"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.
My prayers are like weeds along the side of the path
fuzzy short ones-- good for the outhouse
sprawling canopies of fruitless vines
fiery trumpet bushes that signal it is August
tiny notes of joy
Strangling creepers, trees of thorns, these are my prayers
interrupted by little blue tailed skinks
the cinching murmur of gnats
but maybe those are prayers too
My prayers are like the weeds along the side of the path
chicory as blue as the sky, Queens Anne's Lace
Magenta honeyed clover swarmed by bees
Thistle down catching the breeze, Deadly nightshade
orbs of seductive poison
This tiny shell skidding over the rocks
from my false steps, that one is like my prayers too
Leaving silvery trails of indecision, they begin
full of confidence only to die in this fireball of a noon
you already know what I'll do--
I'll throw the snail over toward the creek where
the mud is soft and smells worse than sin
there it can cool off, hope to revive
in the protection of the shade
and I know you'll find it there-- You can't hide
easily, I can hear your music even through
the earbuds in my ears. Nothing keeps out
the sound of the crickets from these weeds
I hear them-- love love love love love love love love
their cry is what I walk on, what
I breathe, and the pace I speak
And the cicada are louder, competing
with the sun for power over power
and they say louder and louder
I feel a bit like a second grader when I create a poem with form, but it really satisfies the artist in me to shape a poem about the subject is speaks to. Here is a tumbler shape in honor of the first time I ever tasted beer in Sedona, Arizona. I didn't become a beer drinker, but I enjoyed that first taste more than the poem lets on-- just for it's novelty.
we left a burning bush out back
I heard a knock, but we never opened
The Word appears on t-shirts and
street signs are imbued with messages
anyone would get.
We didn't read anything into them.
He sent us that last box.
But we didn't get it.
Two angels are picking it up
in an empty warehouse
and it's over.
Our world is gone
and we missed the end.
While our backs were turned
the answers played out.
(Spoiler. While this poem has some Whovian references and may be confusing, don't worry, I only have a little idea of what it means myself. I found it scribbled in my poetry journal. If you've ever kept a journal saved for thoughts late at night then read them in the morning. You'll know what I mean. But hey, I liked how mysterious this sounds and it makes me think of so many thinks it might start to mean.)
Those old bards, like dragons now extinct,
preserved memory in velvet purses of rhyme,
stitched with meter. Their fiery tales a breath
of vapor, have survived many fires.
Some insist memories stick to our subconscious
like stamps on a postcard with Jungian script-- Dear Ego, . . . . Love Id. Shipped through blood lines or to the collective.
What do you say, where are our memories
archived--our senses, our walls, our clouds
and what if our pharmaceuticals or our servers
go wrong? What if our memory were lost?
Maybe control is a white dove, a mental dream
where solar flares and cosmic change have
only cool breath to blow. Where red
giants never wake, where carrier pidgeons fly.
So I will write a poem, one for each dream and one
for each memory. For every crinkled note honeyed
over in the hive of my mind, I will take it out,
smooth it over, squint at my illegible scrawls--
and from them write a story. A story about...
how we have all loved different things
a story about how we all have loved.