Introductory Metaphor

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The Living Room

a pair of hand made socks
knit with cheap, colorful yarn
the mittens not quite the same size
a vase about to topple on my table
as the cats race-chase through the house
chirping and trilling at each other
their joy for grey days and wet food.
a couch full of hangars and clothes I need to put away
lit dramatically by the window
pillows that have been laid upon so lovingly they're flat.
a painting by my sister
and At-at in a hat with Mickey Mouse ears
and a skull whose brain has been replaced
with a number of dice.

Carrie is taking a creative writing class in school this semester, and I’m blatantly stealing her assignment prompts for my own use. In this case, the assignment was to write a poem introducing oneself to the class via a metaphor. I am a mess. A total disaster area of love and happiness, but a mess nonetheless. I particularly relate to the ceramic skull in which we keep our gaming dice.

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A poetry assignment and some other stuff

It has rained all night.
 It always rains all night
 Here is a place where night means rain
 Where darkness is always accompanied
 By the clatter of raindrops and wondering
 When it will all wash away.

It always rains at night, and I
 lie in bed and feel 
 the ground shift
 the house lift
 the river form beneath me.

The rain forms a river that
 rushes down the sidewalk and
 sweeps us through the trees
 and carries us to the sea.

Every night I find myself in a new ocean.

Every day, I awaken in a foreign land.

Carrie and I have been writing morning poems together some days lately. It’s nice. I forgot what it’s like to sit down with intention and write a poem.

I’ve been busy lately, but a good kind of busy. I don’t have very much time for being stressed out. I try to stay calm from one moment to the next and manage my life in some kind of reasonable way. Did I tell you I got to be part of an art show? Here are some pictures of my poems on display at an art thing:

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Oh, and also, I turned 35. Then I got hit on by this guy who wanted to know how old I was, so I said 87. They never believe me.

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Music for a Hope Hangover

These are my playlists from 2017. I was going to try to write a clever post about how challenging and beautiful the year was and how the music tells that story but … I don’t feel like it.  However, I did come up with the very clever opening line, “Twenty-seventeen entered like a hope hangover.”  So, how about I give you the music and the opening line and let you take it from here? Enjoy!

January

February

March

April

May

June

July

August

September

October

November

December

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birdhouse (Thanksgiving 2014)

birdhouse

the conversational rustle
of 50 cent newspapers
the quiet landscape waits
squirrels find us irrelevant
an inconvenience

elevate elevate elevate

the rarified mind of a scavenger

the way he walks is a mood
the mystery of modern appliance
it is impossible to be with you
words must not escape me

the family apologist
the broken hearted nihilist
the jovial atheist
the good one

a lake of conversation in the morning
a spill of coffee
confusion about dishes
the briefest appearance of a monk

the companionship of strangers
the deep and hollow rumble
the sweet cruelty of those who don’t lie

edit
memories become Truth
stories become Identity
quietly quietly

I do not know my place
the comfort of running water
and soap
everyone has to do the dishes

we have everything we ever wished for
we have learned not to wish so much

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thirsty as the ocean

thirsty as the ocean
all undrinkable
hungry as time
all-consuming
impossible.
a tower on sand
lets the world
wash out beneath her
still stands.
late summer sunburn
slow song sipping on
dreams that only make you
never wanna wake up

 

~~~~just a leftover summer poem~~~~

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