Well, it’s about time I posted a poem. I also wanted to stick my head up out of
the hole and say hello again. The negative part about being “away” is that I
miss the good folks who happen along.
I’ve been working on some deadline driven projects, which keeps me buried.
But I love the work, so it’s all good.
First, a couple of notes:
♦ I read some awesome books in the past few weeks, and I look forward to
telling you more about those. And there are even more that I can’t wait
to read. Stay tuned for those shout outs.
♦ I’ve had a couple of acceptances lately, which is always a great feeling.
I’ll post those as soon as they go live.
♦ Ashley Capes has written a very nice review about my chapbook.
Thanks, Ashley! You can read the review HERE.
I’ve talked about Ashley’s work here in the past, but in case you missed it,
please be sure to check out his books. I’m a big fan of his work. I’m not
just saying that because he wrote such a nice review of my chap. I truly
mean it. I read Stepping Over Seasons last year, and it was one of my
favorite books of the year.
Ashley’s first haiku collection, Orion Tips The Saucepan, is available
through Picaro Press. I love that title! I will definitely be putting in my
order. If you click the links above, you can also read sample poems.
And here’s my poem for today. No, I’m not making fun of people with
mental illness. It’s one of my biggest fears, because I sometimes think I am
close to that thin line that divides the “normal” from the “abnormal.” Not
dangerous abnormal. But curl up in a ball on the floor and babble abnormal.
Is that too much information? Well, shoot. It shouldn’t be a big shock that
poets grapple with mental demons. I have a feeling that every human being
Anyway, this is really about my creative process, which is wide open,
nonstop, elevated to one hundred miles an hour, messy, wild, and…errr…a
whole lotta strange. It’s a visceral, physical thing. It’s a pinball machine of
nonstop thought, images, and ideas. Often, it begins with darkness and
sorrow, but then it leads me to some sort of personal resolution. All those
swirling thoughts have to be caught, tied up, and chiseled into a form.
Maybe the work is what keeps me sane. And I’ve never had writer’s block in
my life. That’s a big plus.
So, this is where I’m at today. The end result is good.
A cold moon rambles through the branches
and so do I, with zig-zag flashes by the river,
sky lights up burnt faces from half a world away
and right here on this side, a mother killed her daughter
choked the father, drowned the dog, dropped the bombs
ate the poison, sank the ships, said the talking heads and I
don’t know what drives this fast train, this static of a brain
with too much something, the rack crack sizzle of all those
swirling words and who knows what might snap underfoot.
So here I go again, ten miles of river, foaming four a.m.
winding tight through vines and every pulsing vein
along the trail and I don’t care what’s over there I will
jump the rocks one-two-three, cross the low part rushing,
slice the water, drink the mud, move the biggest boulder
at the end, look beneath dear God and wonder, but I
won’t take their pretty purple pills; I’ll go under biting,
write a poem, touch soft faces in the churning eddies,
put small red pebbles in a row—shape, texture, size,
swing myself to sleep a slow wet creep back to normal,
back to Wednesday morning, back to tackle, hold, love
all the slick, sharp edges of this tilted, spinning world.