Where the Work Comes From
Although this video from 2014 can be seen elsewhere on this site, I wanted to post it here, now, as I commit to writing more deeply, clearly, and joyfully in this new year.
Similar Posts
Fat Time
Fat Time Under purest ultramarine the raisedgoblets of trees overrun with gold.We should be reeling drunk and portly as groundhogsthrough these windfalls of russet, citron, bronze, chartreuse. Everywhere color pools like butter, like oil of ripe nuts,like piles of oranges under a striped tent. Oh, let us be greedy of eyeball,pigs scuffling in this gorgeous…
Speaking Of the Muse
Speaking of the Muse My muse comes up behind me and says Honey(she calls me honey)you don’t have a lot of time here –lose the pale Flemish bridewith the sidelong glances. She says Look! Here I am!Dappled with oceansfurred with green and gold –Honey, give me your full attention here! O she turnslight runs from…
Grouse Song
In many traditions, the grouse is a symbol of the spiral dance to the heart of mystery. Here she is also an offering to my own limping, arthritic joints. Grouse spins inward, dancesthe one-wing limp-dance – the hunched, knee-favoring,stiff-hip-lurching two-step. Round and round she dancesdragging a wing, a thumb joint, and the dragged part, flightless,makes…
Crazing
Here’s the title poem from Crazing, which will be coming out at the beginning of August. (My apologies; I am unable to make the software reproduce the formatting of the original poem.) Crazing Cracked creek-bed red clay crackling – crazed they call it it’s called crazing and I am crazing cracking open like a chick…
Bless You, Father Walt
Bless You, Father Walt for lying stripped and singingin the floes and fallows of your own body.For granting us land-rights to your shaggy unkempt tonguewhere through long syllables of scarlet leaveswe ride shanks-mare, drunk on the public road again. Oh, bless me, Father Walt!Lend me your large boots to caper and hoot at dusk,make me…
Spring by Cazenovia Creek
Spring by Cazenovia Creek iThe roses have come throughthough some are dead to the ankles.Now, in this cheerful airthey must be feeling painwhere the dead places are stretchedby little flames of juice – when it catches they burnburgundy and green and green. iiGreek Persephonein her dry meadowscould linger, could fritterpicking orchids and anemones but hereearth…