All posts tagged: poetry

A Simple Silence

How to Be a Poet (to remind myself) BY WENDELL BERRY Make a place to sit down. Sit down. Be quiet. You must depend upon affection, reading, knowledge, skill—more of each than you have—inspiration, work, growing older, patience, for patience joins time to eternity… Breathe with unconditional breath the unconditioned air. Shun electric wire. Communicate slowly. Live a three-dimensioned life; stay away from screens. Stay away from anything that obscures the place it is in. There are no unsacred places; there are only sacred places and desecrated places. Accept what comes from silence. Make the best you can of it. Of the little words that come out of the silence, like prayers prayed back to the one who prays, make a poem that does not disturb the silence from which it came. Advertisements

Just a Description….

Coocoo of the mourning dove Rivals that of the rooster Cicadas chime in Maraca solo Balmy skin sticks To stagnant sheets Vagabond sheep Gnaw on false-sage brush Dismissive of the dogpear Broached to their coats Ocotillo spirals Thick, blooming buds, so red they almost Burn. Breeze sweeps through Wire fences as though Releasing this endless Summer

Ebb & Flow

I slink out into passageway of peace, clarity strokes my eyes before they open to greet the day, to feel the breeze on my cheeks. It’s that time of combined yellow/ blue light that the coo-coo doves and wrens beckon into morning. Trees dance along to whooping melodies, little girls freckled from the sun chase the cat through the sprinklers like little tyrant knights…. this is summertime. Still, I remain. Sitting outside in the gentle, humid Texas morning looking at my skin. One body, one mind, one being. Is it enough to live one life?  25 years into it and all I feel is the bitterness grind into dust and blow away like the flame in birthday wishes. Today I have made a promise to myself (and oh how I hope not to break it) to indulge in every waking moment in this busy, little, fragile life of mine. I haven’t been “home” physically or mentally for a while now, but am slowly regaining my grounds, squeezing a waking breath into that fictitious fable we …

Daily Business of Living

 “The life of a poet oscillates between ecstasy and agony, and what mitigates those extremes is the necessary daily business of living.” Louise Glück, from “Internal Taperstries,” by William Giraldi, Poets and Writers (vol. 42, no. 5, September/October 2014)   This is always how it goes,  I write: “I haven’t had time to write.” But there is something I never really realized…. inspiration takes time. It takes hours, days, maybe weeks of meditation to quiet the mind, to actually think thoughts that don’t involve task-oriented motions. Time is something I haven’t had a lot of lately, I feel like a top spinning straight into the ground…. By week, I am in an archaeology intern out in west Texas working on a rather amazing project, and by the weekend, I gather my things (dirt still on my face) and drive back to Austin to make and sell WR & my handmade Pierogi (Polish style dumplings) at the farmers markets here. It’s been quite hectic, but manageable and now I have a week back in Austin. I’ve …

Dining Room in the Country

There is no wall between the landscape Parallel lines split clean passed Pastel symmetry divided by stucco walls, Vivid but barren The colors do not blur, but blend against the brush Geometry stilted against memory A lasting gaze A woman leans against the pane, Outside looking in. More feral at heart than the cats That’ve claimed her chairs. A wild thing, that tree plucked clean by pulpy hands Flesh happy to have picked flesh Now resting on a clothed table Until dusk inherits the red Resting against shoulders We can cover with our thumbs How has it happened that a piece can be held in your hands, possessed, purchased, & owned But never really known?

January 24th, 2016

My sister & I were born in winter in the dead month that rings in the new year. 25 today Is it true? did I let the youth slip between my fingers like water through porous stone? I can’t count the memories like I can years, can’t justify all the misplaced months stammering in and out of idleness. I could go back, content in following one clear path. Again, as a second calling. But that isn’t life. That wasn’t the hand I was dealt, or even the game that I gambled myself into. We have only one chance, ultimately, and though the faces that weave into that web are kind ones… I’m still left with the “what ifs…” They glow like the inside of a curtained window, offering  the possibility of warmth, but never enough to truly feel. I’m 25 today When did I spring up out of adolescence? When did that line form between my eyebrows, When did those dreams become displaced pangs of quiet nothingness Too cold to flicker into realities, too poignet …