So … I’m knee-deep in poetry right now, still. And I feel almost guilty. I have so many people waiting on my next novel, but I’ve set it aside (again). I’m drawn to poetry and I’m gonna ride this pony til she stops.
Here’s one of my latest that I worked on in a recent Lighthouse Writers workshop. I can’t seem to get the line spacing right on this blog, but it’s close.
Let me know what you think. Thanks for reading!
A Different Seed
I was born in fields of bluebonnets,
ink-well-sapphire dense petals spiked in sun-blind white
short-lived in the Texas spring —
each dew-soaked stem
flattened just yesterday
by the sharp nose of the coyote
the hoof-step of the Hereford
hiding the hiss and slither of the rattler —
always bouncing back
seemingly singular,
good for early-morning picking
before the heat sets in.
Yet by high noon
it’s never easy
to detach a wilted loner
from the rest held together by a nest of roots
entrenched in the holy dirt
of Saint Sam Houston
el malvado Santa Anna
battle-blood of the Alamo
sweet bread of the German siedler
rusted barbed-wire of fences
oily cotton boll of the farmer
weather-worn skull of a fire-ant-stricken calf
my grandfather would’ve tried to save.
And even though Lady Bird’s highways are lined with them —
musky-sweet flowers,
family ties,
good intentions —
not every seed will grow
where planted.
Is it easily spread on the wind?
Can it tolerate full sun?
And what happens
when
the parched and crisp soil
becomes suddenly drenched,
clay-like —
unable to breathe?
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I I’ve been dabbling in poetry lately. While several of my poems have been published through the years, and one even placed in a literary contest here in Colorado, I don’t consider myself a poet, really. I’ve not studied the genre like I have fiction and creative nonfiction. But something about it has been calling me. I think I like that I can play around with language and punctuation and flow and metaphor in ways that you just can’t with other types of writing. And I can swoop in and out of thoughts and imagery on the page.
Here’s one of my latest poems, dedicated to Mom and Dad’s daily challenges as they work through their early 70s.
Invincible Ignorance
Her hair dark, shining, beyond her shoulders
thick as three horses’ manes
legs perpetually tanned
sure-footed
in the garden
on the sawdust dance floor
carrying her sharp-tongued wit
wherever it wished to go,
taking her children along
for the bright lights of
the Ferris wheel ride.
His hands rough,
capable
of moving livestock
and minds,
holding dogs
and the dreams of little girls;
his shoulders, those shoulders
carrying us
and keeping all things steady,
the shelter of reason
the home of
it’s all going to be okay.
But now
her hair,
turning a corner
to spun silver —
where there is no planting
on uneven ground,
and the fair
with its lights spinning
at the pink of dusk
is likely
leaving town.
And his hands,
those shoulders,
they’ve turned on him
with knots like centuries-old
live oak branches,
creaking in a South Texas
night wind,
and swollen joints
no amount of tools
from his truck
can fix.
Uncertainty creeps in
like a rattlesnake
slipping
through tall dry weeds
for a strike.
pain overtakes
the laughter
meds don’t mix
with beer
mornings
are a crap shoot
and
reaching for anything
is just too much.
Me? I can’t, won’t
wrap my head
around the present
or how it fits with the past
or how it shapes the future.
Yet I do know
invincible natures
live longer
than those
who are not
bone and muscle
are a fallible
source of direction,
salvation
and, mostly,
ignorance remains
a nice place to visit.
After all
their truth
is not my truth
and the state of
all matter
is relative
anyway.
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I was looking through some old writing files tonight and found a poem I wrote back in 2003. Sadly, it reminded me of the recent catastrophic flooding folks here in Colorado experienced last month. Isn’t it sad that sometimes everything you know has to be ripped away from you before you can begin to rebuild?
Bed Unmade
Drying, cracking, ribbon like,
a creek bed unvisited
by the very one who owns it.
Aching, looking, a young girl’s search
timelessness, quietness, seeping in.
Rocks and mold, age-old formations,
pebbles between her middle toes,
insects crawling among the lines.
Then rainfall arrived
and arrived, and stayed late;
foaming clay-mud swirls
filling a crisp canvas
and erased the lines
betrayed the ants
silenced the quiet
and swallowed the land,
unmade the bed,
sheets all torn
pillows swimming
only to slip back and taunt again.
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