write a (sloppy, half-formed if need be) poem every day (or so) during July 2009

Ah, yes!

Back home – where
old ladies pack
semi-automatic
handguns and there
are..

far too many choices
at the supermarket.

_{What did I come in here for again?}

))){

People do unimaginable things.
Move to Florida, marry each
Other, fall in love with suitable
Strangers, raise children who
Don’t hate them. The marmots
Are burrowing into the hill
Behind the house and the little
Ones leave them alone, a true
Miracle. The deer who eats
Only the palest roses leaves
Enough for a small and perfect
Bouquet for the dinner party at
Which everyone relaxes and
Sparkles or glows as their
Nature prefers. Life works
Out, the coffee spill misses
Upholstery, the dishwasher
Drains without incident,
Windows near small boys
Remain unbroken. The
Neighbors wave as if this
Were the commonest fate,
A good life of good people,
Lived well.

for those inclined, is here

I’d love to know how y’all write. Do you get a visual image, a sound, an idea, a title, a character? Sometimes I have an idea, but usually it starts with a cadence for me. This morning’s poem came as a rhythm before it had words. I heard: bah DA da, dada dada and had to listen to that several times before it resolved into, “The ivy, patient learner”.

Once I had that line in place, I imagined ivy and the image of the abandoned barn, which used to be my godfather’s shop, came to mind. Throughout the whole poem, I could hear the cadence before I got the words or they arrived simultaneously. How a poem sounds is vital to me. The ends of my poems often connect to the beginnings and I love the moment when I see that happen. Sometimes I write one or two false starts before the real poem arrives.

Before April 2009, I wrote maybe a few poems a year when they’d arrive fully fledged in my head and insist on being written down. Tomorrow, July 31, will be the 122nd consecutive day of poem writing. That’s 1/3 of a year! Wow.

The ivy, patient learner,
Memorizes the barn’s edges,
Erases the roof, climbs the
Ladder we dare not to the
Second floor. It has been
Two years since he died
And we still sometimes
Hear a radio playing in
What was his shop. It is
Beautiful, ghostly, a good
Home for skunks and black
Widows, easier to keep up
That tear down, At night
The wind closes or opens
The door, gently, and the
Ivy, patient listener, grows
To the frame and stops.

Netkiosk -

you’re taking
my money and not
leaving enough time
for a proper poem
so this will have
to do.

Oh well, I need to
order a vodka tonic
before I board a full
flight for 14 hours

))){

One so rarely needs a turnip,
Yet they are useful around the
House. Doorstops, balls, dog
Toys, paperweights, lending
Their dusky contrast to the
Bright orchids on the glass
Coffeetable. Hurled at the
Back of a guest’s head, they
Carry your point without
Adding their own drama of
Splash or stain. Jugglers,
Toddlers and fans of rich
Root soups are all fans.
True, they are rarely needed,
But how have you managed
So long without one?

I’m the King of an Outer Planet
but I don’t live there – that’s
silly. Who wants to live on Uranus?
Perhaps you, sitting there as you
are, do.

No one else wanted to make a claim:
‘I’ll sit on my Ownanus, thank you!’

I decided to claim Neptune with its
seas of methane and frozen nitrogen.
Why not? I tried to use Neptune as
collateral when I thought about
buying a used car once. The bank
didn’t want Neptune – what was the
risk? They get an entire planet; I
get a shitty used car. Not like
they weren’t getting interest on
the loan.

Property in the sky – that’s what
it’s all about. Nobody to bother
you.

I need to create my own passport.
I can be Neptunian in absentia or
something. A Marmot two-man tent
for an embassy. I’ll put it somewhere
in the sea and stamp visas for
dolphins in exchange for fresh fish.

))){

The other side of the bed
Become storage, books,
Work, snacks, magazines
Piled where she claims
She wants company. One
Side table, one lamp to
Dimly light the pages of
Books about couples and
Dating and vulnerability.
She sleeps well next to
Her wall, can’t get a wink
Out of her comfort zone,
Swears she is ready to
Share her life, won’t let
You shift the laptop off
The pillow or move the
Unworn dresses to the
Stuffed closets. She
Swears, she is ready.

Coast dwellers can’t understand
What it means, a lake in mid-country,
The slap of a wave on your calf,
Perimeter mapped by family history,
How one stares, as a teen, at the cool
Epicenter in simmering heat as if the
Myriad futures could be called to
Reveal themselves in the net of keen
Eyes, how relationships unfurl or
Curl into death at the way one jumps
From a rough edge or climbs to the
Platform near center, the things that are
Dared at night, the coves and reeds, the
Space between shore bound and boaters.
No one raised near the limitless ocean could
See how infinite dreams live in landlocked
Water invisible to the planes above, small
Only by geographical standards, which
Never have captured the distance of youth.

[Got the starting image tonight and thought, “I’ll use that tomorrow,” then thought that was acting as if the Muse was stingy, so I wrote it. Tomorrow’s poem tomorrow.]

The universe has
a lot of shit in it.

_{Some of it is really
big and hot: it’s a
merry-go-round, blast
furnace kind of universe
when it’s not frozen solid.}

))){