It wasn’t fall when he died, closer to winter’s heart, when birds abandon bare trees, dew sets forth its layers. No delicate blossoms lined our path, none of spring’s hopeful renewal, just tired trudging, winter’s dirty boots, a sterile hospital room unfit for a two year old’s play. He unhinged from existence, a blazing gold […]
Let them say the meadow of my heart blossomed in the summer, burst forth in colorful, robust bunches, gleamed– let them say my heart’s woodlands were carpeted and bloomed vividly in the spring. Let them say my heart was a cornucopia, a proud, sturdy host, an open-mouthed vessel which filled itself over and over again. […]
To see the places where I am from Stretches the senses back farther than my birth Back into the warm waters where I was formed Back into the waiting seed carried inside her Carried inside my Grandmother Who was carried inside her mother Stretching back like a house of mirrors Smaller and smaller images of […]
Let us fall in love slowly turning our lives gently as pages in a cherished book. Let us not betray the slightest punctuation or rhythm of thought. Let us take time to love, to leisurely bathe in Nereid depths of clear-eyed emotion . . . tracing the symmetry of our passion across well-thumbed pages read […]
As anyone reading this may already know: on January 20th, 2021, the role of the inaugural poet returned to the White House for the first time since the Obama Administration. Amanda Gorman, the first Youth Poet Laureate of the United States, read her poem The Hills We Climb for President Elect Joseph Biden and Vice President Elect Kamala Harris’ inauguration. Amanda Gorman wowed us her with poise and eloquence. She inspired us with her spoken word and her message of unity and resilience. In a move most if not all poets would applaud, she offered respect and remembrance to the great Maya Angelou who once was also an inaugural poet. Above all, she motivated an innumerable population of Americans to want to read poetry, to write poetry – the ultimate goal of a poet laureate.
I dance with the dead extending my hands to an ever-expanding circle of passed loved ones and friends. Holding fast to their memories I dance about the room to the beat of the moment, circling round and round moving through time back to the beginning as life ticks away to a celebrative finale. And when […]
Over the years, our family has enjoyed some Christmas reading. We’ve read through The Little Match Girl, The Elves and the Shoemaker, A Christmas Carol, Sherlock Holmes and The Adventures of the Blue Carbuncle, and many other great stories. But one of our favorites is poet Dylan Thomas’ A Child’s Christmas in Wales, which we read every Christmas Eve. It’s a beautiful story that shares Christmas memories from over one hundred years ago. If you’re looking for an enjoyable short read, here’s a link to a public domain version:http://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks07/0701261h.html
Did you know that a turkey’s snood can change color depending upon their emotions? I didn’t either until I read local Lake County author Lori Armstrong’s children’s book Bubbly Jock and the Thanksgiving Fallacy. It’s the story of Bubbly Jock Jack, a turkey living on an organic farm complete with corn mazes and goat yoga. There Jack spends his days following the farmer on his rounds, playing with the farmer’s children, and pecking grain from the visiting kids’ hands. He leads an idyllic life until he overhears something that makes him question everything.
(Oct 30, 2020 at 9:18 AM) And when dreams come Let them For you are half asleep Into your room They parade And invade peaceful solitudes And raging wars Prior empty fortresses Without which Unguarded awakenings Would unfold Embrace them You are never Completely asleep Unless unaware You are
Today, Madeline Sharpton told everyone at school that I had herpes. She’s a mean girl, practically six feet tall, and that tall-ness gives her a weird authority in the world of middle school. All the other students believed her–including my so-called friends. I’m only thirteen, but it must be the worst day in my life forever.
If you are reading this on a phone, you may have to scroll to the side to see the full poem. This preserves the integrity of the lines on smaller devices. I am drawn to the kitchen window by the blue-jay’s cry. The neighbor’s marmalade cat sits on the fence, Under the orange tree. He […]
Once I had my hair down to my waist, a gap between my teeth. I believed in the power of music, that it could change the world. My name is Charlotte by the way. My father used to say that I was too big for my britches. Who uses the word “britches” these days? Though Dad said that a long time ago–we’re talking the 70s. I’m an old(er) lady now, and Dad’s long gone.
A hot, gusty breeze passes by our footsteps, bringing with it needles falling from the giant redwood overhead. We walk through the heart of Library Park, looking for a picnic table safely away from other visitors, two of Juicy’s spectacular pizzas in each hand. The gusty afternoon breeze hasn’t settled down into balmy summer evening just yet; another flurry of wind blows open our pizza box. But slight pink hues in the sky creep over the lake, hinting at a beautiful sunset to come. I flip the pizza box shut, trying to turn it a direction where the wind won’t blow it open again. “Congratulations on your first six months as Poet Laureate,” David says, then takes a large bite of pizza. Georgina smiles, pulling back her hair from her face as another breeze brushes by us.
You are, I am, we are always practicing something all of the time – that this “something” changes now and then does not diminish the fact that whether or not we are consciously aware of it – some of our practices are constructive, and others are not. All practices have shape and all have impact. Our lives revolve around the construct of practice. The willing act to “create and have a practice” – even if for only a short time – helps one illuminate the power and depth of practice.
We will always live in moments of uncertainty. I have no idea what the future will bring, not only for me, but for our country. The page, however, refutes uncertainty. It is a white canvas, destined for creation, and within its square space, holds the promise of an affirmation. Even while describing loss, our words are born, again and again and again.