Falling into
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Posted:Aug 10, 2021 7:16 am
Last Updated:Aug 15, 2021 3:59 pm
8148 Views
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Falling into written July 7th, 2021
always a never a without a face suspended in this twilight no-where and in no-time floating in air my faith is the tight grasp keeping you from falling into the abyss where are crushed like fallen fruit— or am I keeping you from falling into grace?
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5
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Deception
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Posted:Aug 7, 2021 2:34 pm
Last Updated:Aug 18, 2021 8:14 am
8717 Views
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Deception written July17th, 2021
I write deception fabricating fictions layer after layer of perverse prevarications surrounding my subject with inventions and evasions so that the truth can be revealed in the serpentine curves of these words.
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6
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The unknown in me
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Posted:Aug 6, 2021 1:28 pm
Last Updated:Aug 9, 2021 12:58 pm
7982 Views
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The unknown in me written July 22nd, 2021
I collect words and try to fit them to my experiences
trying to capture this moment right now— it is all I have.
I—looks at the page and writes a moment while others peer over her shoulder
shaking their heads curling up to sleep from the overwhelm reaching out to change a word or phrase
we are all here sometimes all at once other times one at a time
I always think I know who writes these words this word right now
Until I look back and don't recognize words just written
I guess we are used to it the wonder and startlement of the unknown in me.
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2
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Koan me
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Posted:Jul 24, 2021 8:05 am
Last Updated:Sep 7, 2021 4:46 pm
8653 Views
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Who is writing this? I am.
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8
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River rushing below bluffs
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Posted:Jul 19, 2021 6:40 am
Last Updated:Aug 8, 2021 1:11 am
7578 Views
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River rushing below bluffs written July 7th, 2021
I dream of the bluffs we visited that day river rushing below demarcating freedom
these years of practicing flying away across fields in preparation for this night have made my wings strong
can I reach the bluffs? float out over the river below? escape these fields and rows encompassing my life
I fly towards my future until wings collapse trembling on the edge of becoming or breaking into pieces I fall to the ground
Not to the bluffs and river rushing below not this time but one night soon with these wings made strong.
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5
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Poet after poet
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Posted:Jul 17, 2021 5:10 am
Last Updated:Aug 11, 2021 6:24 pm
7744 Views
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Poet after poet written July 10th, 2021
Day by day, and poem by poem my home and my life fill with friends and lovers who took the time to write to me through the years and distances.
Jane Kenyon sits on the corner of my dining room table a pool of calm for me to dip into anytime I need.
1 poets (I counted) from Copper Canyon Press are in residence between the covers of The Gift of Tongues. They enliven the desk where I write always falling into respectable order when I peak in before writing.
Mary Oliver, Pablo Neruda Olga Broumas, W S Merwin and other dear friends sit on my shelves sometimes amiably discussing other times heatedly debating each other's sock choices.
George Bilgere, Ellen Bass and Gregory Orr have seduced me filling me with awe as they stimulate my mind my lovers far away who talk to me in chapbooks.
Poet after poet I wonder how many I have not met because I have not found them yet or they were not preserved or published.
I bow my head in a moment of grateful silence to those known and unknown who make my world a more lively place.
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6
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Fatigue
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Posted:Jul 16, 2021 12:25 pm
Last Updated:Jul 16, 2021 5:14 pm
7529 Views
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Fatigue written July th, 2021
Fatigued I swim up through the years
overshooting into a desert dry future wasteland
so I dive back down trying to reach
today.
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2
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Sudden grace
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Posted:Jul 9, 2021 7:04 am
Last Updated:Jul 10, 2021 5:13 am
7442 Views
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Sudden Grace written July 6th, 2021
I wait for these moments of sudden grace
light piercing dark storm clouds a perfect note improbably held in song the golden hawk on a suburban tree branch
when suddenly I can breath.
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4
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Definitions of hurt
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Posted:Jun 28, 2021 12:09 pm
Last Updated:Jun 30, 2021 9:07 am
8258 Views
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Definitions of hurt written March 14th, 2021
My story is not of physical violence and love withheld. My story is of violation and love mixed together.
When love is defined that way with things that don't leave marks on a afraid cry different definitions of hurt are learned by the body - by my body.
You reach out touch my pussy I say, "Please don't hurt " you say, "I would never hurt you" and then you touch pushing things into not understanding that my body learned my body knows my body screams in pain at that intimate touch that the world defines as pleasure
"Don't hurt ?" I ask you don't understand my definition of hurt my inability say I know you would want say certainly any sane adult would say
"No. That hurts. Stop. I don't want this."
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4
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Happy endings
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Posted:Jun 27, 2021 4:28 am
Last Updated:Jun 28, 2021 4:38 am
7843 Views
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Happy endings written June 8th, 2021
I think about stories with happy endings that everyone recognizes as appropriate and proper.
It is what people expect resolution, the good guys win happiness rules the day the story is completed.
My life is a story which I write in my poems though I am not sure what the ending will be.
I want to tell my story with the ending unknown I need for this to be enough.
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6
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I wouldn't save much except...
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Posted:Jun 22, 2021 8:00 am
Last Updated:Jun 23, 2021 7:07 am
8281 Views
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I wouldn't save much except... written January 22nd, 2021
There is not much I want to save from my childhood growing up in a small farm town except for...
Sunsets exploding gently over the fields colors rolling as far as the eye could see red orange yellow pink marking the transition from day into night.
Sitting on that swing hung on the swing-set we used to play on as . I would sit there at night staring up at the stars imagining the night air wrapped around me like a blanket.
Books sitting outside our garage when I got off the bus donations for my mom's club would I find rabbits that talked? architect's grand visions? those books my ticket to far off worlds.
Neighbors and pets in the yards around ours part of the fabric of my life day to day running through their yards playing with their dogs wondering about their lives so close to mine.
The plum tree that profusely gave us bushels of plums one summer then died. The walnut tree that my father and then the squirrels thought was a fantastic idea. The raspberries that never made it into the house because I ate them still warm from the sun.
The ballet in Chicago with my dad magical every time but sitting at eye level that first time for the Nutcracker and being taken away by dance, costumes, sets, and music to a fantastical world.
Playing stamps with Grandpa in early elementary school. I was the quiet He always said he didn't know how to spell the countries either but I think he really did know.
There is not much I want to save from my childhood except for these things which make me smile and transport me to happy moments which did exist.
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3
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Thought for the day from Ursula K Le Guin
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Posted:Jun 21, 2021 8:46 am
Last Updated:Jul 6, 2021 2:42 pm
8386 Views
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From the essay: "Where Do You Get Your Ideas From?" by: Ursula K Le Guin In: The World Split Open: Great Authors on How and Why We Write
"Fiction results from imagination working one experience. We shape experience in our minds so that it makes sense. We force the world to be coherent, to tell us a story.
Not only fiction writers do this; we all do it; we do it constantly, in order to survive. People who can't make the world into a story, go mad. Or, like infants or (perhaps) animals, they live in a world that has no history, no time but now."
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3
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Visible
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Posted:Jun 20, 2021 6:44 am
Last Updated:Jun 21, 2021 5:41 pm
7327 Views
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And everyday was difficult, walking around and knowing that people saw me one way, knowing that they were wrong, so completely wrong, that the real me was invisible them. didn't even exist them. So: If nobody sees you, are you still ? —Akwaeke Emezi, The Death of Vivek Oji
Visible written June 5th, 2021
I slowly approach the idea of being visible after a lifetime of being afraid of being seen.
Being invisible is a kind of protection. If I can be invisible disappear even myself the pain won't exist.
I can testify the pain still felt even when holding perfectly still invisible the world.
Self is something we are alone with by our selves but also something we are in relation with others.
I reach out with this poem declare my self you. claim my space in this world. begin reveal me.
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4
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