As we got to know one another, she would sometimes tell me, “Each poem you write is like one of your children. Each one has a spirit and the potential to flourish.”
Needless to say, I married her.
Labor
Once in a while I’ll feel as if I’ve been struck by new inspiration, that I can finally go forward with my work as a poet. This has yet to stick, however.
paper
I see you now
as if for the very first time
floating before my gaze
white—changeable as the clouds
full of reflection
clear—deep as a canyon pond
perhaps you’re a spring
gushed from furthest mystery
a taste—artesian
I see you now
suddenly as if never before
welling up on my eyes
sparkling clarity
bubbling hope
This was drafted near the end of a seven day walk on Lost Coast Trail. I’m pretty sure this was inspired by the beach at Bear Harbor, near the northern end of the Sinkyone Wilderness State Park.
Rinse
I have spent a lot of time in poetry focused writer’s groups. These are mostly populated by people who for some inexplicable reason love the writing of Whitman, Ginsberg, and the like. When I get my turn to share my work and hear critiques, these folks generally have only one thing to say, which is something along the lines of, “Just say what you feel, man! Just write what you feel! It’s all about what you feel, man!!” Well, alright, at the moment, this what I feel, man!
nose hairs
they stand in line
stiff and stark
rank and file
on the march
merciless soldiers
raised from hell
heft their siege
in endless swell
rifles raised
with bayonettes
they stab their way
with no regrets
shooting always
toward the brain
with deadly force
unfailing aim
for each one pulled
from out the race
a dozen rise
to fill their place
marching always
on the brain
marching till i
go insane
