Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts

Wednesday, February 3, 2016

Apologies, alternate blog, a little writing!

I apologize for being so quiet on this blog for so long. Life has been busy. Also, I started a new blog where I feel a little more free about the topics I post on. You can visit my other blog here.

I have not written much/any poetry for quite a while, though I did participate in NaNoWriMo this past November, completing my goal of over 50k words in 30 days. Here is my NaNo novel page, and a short excerpt:


Wednesday afternoon at 4:45 p.m., Lieutenant Ann Hunt was “snooping” around Helton University’s campus. Of course she didn’t think of it as snooping, as it was her job to investigate criminal activity. But since Dino Youngblood was only a “person of interest” in the N.O.R.L.E. laboratory break-in case, and she was not officially investigating that case, this probably fell into the gray area between professional investigating and “snooping.”
The detective came to the campus wearing civilian clothes, and parked an unmarked car in the guest lot closest to Candelaria College. [sp?] She had photographs of Youngblood, and knew his license number – for a motorcycle. Not seeing the cycle parked, she decided to start at the building where he had his office.
According to the University’s class schedule, Youngblood was to be teaching a 300-level class on astrophysics in a small lecture hall on the ground floor in the same building. Ann walked around to the closest entrance, and found the building directory. The lecture room was close by. A student passed her in the hall, and Ann pretended to be looking at her phone.
Approaching the lecture room, the detective could hear a discussion through the halfway open double door. A handsome brown-haired man wearing a white lab coat stood in the aisle and was having a a lively conversation with some of the students. Hunt recognized Dino Youngblood from his profile photo. Could this be someone who would break into a lab in another university? If it was, why would someone suspect him unless there was definitive evidence, she thought to herself.
She decided to visit Youngblood’s office while he was occupied. She stepped back quietly, and found the nearest stairs. The office would be on the second floor, near the other end of the building. It was a fairly long, narrow building dating probably to the 1970s, with no obvious updates aside from some of the windows.
Ann passed through a corridor designated as the astronomy department, and found several of the offices were occupied at this time of the day. This could complicate, or perhaps assist her “snooping.”
Coming to a bend in the hallway, Hunt paused and checked for other faculty or students in the area. Youngblood’s office door was near the end of a small ell in the building, where it adjoined an older building designated as the chemistry department. The overhead lights were not on in this section, and the door was partly in shadow. However, Hunt could the more clearly see a light under the door. Either someone was inside, or Youngblood left his light on. She decided to knock.
Approaching the door, she saw a small board with announcements tacked up – upcoming lectures, Youngblood’s office hours, and a journal rack with a recent copy of an astrophysics periodical. Hunt listened, but could not hear anyone moving or speaking inside the office. She knocked twice.
No answer. She thought the light under the door wavered momentarily. That seemed like someone inside, possibly aware of her but trying to be unnoticed.
“Hello?” said Ann. “Doctor Youngblood?”
She silently cursed herself. If someone challenged her, she would not be able to explain how she did not see that Youngblood was currently in a lecture without looking foolish.
Ann detected no sound or further sign of movement inside the office. She checked the doorknob. It turned with a slight click. The door was not locked.
Slowly pulling the door open, she found the room small and cramped with shelves, filing cabinets, two desks, and stacks of journals and textbooks. There was no living thing, but a wall calendar and a few posters depicting plants and animals from tropical places. Puerto Rico, and, she guessed, Hawaii.

Thursday, August 15, 2013

Reflections (non-music)

It is hard for me to have a blog about just my music, or just my poetry. I've been reading about writing lately, and feel like I wish I did more of it. So here is what I've been thinking about this morning. I don't know why, exactly. Maybe I am just feeling the passing of time as the summer starts to roll up into overcast late August days like today.


Reflection on loss – family, mortality

The Compassionate Friends is clearly a great organization, and I'm pleased to help the Salem chapter out with their website and emails, but I've never attended a support meeting. I've never lost a child or brother or sister or niece. Both of my parents are still living and doing fine, as are my sister and brother. I can't really imagine the experience of losing someone in my immediate family, though I do remember somewhat how it felt to come home one day in the first grade and find out my mother had been in a terrible car accident and nearly died. And I do remember having bad dark dreams as a young child in which my mother was deathly ill and I felt abandoned, alone. It was a cold, almost paralyzing feeling.

When a personal love relationship of ten years ended for me in 2008, I felt destroyed, and at times thought it would have been better if the person I loved had died, because then it would not somehow be my fault. It would not feel like a choice outside my control, made by someone else I cared for, to not be part of my life any longer. Of course this was just a thought I had. I don't know if it's true beyond the feeling of loss I was experiencing at the time.

In 2009, my father had a near-fatal heart attack, and at first it seemed likely my family would have to go on living without him. But then he miraculously recovered, and we did our best to put that thought aside.

All of my biological grandparents are no longer living. The last one passed on in 1997. That was a great loss, but not the same as it would be to lose someone I grew up with, seeing nearly every day, a part of my basic family unit. I wished I could have known my grandparents better. But I was too young.

Some day I will lose someone close. It will probably be sudden and unexpected. Perhaps I will see them for the last time in a hospital, and be allowed to say goodbye. And someday I will pass on.

People sometimes talk about living each day as if it were our last, but can we really live that way? Wouldn't that be a terribly morbid attitude to hold? Somehow, I feel maybe it is healthier to live each day as if there will be many more to come, because any one day is all we ever have, but no one day is so important that it could be more than just a day in a lifetime. At the same time, we should never take the people we have in our lives for granted. Each time we say goodbye might be the last time.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Haiku


Haiku

brown plastic leaf bins
the life of the maple tree
makes work for the rake


(10/24/2012)

Friday, May 18, 2012

Gentle Wind (2009) and Reflecting


Gentle Wind

Tiny spider, your bones appear so slight
that my barest breath near you comes
over you as a hurricane of terror.
The silk-taut line you tug and twist upon
is invisible to my eyes, merely a
suggestion of gossamer scaffold.

You may now cling so tightly, and I fear
you will fall instantly and be lost, or
my breath draws you so close and
you will grab my hair, burrow
down my skin, down my back, and be lost.
So we joust the air, my breath and you.

Your silent twitching music of a
one-cord harp bewitches my thoughts
in this momentary song of emotion:
I am suddenly in your place. I am
this little fellow, pendulous to life.
Dry tears touch my eyelids. I reflect.

The artist
blows upon the zephyr breeze of Being,
and hopes the coming rain
may not dissolve all.


(6/18/2009)


I wrote and first shared this poem in June of 2009. I remember somewhat the particular image I was exploring, an actual tiny spider perhaps two millimeters tall hanging from its silken line in front of me: so tiny and yet just "out there" in an immense and dangerous universe. I was sitting on the bus at the time I wrote it, playing with the words and ideas, but reflecting really on what it's like to be an artist, and what it's like for me to be a person who feels super vulnerable much of the time. Feeling sensitive, like my skin isn't even there, I sometimes feel like total raw nerve endings and viscera exposed to the world. All I can do, times like those, is hold on tight to something and hope some cruel reality doesn't all come crashing in.

And paradoxically, I really want to be "out there" in the immense universe, like the tiny spider. (Even though spiders creep many people out with their too many arms and legs and how they do tend to do weird things like bite you or try to get in your hair or crawl around your skin. I don't think I'm really like that, but I think ideas can feel that way, too! They also bite and make you feel uncomfortable.)

I appreciate the incredible blessing of knowing – and being reminded, when needed – there are other people in my life who understand at least some of what it can be like to be sensitive and/or artistic.


Thursday, May 3, 2012

Colors


Colors

Some beauties, sweet and fleet,
like the happy bird on the branch by the window,
you cannot catch them.
To cage is to kill them.
Some beauties you have to let go.

The colors of a song are so bright
and soft, my dazzled eyes cannot see what
only my heart can feel.
The muse of the poet is kindly cool.
Her visits are passing.

Some lovers, warm and dear,
like the singing bird on the tree by the fence,
you cannot keep them.
To catch is to hurt them.
Some lovers you need to let go.

The years of a life are so bright
and swift, my thoughts cannot catch what
barely memories can hold.
The love of a friend is a godly grace.
His visits are treasure.


(5/3/2012)

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Missing


Missing

Suddenly alone, so all these images
Flood back, the
Memories of days gone,
People gone, things gone.
Hurt can enter a moment where things are absent, gone, perhaps lost.
An empty chair or side of the bed can open a wash of sadness.
Feeling sad, a life lived full of things and people can feel a little scary because nothing stays the same:
Life gets jumbled up with changes.
Feeling sad can lead to feeling better, feeling thankful,
Feeling alive,
Feeling loved and hopeful.


(12/20/2011)

Thursday, November 3, 2011

Trilobite Song (1997)


Trilobite Song


Oh, to be a trilobite in some primordial goop —
A wriggly something wiggling in the three-tone frothy soup!
I have five eighty-thousand toes, a delightsome fearful lot,
And when I stick them in my mouth, I taste the meal I've caught.

Oh, to be a trilobite in long-forgotten seas.
I hunker down a darkened hole and flex my billion knees.
And though I never see the sun, so far I swim and swam,
I pass the night with planktonite, and dinner with a clam.

Oh, to be a three-lobed shellfish in the Paleozoic,
I eat enough creapy stuff to make a person go “ick!”
But I'm never sad or lazy — I just pass the time
Resting in my briny niche from evolution’s climb.

Oh, to be a trilobite, to don my sticky bonnet
Though, you say, it’s not that way — and I had never thought it.
But if you doubt what I'm about, you can keep your money.
I'll just smile and sweetly say, “It’s in the genes, Honey.”



(3/23/97)


It had been over a month since my last contribution on here, and since I resolved to blog at least once per month I dug up this older poem from around the time I started getting interested again in writing.

I don’t always explain or comment on my poems, but this one got me thinking recently about what it was really “about.” On the surface, it’s playful and poking fun at the debate over teaching evolution in the public schools. It occurred to me the other day that as a social commentary, I probably had in mind on some deeper level how dependent we are today (even back in 1997) on digital technology. What would we really do right now if we didn’t have computers to do so much for us, with their “eighty-thousand toes” to count on? Could we make it? Maybe finding meaning in life would be more a matter of bare essentials and not chasing down life between sips of sleep while the clocks and calendars and computers keeps us running. At least we still have family and friends on our digital docks. And DVD collections of all our favorite TV shows are kind of nice.

Friday, September 2, 2011

Haiku - End of Summer

Haiku

End of summer move:
My life in boxes again,
Good use for phone books.


(9/2/2011)

Please follow this link to vote for my poem. It will help me win some money for school. Thanks!

Saturday, August 6, 2011

Turning Over

Turning Over

How many hopes, wishes, loves
Have ended at the strike of a
Bullet or a bomb? Shall we
Turn over the whole surface of
The Earth for the graves
Yet to be claimed? Shall we
Bury our own lost selves now
In the debris of not caring,
Not understanding, not—?
A new way must be found.
Hopes and wishes cannot keep
Under the ground. Love cannot,
Must not look back.


(7/5/2011)

Monday, April 25, 2011

Feel Again

Feel Again

Isn't it good, finally, to silence all our machinations
and feel again kinship with the trees and grasses
who know only of the treble susurrations of wind as it
pushes and sways their taut bodies,
of throaty-voiced seasonal geese who pass
and punctuate the broad chords of the ground's horizon?

Love is like a hushed morning;
a euphony of silence invites
whispers of a neglected heart.


(4/25/2011)

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Passing in Hallways

Passing in Hallways

I've heard it said, life is
a journey, not a destination.
Then mine must be all about
this passing in hallways:
It is where I find myself,
where I learn so much I need
to know about.

I was not well for a long time.
I felt the pressure.
I felt the world was all too much.
The pressure stopped and suddenly
I was better, but I was not happy.
This seems like it may always be
a problem for me —
Will I find myself always poor,
always lacking if
when the going gets tough
I get stuck?

I'm asked, is this what I have
in mind for my work,
for it all to be about poetry?
I'm asked, what are the
technical themes prominent
in my work? I say,
I tend to borrow a lot
from myself. I'm very much
a self-plagiarist, repeating
themes, regurgitating the same
ideas I had, over and over.
So where are we going with this?
I'm still standing on the
outside of the door, wondering
what's going on without me
on the inside of this place.
I'm still passing in the hallways.

I find some bread and take a bite
while I reflect on what has passed.
I chew the seeds of flowers
that will never bloom.
I feel troubled; I stop dreaming.

I wake to the sense that
I am always passing through places
and never belonging. My life as such
is a process of moving on, but
never arriving. Am I enjoying the
scenery as I move along, always
passing in hallways?


(3/22/2011)

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Memory and Forgetting

Memory and Forgetting

Maybe I am forever changed, or
maybe I try too hard
to "let go" and "move on"
when it all comes down to just doing
what I want --

Issa apparently wrote:

Mother, I weep
for you as I watch the sea
each time I watch the sea.

Do we ever forget those who move our lives so?

All the things I did and wrote years ago
don't seem to help me with today's
unwritten lines.
I ask myself why did I do and write those things then, and
how did I get through the terrible feeling
I could die before I finished each one,
or was it even the same feeling?
Each task I set out again to do,
just to write a few pages,
each starting point with an almost-forgetting
my prior death-struggle, all
so dramatic.

Today I told myself,
I give my permission
not to take up this new struggle
if that is what I want. If that is
how it turns out, in the end,
I will let that be OK.
Let me remember myself
and forget the pain.

It concerns me, still.
It is so hard to trust and hope.
But I am calmer when I
remember myself
and forget the pain
for a little while at least.


(2/20/2011)

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Cracks

Cracks

We are held upright by cracks in the sidewalk,
Steady-footed and balanced on uneven turf.
We find our way through dizzy heights and rough waters.
Life is a journey, so never stay put.

We are perfected by embracing our flaws,
And faultless admitting that we can be wrong.
Eternal, our lives are as we live for each day,
Truth, beauty, and love: know these and be strong.


(1/5/2011)

Thursday, December 30, 2010

Obsolescence

Obsolescence

As old things wear out, the new moves in.
Is it this way with us, or not?
Linens and towels go to rags, and
Are replaced in sets. What is the new color,
The latest print? If they're made well,
They should last a while.
Obsolesce or obsess, the gap must not endure.

Black on red or red on black, is a question
Of the background taken, but
What is always going, cannot be taken or kept.
It is the pursuit that endures:
Where does it end? The only final mark
Is change, when something is different now.
And now we must be going.


(12/30/2010)

Sunday, November 21, 2010

What Is

What Is

Our life is so much a make or break deal:

First we have what is Given,
A chance, a birth, mother, father,
Sister, brother, blood kin and people met.
A world is here where we wake each day
And find ourselves involved.

Then we have our own designs, of
Each moment a path, a care, a career,
We make something of time and trouble.
A life is lived, conducted, embraced,
Experience of what may be.

What is, what will become, is
Our dance of chance and choice.


(11/21/2010)

Sunday, October 17, 2010

A Thorn

A Thorn

A prickle guards the rose,
But a thorn is nothing:
A bloom that chose
Not to open.


(5/16/2010)

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

My Summer Wheels

My Summer Wheels

My wheels lap up so many miles of solid highway
Like a cool, clean draught on this dry summer day.
Today they drink their fill. (May the cold rains return.)

Slippery silver-blue mirages pave the way in front.
Who lives on Yager Lane? Who lives on Lake Road?
Granges, wine cellars, farm-cow fields greet my progress.
Do they think to slow my haste from where I am to where I am not?
Changing life envelops me anyway.

Now I crest another hill; an elk of leafy branches
Lies in surprise on the narrow curves, but only the wind bends me.
Soon, steady tree limbs signal a quiet reflective moment
To let labyrinthine cares coil behind.
The road is purple where I'm going, and streaking gold with sun's rays.
Here, where the road lies open and plain,
I stop for a poem's breath, and sing to the trees and flowers below!


(8/24/2010)

Saturday, May 29, 2010

Knowhow

Knowhow

If birds and
butterflies don't know
the mysteries of life,
how can the poet?
Steel bars know
strength to knit
engineers' bridges wide;
the pen knows its
ink like the clover
knows its green.
The tree knows, too,
the soil undertrod
and how it is
to reach and grow,
and fall, while
stars all know
their own ways
through vastness.
All do.
How is it to be?


(5/29/10)

Sunday, May 16, 2010

A Wish

A Wish

It's been a while since the last time I saw you.
It's been a while since our last time.
I miss you and wish I could hold you tonight.
It's been really much too long for me.

I want to tell you how much I want you.
I want to hear you say you miss me, too.
These are the sweet words I'm hopeful to hear.
I want to tell you just how much I care.

We might still never get this together.
We may be destined to stay far apart,
But I have a hope that I'll hold you again
And wish you a beautiful life.


(4/28/2010)

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Not My Better Self

Not My Better Self

I fear and I doubt, and
I just feel so tired,
So weak—too weak,
Too flawed,
Too small,
Too slow,
Too late,
Too afraid, and so
I am not my better self.

But some time I may
Sneak past my small cares and
Find out a new beauty to my life, and
I am grateful again,
And growing.


(3/25/2010)