"Dazzle Gradually" 2017 poems, paintings, new art & photography--a diary, a discipline, a delight. Read over my shoulder as I post my unedited poetry ---you can see it in the raw or get my first book and see how the work evolves with new books rolling out next year.
I bind this vine
a circle then a line
a line, a circle
ivy for friendship
marigold for sight
and morning glory
This wreath to
remind that the
beginning is the end
and the end
is the beginning
light to half light
You may think that a writing desk is like a raven,
but I have no idea how this is true
I do know that a writing pen is like a ram caught in the bush
How do I know this?
Because I am never prepared, whether I think ahead or not
I go off to an important lecture without a pen or pencil
I bake bread without checking how much flour I have first
I pour my cereal and then look for the milk
You could blame it on ADD but I always thought it
was because whenever I needed something I'd look
over and there it would be waiting for me like Abraham's
old goat when he needed it most. How odd. Yes.
But that's what I've done, and it's always worked.
Living like Abraham can be odd, expecting angels to come
to dinner or bargaining with God when he's used to
bows and scrapes. Well that's what I've done, and that
is why when I showed up on my turn in the class last July
I wasn't worried--
when I had no pen. I look up and to the left and like usual, one is
sitting there lost by some other student. No one else is yet in the room.
Its for me. I hardly say thanks. I used the pen until today when
it ran out of ink while I was writing a list of things to be thankful for.
I was sorry,
but glad to know that when I needed something for one hour
Jesus made sure the ink ran for 4,320 hours.
Now that I have Rx reopening my brain power against ADD
I plan ahead just great and I miss the old days when it was Jesus, me
and the goat caught by the horns. So sometimes
when I drive to the store and they open up a new lane
just for me, I know that my goat is still there
if I ever need one.
Thanks Jesus- you sure know how to catch a good one
and by the way, my taxes are due, know where I can
find any good fish?
Here is a poem about my thesis paper I've just written. It's in the last revision now. I just read that Madeleine L'Engle lectured on "Myth, Fairy Tale, and Fantasy." Since my paper was on this subject I wonder if I can find these lectures somewhere. When I do, I'll find that my paper was already written most likely. Well there is nothing like doing things the hard way all on your own-- which seems to be a pattern I follow-- Then you really know them.
"What looks inside and outside?"
"My Window? says Kenny
How do I open it? Pull out
the dragons and swords from within,
piles of books, keys, spoons and a gnome or two--
and let them loose onto the pavement
fire, smoke, clanging filling up
the empty street I live on where
no children ever go outside to play?
I will study my reflection where
everything is backwards and upside down,
and I will make my frown into a smile.
Then I will run in place until I've flown a mile.
I will see a butterfly made of bread and spread.
I will close my eyes to walk where I've been told not to tread.
There in the dark, I will catch a small star then
bring it back to where you are.
We'll play catch with it and
jump rope too. I'll be St. George and we can do
all the stunts ourselves. We'll save England
then on to the next until each country comes out dressed
with flying banners that wave all the best names:
Joan and Romeo and John and Jill
and we'll tell each story 'til we've had our fill.
When a backwards flip down from the high
bar was called a "skin the cat."
I can remember back before pantyhose
were a necessity. There was
nothing to get in my way on a Sunday
from running on the grass; I was never
hampered by elastic digging into my waist
or worried about hair showing through.
I can remember back before computers
were invented, before teachers printed out
banners of dot matrix bunnies. When
we all had typewriters and ribbons.
We knew the smell of whiteout could stir
up impatience in even the most even temper.
I can remember back before condiments
came in plastic squeezy bottles.
When jars were glass, and mustard was
something I spread with a knife,
yellow soaking into the dark brown
bread for grandma's ham sandwich.
I can remember back before we met
in another Millennium, on another world.
When I drew in my red sketch book
and you wrote stories in your green one.
We both thought life was all about the future,
but we weren't prepared for the past.
I'm finding that keeping up with poetry is harder when my mind is busy with other things like writing a master's thesis or figuring out a new stage of life. But I proved my theory in the last 11 months that writing poetry uses a muscle that grows with the exercise. It's the same muscle I use when I'm trying to remember I dream I had. Bits of odd ideas and images float through my day and these are poems. If I can grab onto them, give them a name, and plan to write them I won't forget. If I go about my life then they clutter like leaves in my subconscious and I never bring them out to examine in the light. They go to waste.
I think its cool that this muscle I use to remember the ideas to poems seems to be my imagination. It grows with use. A dream come true. I think I may write a poem every day forever or until I have nothing left to write about. It's been one of the best things to ever happen to me, whether they are read or not.
I'm thankful to this poem-a-day to keep me at writing poetry. Now I guess I will go onto the next step and learn how to revise:)
I never knew what love was until
I knew your hair curled under
that hat you slept in
and wouldn't take off because we
pretended we were sailing and your
sled was a boat that would
take you anywhere if you wore a hat
a hat which made you a man
instead of a baby boy with
new teeth as white as sails
National Novel Writing Month is here!
Let's all celebrate with a tear and a cheer.
My husband who is usually down in a funk
silent, blue and muttering junk
is now laughing at puns while doing a jig--
he talks about time travel and flying pigs!
He plans to write characters who circle the moon
who meet wise sages and ask for a boon--
National Novel Writing Month is here!
Let's all sigh with relief for fun that is funny
for characters, plots and jokes that are stunning
National Novel Writing Month is here...
a bizarre yet satisfying end to our year.
Fifty thousand words or more, he's giddy
he's gaddy, he's wordy, he's mad, he
sneaks to he keyboard both day and in night,
but when will he go to bed and turn out the light?