Could the
waveless sanctuary
discovered beneath
shadowed dreams
hold the full
universe
Category: Poetry
Dutiful Ghosts
Dutiful ghosts
tend their scattering
sons and daughters
with mercy and gravity.
As we seek new mysteries
they devour our sorrows.
My Porcelain Spine
My porcelain spine
skinned bare
and full of ghosts
tipsy with the truth
of their waxing power
Another Bird
Another bird
blue as deepest night
and delirious with
new born hope
wings in binary
orbit
with her singing sister
trailing her dreamshroud
behind
My Yellow Bird
My yellow bird
drunk
on guilt and gall
sings griefsongs
in the half mad dawn
Graven in bone
night after night
and dream after dream
every ugly thought
obdurate and sacred
Pilgrimage
From small realms
and careful orbits
we journey home
unburdened and bootless
defiant and ready
to fell the gathering ghosts.
I mentioned I’ve been kinda sorta doing Camp NaNoWriMo? Only I’m not writing a book or anything too taxing. Instead, I’m trying to make myself write just one tiny poem a day. Sometimes I miss a day and have to do two the next day. However it works out, I want to have 30 little poems at the end of the month. This is not something I’m at all good at. I’ve read a hundred books on harnessing and maintaining creative motivation, and mostly they are all useless. The one exception was Susan Wooldrige’s Poemcrazy. In it, she recommends writing words on pieces of paper or cardstock and placing them in a container. When you need inspiration, draw a few words from the container and start writing.
This? This works for me. My little box of words sits on my coffee table. Last night’s inspiration was “orbits” and “bootless.”
A Tiny Poem
I collect
and name
every shell
upon the shore
then wake to find
my boats have been
burned
The Dull Aching Bone
The dull aching bone
of a remembering thought
knows the shell
has cracked
I’m doing camp NaNoWriMo this month. Only I’m kind of cheating and using it as motivation to write a tiny poem a day. Or two tiny poems every other day. However it works, I want thirty of them by the end of the month.
Eggshells Underfoot
Eggshells underfoot
scattered then collected
and every piece
hoarded
against
the unlikely future
where memory
retreats
Every Lost City
Every lost city
beneath
the blue moss blanket
of dreams
recalls the secret road
waiting
without
red paper boat 