Midwinter Trees

 (2/18/25)

All the gray branches

reach high like

   the fingers of lean arms.

Like the fibers of a broom wisp—

they may sweep the sky of its clouds.

Daffodils

This is not a poem and not a scholarly article. I realize I don't share a lot because I really want things to be perfect. So here's a picture I took today in my front yard. Is it perfect? Does it matter?

Daffodils like the nice weather we're having!

Process (a #TBT)

Process (a #TBT)

It is always recommended for artists of all stripes to carry some kind of notepad or sketch pad with them at all times, for jotting down ideas on the go.

This is a page from my notepad/scheduler from April, 2010. You can see my classes for that day, that it was a sunny day, a reminder to bring life savers to my voice lesson the next day, and that I planned to watch Casablanca off Netflix that evening. (Old-school DVD style!) I also wrote down a few stanzas of poetry as the lines came to me, because I was sitting on the bus thinking about what a nice day it was. Later that day I edited the four stanzas into a poem, and a while later set them to music as a song.

So you never know when, in between grocery trips and bus rides on a sunny day, you might have an idea that can go somewhere with a little more work.

Minding the Melt (A Sonnet?)

Minding the Melt

Walking without a wrap, despite my recent cold,
the morning air stings inside my tender nose,
and trees patter down so much melting ice,
they must be wringing out the moss
that coats the crotch and purfle of every twig.
A gray squirrel with his tail fluffed wide
skids in fearless leaps from leaf-patched grass
and scales the nearest trunk.

Above the scene, the November-angled sun spotlights
his fast acrobatics and embosses the glassy
chilled surface of everything – curbs, shrubs, puddles, mud.
The trees don’t seem to care who might venture under
their sagging limbs. They distill a private
rain song from last night’s freeze.


(Nov. 14 & 15, 2014)

Equinox (poem)

Equinox


Soft, slender, pallid moon
untouched by cloying, custard clouds,
unmoved by graying steely sky,
unmatched for delicate features.

Acorns dropped on dusty earth
(to separate the brown and shade)
recall how fast the twilight fades
on a late September walk.

A dog breaks a stern note.
Ashen green and stony must,
the path is worn by summer tread,
by grass, by footprints, by twigs.

The measured hour has passed again.
Comes soon the starry dark
and brings the cooling, sweaty dusk:
no bird, no breeze, no rain.


(9/28/2014)

Zephyr (poem)

Zephyr

(word, woven
reaching fronds
curved
  a tree round
watching
wind-dancing)

Woven-wound and wind-dancing,
a curved tree watches its fronds,
to reach airy conclusions.

A bird, holed up, corroborates
its wit: cotton-leafed wings
whistle the midsummer postprandial breeze.

July, still before a thunder-burst.


(7/22/2014)

Lost

Lost

By the convenience store
a lottery scratch-off game
is laminated to the asphalt.
This wet parking lot, see how
small printing blurs into pale paperboard.
It's upside-down, sealed, secreted.
Ruined by soaking
and truck tires,
it dissolves in oil and thin mud:
Not a winner.


(1/18/13)

Contentment (2001)

Contentment

Contentment curls up on the rug by the fire.
Wind doesn't chill,
Rain doesn't soak, and
Worries don't dance with the shadows on the wall.

The unread book lies open on page one;
Leaves are uncreased,
Buds are un-pressed, and
The words of tomorrow are waiting to be told.


(4/19/2001)


I wish all cold winter evenings could fit the positive and optimistic image of this poem. This is an older one of mine as you can tell by the date. I started writing the dates on my poems at some point because, even if they are not published, I am curious about the sequence and the time of year. What was going on in my life when I wrote this? So the date is mainly for my own sense of personal history.

Not too long ago I submitted a small set of haiku to a local literary art journal but it was not accepted. I felt disappointed and a little surprised, but then felt amused when I saw the publication in print. I decided my work didn't really fit with what they'd printed. I suppose the meaning for me in this kind of experience – putting myself and my work out there for others to see and judge – is that I write poetry, music, etc. as I like it to be. I write to please my own sense of artistry. I then put my work out there because I don't want to be selfish and alone, because I genuinely want to share what I create with others, and because you just have to do work out in the public view to be an artist. But if someone doesn't like what I write, or it doesn't fit what someone is looking for, that should not be a problem. I will just keep on writing because it works for me. Even if someone were paying me to write or create something for them, I would still want that work to come from my voice and reflect my sense of what is good. I know when I've done a good job, and it's not when someone else says. This can create a sense of conflict, and I tend to feel timid and cautious about putting myself out in the world, but I know the real reason I create is not to please others but because creating pleases me and I need to be doing it.

In hindsight about this one case, I feel like maybe I could have "sold" my work better, too. But I'm still fine with it not making the "cut" because I know it wasn't because the work I'd done was not worthwhile.

Haiku

Haiku

in the green, wet grass
silent blackbirds pick the ground
by blue hydrangeas


(10/26/2012)

Haiku

Haiku

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


(10/24/2012)

October haiku

Haiku


dreams of such meaning
gone. a terrible feeling
to have to wake up


the first rain of fall
blank white sky above the trees
wets the bird droppings


(10/12/2012)

Morning haiku

Morning haiku


dreams of coming day
foggy October morning
stretch, stretch, wake slowly


(10/9/2012)

More autumn haiku

Autumn Haiku


step over brown leaves
pull on the extra blanket
I can feel them fall


leaves have been changing
slipping into longer sleeves
now I feel the change


(10/2/12–10/4/12)

Trying to capture that "haiku moment," an instant impression of the here and now of experience and embodied perspective, is not as easy as 17 syllables. These are two haiku I wrote recently trying to express the same idea with, I feel, varying success.

Autumn haiku

Haiku

dew on the car top

brace against the morning chill

summer is over

(9/26/12)

Late summer / early fall Haiku

Bracing hand-in-hand,
    leaning into the strong wind,
old fence posts hold strong.


(9/12/12)

This is a revision of a haiku I wrote years ago while traveling through Montana with my family. Sorry it's been quiet here for a while. Soon classes will be starting up again for me.

Spring haiku

Water fills the sky:
the most active element
dumping on our heads.

(3/30/12)

November Morning

November Morning

I heard it last night,
water coursing down tree limbs,
rooftops, gutters, roadways, cars,
and trash bins. Did the
outside of things get a good washing?

The morning sky is a damp cotton cloth, where
light seeps over the tree branches outside my window,
along with steady wetness. The season
of washing the outsides of things
has started. The tiny drops rush into
prickly tree needles and brown places: the leaves,
the fences, mossy eaves. The cotton sky keeps
the world inside warmed and contemplating,
while making the outside of things cool, wet, soft,
reflective.


(11/17/2011)

Clocks

Clocks

On a day when all the clocks are wrong

and the soaking rain and rough wind gusts

will not be tamed,

our road is littered with tossed branches,

our travels push into choppy currents,

the roaring wind's music issues changes

as soft as the thunder's crack.

Then, as quickly, change is a bird song.

The trees present their pink hopes,

and sudden memory of love rushes in,

beautiful dreams.

(3/13 & 3/14/2011)

Winter Window

Winter Window

To absorb into the soft rain
and its abundances,
shaded by January sky, by
quiet tree limbs, one sees sentry
electric poles and signs of life
inside the souls of cars
parked off the street.

The percussive morning music
softly drones and the mind
flits: the fire, the warmth,
a warm thought, a draught of
memory, simple melody of
muddled, mossy colors.

Spring will have its way, in
time, but this moment, to
sit is not even to wait.


(1/18/2011)

They Watch Us

They Watch Us

Robotic turns, swiveled moves and

Wings flexed in the moving air,

Black features immune to the midday sun:

They watch us. Now there are two,

Brother dragonflies, striped tails

Half as long as my little finger,

Perching suddenly on the very end

Of branches seared by summer or blight.

More patiently than I can bear the

Too-subtle breeze, but I watch them, too.

Just try to match that patience.

One is gone when I look again.

Now both are gone. I saw one fly.

The summertime sun is lazy on the leaves.

It has a near-eternity to shine today.

Now one comes back to the same limb perch.

He may not see me watch some more,

But he probably does. Those two eyes are

Bigger than his head.

Subtle eyes. Black eyes. Ancient yet new.

Watching is old as sunshine to see by.

(7/11/10)