As my friend and co-creator, I hope you'll comment on these fledgling poems. They hatch out daily on Twitter @everydaypoet and migrate here.

Sunday, January 17, 2010

Writer's Work

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Tell me something, Muse.
Make my fingers move,
make this paper speak—

“I am valley depth.
I am mountain peak.
Before the any were,
before the all shall end,
I am what I seek.”



I write on the insides
of envelopes, on the backsides
of sales slips, on the margins
of magazine pages. . .

I write on life, death,
cosmos, humanity, nature,
emotion, language, imagination,
revelation, paradox,
cabbages, kings, the insides
of envelopes, the backsides
of sales slips, the margins
of magazine pages.
I write on and on and on. . .



Alright, pain.
Enter in.
Do your worst.
I will do better.



H ere, it clear.
O ther place, I no belong.
M y people with.
E very other place be wrong.



upon the white expanse,
yet scarcely trackable—
a scribbled trail
of thought-droppings



Life is given,
not a given.



of my wondering—
who are you?

Face to face,
some time, some place,
will it be meet
we meet?

who will discover me—
what discovery
will you be?

* * *

Sunday, January 10, 2010

Moods & Foods

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- Milk
- Bread
- P.B.
- Jelly

Such a friendly way
to fill a belly!



I got off track.

Somewhere back, I got off track.
Now I roam alone—alak!—
except for dog and stick and sack.

I make my home in any shack
and then move on, but never back.
Somewhere back, I got off track



It’s cold enough
without those icy blasts
whistled in
by various western winds
through various western windows.

Our log-home interior
stratifies by degrees;
to descend the stairs
is to descend the thermometer.

The cats beg for outdoor excursions,
but when offered an open door
they freeze mid-departure
and scramble back inside.

Human interactions
take an occasional chilly plunge,
paradoxically threatening conflagration.
This is the only sense in which
our cabin has a fever.



Here’s the news,
fresh and hot—
tea plus coffee
does not equal toffee.



fingers and thoughts
over keyboard

* * *

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Winter Mix

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I have this—but I want more;
I want that, with every pore.

I have things that I adore;
I have merchandise galore—
things in use and things in store—
but I want more, and more, and more.

Thanking? —Something I abhor.
Asking? —Even though it’s such chore,
once again, I implore,
“Please, Sir, may I have some more?”

[ASIDE: As I enjoyed a warm shower this morning,
I realized how full my life is of simple pleasures
that I take for granted and that most human beings
have never once experienced.]



All those days
being discreet,
effacing myself,
trying to hide.
Such effort!
And you weren’t
even looking.



There’s no gift like a giver—
and the One who gave us sight
and touch and hearing
visited last night,
leaving a world of stillness
wrapped in winter white.


Bad as it was, it’s over now—
the decade of the Aughts—
and would have been much better,
had we fulfilled our Oughts.


BLUE—WHO KNEW? (for Carrie)

I learned tonight—
a Blue Moon's not blue;
just the second one
in a month with two.

[ASIDE: As for me, I learned online today that this date
can be written 2010-01-02 or "20100102" which reads
the same backwards or forwards. Such a palindrome
will not recur for ages.]

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Friday, January 1, 2010

New Year Musings

* * *



Some suns
(of course, there’s only one)
at start of day or year
so loud.
BOOM! quite bright
and rowdy.

I’m enamored of today’s
and proud.
It gently burned its way
through overlays
of cloud.


A word’s a tool
to help you think,
and it has tools
like pen and ink.


Party early! Party late!
Dance! Have fun!

January one—
New Year’s come.
Mama’s got a hot new date!


If I asked my muse
for a music score,
or novel, or sitcom script,
would she roar
with laughter
or fury—
then slam the door?

she would kiss me.

All I know, so far,
is she gives me
what she gives me.


I call to our blind kitty,
“It’s a new year—
can you tell?”

“Oh, Mom!”
her posture replies,
“I can’t even tell
if it’s a new day.”

For a split second,
I believe her.

(20)10: 01/01

This date
looks like
binary code:

So let me
make this
poem brief
(no ode):

Okay, I’m done.


The Muse you choose—
No, it’s a mutual thing!
One’s the pong to the other’s ping.

Sometimes you’re carping
on your Muse’s ways.
Sometimes she’s harping
on your own delays.

Sometimes you’re waiting
at your Muse’s door.
Sometimes she’s pacing
your draft-strewn floor.

Be there for her, the Muse you choose.
You don’t want your Muse to snooze!

[ASIDE: Thank you, Muse, for nixing “ding-dong” as the
source of the word-pair in the third line of this poem.]

* * *

Life's Omega and Alpha

* * *


OMEGA AND ALPHA (First Draft; see "ASIDE" below)

the last of things last meal last cigarette last word last of the Mohicans
the phases of pupa, larva, etc… not so precise
last of it can be the least of it… the first of something else
but what is significantly new from one calendar day to the next?
one deck of cards can be played an umpteen thousand ways
or is there really a progression; something imposed? deposed? supposed?
I’ve probably been taught and have forgotten why my culture celebrates
the turning of the year on January 1st
for there are Nature’s laws and timings—solstices, etc.
year like rosary beads with holy days and holidays, the Ave’s and Our Fathers
along our way though the days
the turn and tip or tilt of earth, the counter-tilt of moon
I’d like to see the southern constellations
he said “I’m going to write a book; 3 pages a day for a year.”
that’s a lot of thinking. no, ruminating, questioning, researching.
one kind of thinking is like that… like opening the valve.
another is to filter, clarify, distill.
it’s all about what you will
I suppose at New Year’s we celebrate the going and the coming,
the end and the beginning, the—
not the Alpha and Omega, but the Omega and the Alpha…
the whatever next that follows what we know
what we knew and did—the flow, the open valve, and New year’s
is the water treatment.
for half the world at solstice time… the Icarus idea…
at the same moment parts of earth and parts of humankind are in
the most cold phase; others are in the most-hot, and at the equator,
the change is minimal
the turning of a year—how profound do we want to make that?
ho-hum or humongous?
our perceived life may be a paint-by-numbers, but we can change t
he color scheme, or disregard the lines, or simply
open the paints and inhale the fumes
the last laugh last breath last morsel last drop

[ASIDE: I made a typo when I first titled this:
“OMEGA AND ALPHA (First Drat)”
Today, as I watched the beautiful dawn unfold,
many poems appeared in various stages of completion.
This particular one is so lengthy and intimidating that
I don’t know if I can refine it in a year. So I offer it as
an example of the writing/creation process for anyone
who might be interested. So far, the only reworking

is to undo some typo's or shorten some lines.]



Someone has to live this life
as if it matters—must be bold,
assuming that each seed
it grows and scatters
will rebound a hundredfold.

Someone has to live this life
out in the open, bare,
ready to be stared at, stare.

Someone has to live this life
from beginning to end,
meandering through
its fair-to-middling middle.

Someone has to delve the riddle
of what is mess, what success,
and what to make
of waylayal and betrayal.

Someone has to live this life
in tuition to intuition.

Someone has to open to light,
thrilling at first and second sight.

Someone has to die the death
that follows every followed breath.

Someone has to live this life
in all its mundane glory—

Someone has to tell the story

[ASIDE: This poem was nearly or partly lost.
It disappeared from my computer and had to be
reconstructed from memory. I am so proud of the attempt;
it gives me more confidence in my mind and muse.

What/who is a muse? If you’re engaged with one, you know. ]

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