This was a project I did basically during the pandemic. I started writing a poem a day. Once ‘real life’ started again it got harder to write everyday, which is interesting.
I have started to edit some of these mostly the kids poetry. I think there might be enough here for a book. We shall see.
Wild Forks
wild forks and lazy spoons
dining table, well festooned
cunning knives and plaintive plates
prayerful napkins lie in wait
buxom glasses, showing off
a certain mound of rice pilaf
haughty roast, humble peas
festive mood, manners please
At once I become
An archeologist, unearthing shards of ideas and words
Sanding them off and putting them in my satchel
A squirrel, scurrying around and chewing on fallen nuts of language
Hiding them for later
A gourmand, a big rotund gourmand
Feasting on words and rhymes and ideas
Bring me more, put it on my plate
Nom nom nom
A small girl, sitting outside, under a tree
Dreaming, imagining
Transported to a new world covered in frost
All is white and sparkles
There is a crack above
A branch drops its soft words
floating down
They had been waiting for her to wander by
An artist, a poet, a lover, a minstrel, a bard
A bear, a coyote, a fox, a snake
A river, a wave
a whisper
My feet are raw but ready
My heart is rare and open
My mind is on fire with words
What makes a space?
What makes a space
a place you want to be?
is it the things you can smell
or hear or touch or see
is it the light
how it creates a mood
maybe the what that happens there
the work or play you plan to do
perhaps it is the people
the ones who gather there
it could even be a memory
infused with love and care
even the same space will not be critiqued as equal
the reviews will be varied depending on the people
in our modern world we have created many spaces
some that exist where you only see the faces
the questions arise inside, as you consider
is the place a real one, the one your mind can deliver
Perhaps the place inside you is the only one?
I leave you with that question, my pondering is done.
always
time is a weird one it moves on its own
longer to get there than coming home
one afternoon can feel like a trial
in one second you can cover 10 miles
it is almost like time and our minds, they do dance
we find when time leads our mind is entranced
but then something happens and our mind changes the music
then time slows down, the new steps seem to confuse it
it has certainly been said before
time’s like a river, yes, I’m a bore
but it really does capture something so real
something that happens, something we feel
we ride the rapids or we float very slow
our speed keeps on changing but not the direction we go
always, always toward the wide open sea
there it is vastness, always. infinity.
what got lost
what got lost
what got shattered
what is left
what really matters?
what got lost
what got shattered
what is left?
What really matters.
A Super Cheesy Poem
Swiss is bliss
Gouda is gooda
Feta is betta
Colby Jack, bring it on back
If I could live in a world made of cheese
That would be best, can you make it? Please?
I understand it might not be good for my health
Or maybe not even good for my wealth
But I would be happy to eat only cheese
Is there a place like this? Give me the keys!
Ricotta or munster or even some goat
Let’s go get some! I’ll get my coat!
Cheedar on burgers
Jack on the nachos
Hey, whatever kind ends up on tacos!
Bottom line
Parmo is fine
Bring in all the cheese, so divine!
Here is some blue for you...
And some brie for me!
I want cheese cheese cheese, all the time!
*Dedicated to a friend, you know who you are!
The Knitter, The Watcher, and The Boatman
The Knitter works in silence, joining random hearts
The Watcher fails to notice, stuck behind thick glass
The Boatman trolls the seas of fate, playing his own part
The Knitter moves through others, leading them to art
The Watcher finds no comfort, although he does amass
The Knitter works in silence, joining random hearts
The Boatman meets his post, his focus on his cart
The Watcher fills with sadness, as the time does pass
The Boatman trolls the seas of fate, playing his own part
The Knitter makes connection, built with no clear chart
The Watcher stands alone, claiming higher class
The Knitter works in silence, joining random hearts
The Boatman does his patient work, there when you depart
The Watcher fights for certain, but truth he may bypass
The Boatman trolls the seas of fate, playing his own part
The Knitter will encourage, tugs to make a start
The Watcher will resist, claiming deep impasse
The Knitter works in silence, joining random hearts
The Boatman trolls the seas of fate, playing his own part
Something Dark
Something dark is coming
I can feel it creeping in
Something dark is coming
My mind begins to spin
Something dark is coming
The wind is howling now
Something dark is coming
No escape will be allowed
Something dark is coming
I feel the air turn cold
Something dark is coming
I have no hand to hold
Something dark is coming
Something dark is here
There is no other heartbeat
To take away my fear
Something dark is here
It takes away my breath
Something dark is here
Is this my final death?
Something dark is going
What was that evil spot?
Something dark is gone
And I find that I am not
Twiddle and Middle
Twiddle middle top and pop
These are words I like a lot
They rhyme together and have fun sound
The way they feel is hardly round
No, those are words like moon and soon
Put my cream in a spoon
Oh I love how all words feel
a sentence can be like a meal
Zander my silly pal made me an offer to put cream in a spoon and place that white liquid elixir in my yellow cup and swirl my tea like a hurricane and before I knew what had happened it was done and I sipped on the luscious mixture until noon.
Yum.
The Corner of Lincoln and Main
Hello my name is Chester and I am a Chestnut tree
I live on the corner of Lincoln and Main
So imagine the things I must see
Mr. Barnard take out the trash in his robe with a hole in the back
Inside the garage, Mike and Tommy are planning an attack
on their little sister playing outside in the sand
the big question is where the water balloons will land
Mildred Smith likes to garden in her birthday suit
Old Lady Duff has rows of cans lined up out back to shoot
with an orange slingshot and she uses peas as ammo
you should see her out there aiming in her pink and purple camo
Susan Wells has discovered the joy of painting in her sunroom
but the rest of her house is in need of more than a stiff broom
there are holes in the roof and mice have moved in
and the garbage is filled up with empty bottles of gin
The Jenkins girl sneaks out almost every night
Sam Pritchard treats his wife in a way that is not right
This lovely little neighborhood here at Lincoln and Main
Where the people from the front seem just a little bit plain
But look from above to those places hidden from view
And you will see a different life, one that’s a little more true
Shields
I wonder why you are carrying a shield?
Have you forgotten you are wearing it?
I want to tell you I can see it but I don’t want to be rude.
I want to tell you I have one too but I don’t.
Have you forgotten how to take your shield off?
I want to tell you I have forgotten too but I don’t.
I wonder if we could help each other?
I want to ask but I don’t want to be rude.
The Year Elastic Saved the Day
Well, wait...
did she save the year or the day?
The truth is I can’t really say.
All I know is that when I want to bend
my waistband...it now extends.
I am no longer overly squeezed.
I know...
I shouldn’t be so pleased.
Let the Words Fly
Thud makes a muddy sound
Whoosh is a push
Clink sort of twinkles
Bush makes a swoosh
Words are just sounds
we agree upon now
a funny mashup
of consonant and vowel
Also ideas and connections and things
the sturdy fiber that makes our world sing
Let’s not forget shape
they have also that
but our modern world has
made that quite flat
Words could be bubbles
or sticks or smudges
they could have curls
be giving nudges
But no, these letters
are much more like soldiers
round 'em up, line 'em up
stay inside the enclosure
Give me a muddy thud any old day
a why that is curvy, a maybe that sways
a question circling way up above
an answer that pushes in with a shove
Get real messy
let the words fly
release them and listen
look to the sky
let them roll
let them roam
whenever you need them
you can call them back home
he snores sometimes
he snores sometimes
he is there, snoring now
all arms and legs, stretched out on the couch
(arms and legs, or just legs?)
oh, also hair, lots of hair
always lots of hair
(hair or fur, what’s the difference?)
if i made noise now he would open one eye
and look at me, with one eye
get bored
close it again
when he cuddles with me
in the morning
nuzzling his head into my neck
it feels so good
to feel so loved
(i call these cuddle sessions, maybe he just wants breakfast?)
i’m sure he likes to cuddle too
we all want to feel loved
Wanting
Wanting. This thing that all of us do.
What I am really curious about is
what does it feel like for you?
I find it difficult to answer this oft-asked question.
Somehow, strangely, to know what I want
seems outside of my perception.
Is it like that for others or do they simply know?
Asked to share a deeper longing
maybe the answer just flows?
Is wanting precious or is it much more fleeting?
Does the answer stay the same?
Does it keep repeating?
Wanting. This thing that all of us do.
I suppose the thing I’m learning is
what matters most is following through.
You work to make a habit.
You do the thing you do.
Then you can examine. Ask if the thing is true.
Then you can decide if this is a thing you want.
If yes, you can pursue with a clear direction.
If no, you can wander and find another haunt.
I wish for you to find, the deep things in your heart.
For you to practice and find
your work turns your wanting to art.
After
Once the thing is over
Once the thing is done
Then you are left with after
That feeling can be either one
You wanted something different
You wanted something more
But instead you got what you got
And that was a great big bore
Or it was exactly right
A wonderfully perfect time
Everything went according to plan
The whole thing was the absolute prime
But either of these outcomes
The thing about after stays true
No matter what happened before
There is nothing now you can do
Ode to Thanksgiving (2020)
toast
eggs
coffee
tea
breakfast is a time for me
yum
chomp
gulp
munch
I find myself enjoying lunch
popcorn
nuts
chips
crack crack crack
it is time for my afternoon snack
it is no wonder
I’m not thinner
now I’m ready for my dinner!
A little ode to the tradition of eating on the US Thanksgiving Holiday. 🦃
Grateful for you. ❤️
A Dragon Who Wears a Wig
Here’s a little short story
about a dragon who wears a wig.
He lives in the north of Romania
and his name is Abelzig.
As a young little dragon
he had a cute little orange head of curls.
For this particular type of dragon
hair is normal for both the boys and the girls.
One day Abelzig was playing
and accidentally set fire to a tree.
It is normal for dragons to play this way
and believe me, it is really quite something to see.
For reasons that are not truly clear at all,
he tried to blow the fire out.
You can only imagine that for a dragon
this is not a very smart route.
The fire got ever larger,
all around it danced and flashed.
An ember flew down onto Abelzig’s head.
In one quick instant, those curls turned to ash.
Of course now he looked different.
He was the only one with a bald head.
And yes, the others did tease him,
but that was not the thing that brought dread.
These mountains in Romania
are unusually bitterly cold.
The dragons have hair on their heads
so inside their heat they can hold.
But now Abelzig had none.
This was really a fairly large problem.
With no heat there is no fire
and then he would be more like a goblin.
All the dragons conferred together,
How to keep Abelzig’s head warm?
In those dragons’ heads now
an idea begins to take form.
In this part of the mountains
also lives a band of old gypsies.
One night a long time ago
a gypsy man was wandering around, quite tipsy.
He encountered one of the dragons
and he said some quite stupid things.
The dragon was going to burn him up
but just then his wife into the picture, she springs.
She was a wise old gypsy
and understood quite well
that dragons can be reasoned with
and so she began to weave her spell.
“This old man is worthless,
a silly one, as you have seen.
There is no reason to waste your breath.
Save it for something more mean.”
“But I understand a trade must be made
and here is my offer to you.
I believe there will come a time
when you won’t know what to do.”
“When that time is upon you,
you can call on me in my hut.
I will solve the problem for you,
there will be no ifs, ands, or buts.”
And so those dragons remembered
the old gypsy’s agreed upon trade
and three, along with Abelzig,
made their way to her hut in the glade.
The old gypsy woman was out gathering wood
and looked up to see
a bald headed dragon upon her
and right away she knew this was the fee.
She told those dragons to wait
and she scuttled inside to begin.
Somehow she knew just what to do
we have to assume somehow fate has stepped in.
She had bundles of fur and wool.
She worked at binding it all with thread.
When she was done she had made a wig,
a wig sized exactly to cover a dragon’s head.
She came and handed the wig over,
it was really quite tidy and neat.
Abelzig put it on his head
and right away he began to build heat.
It is something rather funny
for you to consider here, as we close:
why not just make Abelzig a hat?
Not nearly as fun I suppose.