The Old Place

This piece unfolded this morning as I enjoyed a sip of coffee. It took me…elsewhere. The speaker even developed a feminine voice.  The power of poetry.

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At The Old Place

Near the old place,
right where a twisted kaboom
of pickered vines sprung up,
thorns as long as fangs,
grandma says she’d sit
before Sunday service
combin’ her doll’s hair.
It was blonde, she says,
like strings of sun
and her name was Tammy.
Grandma named my mom Tammy,
after that doll, she loved it so.
She loves mom too, cause
mom’s hair is golden and pretty,
but mine ain’t. It’s dark,­­­­­
like dirt, but it’s beautiful
grandma says. So we sit
on a fat, old stump
near them vines.
I’m on grandma’s lap
and she’s combin’ my hair
cause its beautiful.
That’s what she says.



This afternoon, I pondered how I discover what I want to write about, the words I want to chose. How does creativity discover you?

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Each word
in the corner,
odd clutches of dust
with dog hair
and the sunlight
that slips through
the window blinds.

The Tea is Hot

Sometime yesterday, my blog, this blog, was blessed with its 1,050th blog follower. Thank you to that follower and all my other followers. Each of you is truly appreciated. I invite you all to spend a bit of time with me today. Feel free to ask others to join us.

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The Tea is Hot

Steaming, sugared
with a spot of honey,
the way tea should be sipped.
I’ve set your cup on the table
near the potted rosemary,
next to an old book
smudged with time,
spotted with drips
of Early Gray and Oolong.
Find a page, a favorite rhyme,
read to me, something about
a fence where ravens cluster
as a jury might, their robes
as dark as night,
a night that looms
above the soft hills.
Still, the sun rises each morrow.

Late March

The ground is wet in the wood that surrounds my home, muddy, as the snow melts and sinks deep into earth. I was reminded of a poem by William Stafford, The Well Rising, and then I was tasked to write my own.

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Late March

The spring melt
seeps, quiet,
between the layers,

the dark loam
where worms
burrow for air,

filling the well
rising toward the sun,
that cool water,

the shivers
as I quell my thirst.

What Matters

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Today is Jack Kerouac’s birthday. “He is considered a literary iconoclast and, alongside William S. Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg, a pioneer of the Beat Generation. Kerouac is recognized for his method of spontaneous prose. Thematically, his work covers topics such as Catholic spirituality, jazz, promiscuity, Buddhism, drugs, poverty, and travel. He became an underground celebrity and, with other beats, a progenitor of the hippie movement, although he remained antagonistic toward some of its politically radical elements.”

This poem is inspired by Kerouac’s poem In Vain.

What Matters

is the key in the lock
or the candle stub
on the tussled desk
where a poem
might slide
on a paper crinkled
wet with someone’s
sweat or tears
the wick
like a single gray hair
and that key in the lock
to a room I’ve yet to interrupt