
too heavy to carry
forward into the future
I march, breathing dust
punctured by cactus spines
dreams blow away like tumbleweeds
April 5, 2020 § Leave a comment
Can you guess the prompt? Yes, that’s it! Moment. I found myself using few words with repetition and alliteration. For me, they reflect the repetitive and calming experiences of the early morning.
Mourning doves murmur
Crisp, bright air
Radio patter, pots clanging
Parallel patterns of pounding rush up the stairs
The pups are awake
Raga is playing
Reading is waiting
April 4, 2020 § 2 Comments
Today’s prompt is to write a wish poem. After three other attempts, this arrived.
Instructions for Wishing
At 11:11, pause and take a breath.
Face the window, raise your arms, and
whisper your prayer to the fairies until 11:12.
Each morning, before you rise,
remember your dreams. Capture
the moments of pleasure and bottle them to drink at dusk.
When you walk your dog, daydream.
Don’t forget the doggie bag.
Lose ten pounds and buy new jeans.
April 3, 2020 § Leave a comment
From Writer’s Digest Poetic Asides, today’s prompt is Follow _______. Fill in the blank and write to the title. I been discussing how to find, activate, awaken “the muse” with a friend, so this was the perfect opportunity to advise myself.
Follow Your Muse
Tiptoe softly, tread lightly, pretend you are in the Quiet Place –
This is not how to live.
Is it your nature to caw and clap and flap your wings?
To disturb the demons?
Shine a mirror, shake the rattle, sing out loud
She will find you.
April 2, 2020 § Leave a comment
It’s quite odd reentering this world of quickly written words. I edit as I type, moving from Word to WordPress and back and forth again.
The photo is from the last outing I took before COVID-19 shut us down.
I give you back the gift of Santa Fe, he said.
The gift of love and light and space that he has always wanted.
Santa Fe is his muse, he said. It powers him. It is his spirit.
Through his gift of self-deception, he took what was not his —
Native rituals and prayers, trance and visions, portraits of the land.
White man entitlement; shaman by design.
In justice, the lands rebuff him, toss him out; they shout they are not his.
I accept their pain and apologize for him, for us, for presuming what was false.
In solidarity, they cling to me; they speak my name and hold me hard.
A blessing, a gift appears: In his absence, I can breathe; in his loss, I can hope.
The lands allow me to remain.
April 1, 2020 § 2 Comments
Almost ten years later, I’m engaging my poetry muscles. Don’t expect much — not much muscle memory left. Hopefully it will return as the month progresses.
I’m using prompts from Writer’s Digest. Join me?
Brave New World
Whoever knew that leaving a life
leads to leaving another
leads to leading another and
When one lives a life of illusion, all
futures seem bright. As the
sun bares down, shadows appear.
Dust mites follow.
Poets might say, “Embrace the mites!”
Philosophers say, “Tis life.”
Astrologers, “This planet will pass.”
I say I wish I had foreseen
the ribbon unwinding
before it began.
April 1, 2020 § Leave a comment
This energetic work is by Santa Fe painter Norma Alonzo. She described her work to me as viewing landscapes from above, with boundaries delineated. She is also an incredibly optimistic person, as you can perhaps tell.
For the past seven years, Vivo Contemporary artists have been paired with a local poet who writes about their art. I joined the cadre last year. This eighth year, the poetry readings are cancelled, but the image and poem I wrote exists.
The vivid greens reminded me of my childhood years, some spent in South America’s tropical heat; I paired that with my emotional experiences.
I don’t remember the airline flight or drive home or the state of the house that no longer housed my father. I was ten.
I remember the bowl brimming with nectarines. The biting down, the sugary juices running down my chin. My sticky fingers and heart wanting more.
I remember our burnt orange tabby who fell from the penthouse patio and survived for months on the rooftop below. We retrieved him in a basket filled with raw meat that we lowered by rope.
I remember how he crackled like Rice Krispies when we stroked him. He had a punctured lung.
I remember the stupefying Ecuadorian heat and the relief of the overhead fans. The white beaches and gentle waves, the fresh caught morning shrimp, the dime-sized blisters on my razor-red skin.
I remember the smell of Noxzema.
I remember the words and walls that shaped me: the constant moving, the volts of criticism and disdain, the alcoholic pratfalls.
I remember the scarring of my heart.
Now, I remember what may not be: found children my father may have fathered, my daughter’s happiness, an aging hand in mine.
January 27, 2019 § Leave a comment
I’m thrilled to share that I am a poet in the upcoming VIVO Contemporary’s Giving Voice to Image. This annual exhibit asks poets to be inspired by a local artist’s work.
This work is a pantoum: a poem of any length, composed of four-line stanzas in which the second and fourth lines of each stanza serve as the first and third lines of the next stanza. The last line of a pantoum is often the same as the first.
The Things We Will Never Really Know
You say we pass beyond ourselves to find ourselves again
I suspect veiled hollow spaces
Where it’s difficult to breathe
My lungs are tight
You discern wide hallowed spaces
Dense with fluffy dandelions
You breathe pure air
As you break and float away
If I take your proffered hand
With weighted limbs both numb and pale
Stretched between the then and now
Will I soar or will I fall
Let’s stretch until we reach the stars
Cough until our lungs are clear
We will soar or we will fall
We pass beyond ourselves to find ourselves again
In response to Opening Door by William Sayler