Poetry

Poetry

Poetry Collection

I am starting to organize the poems that are on this website.

I normally post my poems simply as blog posts, usually after spending some time editting them.

However, so are posted as fairly raw drafts.

Eventually, I go back, revise some of the poems, and place them into a structure related to other poems. It helps me think about how my poems interrelate. Hopefully, it will be helpful to you as well.

Some poems end up in a section at the bottom of uncategorized poems. These are often poems I haven't gone back to work on or to think about how they relate to other poems.

In particular, poems that I write during periods where I post a poem a day end up in this section.

There are links below to navigate through the different sections, subsections, and the poems within each subsection.

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Hero's Journey

I grew up on the Hero’s journey
from the classic Greek tales
to the story on the silver screen
and I wondered about
my own call to adventure
with its road of trials
and where it would turn.

Then
I discovered counter narratives.
What other metaphors are there
besides a journey?
What other genders are there
besides the masculine hero?
What other roads
and other adventures?

When the Ethiopian lioness
tells the story
what will be
glorified?

(Written for a writer's prompt, read at the Wallingford Poetry Group)

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It will be okay

It will be okay
they told her
when the lump,
that lump
turned out
not to be
benign.

Years later
after chemo
after radiation
after therapy
after tears
after unexpected joys
it turned out
to be okay,
not great
not painless
but okay.

It will be okay
they told him
when his mother died
in a car accident
during one of those
freak storms
that seem to be
more and more
common.

Years later
after the funeral
after the grieving
after cleaning out
and selling
the family home
after memories
dredged up
from the deeps
on unknown anniversaries
after tears
after unexpected joys
it turned out
to be okay,
not great
not painless
but okay.

(This is another one of the poems that I wrote in 2016, but never posted. It didn't feel finished. Perhaps I'll come back to it later.)

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At the Clark Art

Something stirred
in my adolescent heart
as I pondered
the pastel clad ballerinas
in a nineteenth century
Parisian studio.

What did they talk about
after their lesson?
Did they the think of boys?
Giggle?
Would one of them
perhaps
have glanced at me?

Later,
would they tug at a satyr?
Dragging him into
a wooded pond
and a watery death?

Or would they themselves
be saved
from a watery death
in an undertow?

Would they sit
half naked
for Renoir
or well attired
for Sargent?

(Another poem written and read in 2016, but not posted until 2017. It was written for a poetry group writers prompt and still feels a little incomplete)

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Number 2 Pencil

With my Number 2 pencil
I take notes
on our history,
the American Dream,
of those who came to our country
seeking a better life,
religious freedom,
to be a city on the hill
and I don’t hear
about those who were
already here,
or those who came in shackles
longing for any freedom.

With my number 2 pencil
I take notes
on our arts
the great writers, painters, and musicians
who have given us such great legacies.
Were they all white European men
because everyone else
was too oppressed
to create
or simply because
that’s all the writers
of our histories
managed to see?

With my number 2 pencil
I fill in the ovals
on standardized tests
that will be used
to appoint my place
in society,
and I long for God’s law
when we shall know the Lord
and be God’s people.

(Note: This poem was written in 2016 and presented at a Poetry Sunday, but was not posted on the blog until 2017. There are a few poems like this I hope to catch up on.)

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