Poetry

Poetry

Early Reflections on #Rhizo15

Two roads diverged
in a rewilding post urban landscape
descending into chaos
before emerging and maturing
into a natural unique
niche of biodiversity.

And being one learner, long I stood
reading Facebook updates and blog posts
pondering subjectives and objectives,
goals and primary tasks.

I looked at goals as long as I could
but remembered Stevenson and Eliot
and embraced
the age-old art of getting lost.

I decided to travel hopefully
and return where I started
after chasing red herrings
down blind alleys.

I saw the best minds of my generation
looking for a different fix.
connection to likeminded travelers,
seeking truth
in the symbol ‘O’,
l’objet petit a,
the lost, partial, transitional object,
the rhizome.

On My Mother's Birthday

What was it like, in that farm house
beside the Connecticut river
eighty four years ago
when my mother was born?

Did her older siblings
gather round
in joy and wonder and awe?
Did they help with the chores?

And her parents,
did they worry about
another mouth to feed
in the early days of the great depression?

The stories I remember are idyllic
playing by the side of the river
in the warm summer sun
without a care.

But what about the hard times?
Was she ever cold or hungry?
Was she ever picked on
by siblings or classmates?

Years later,
some of the stories came out
on my grandmother’s death bed.
Now, they’re both gone.

So I think of the sunlight
bouncing of the breeze blown ripples
of the slow summer river
and not the privations.

It’s probably what she would want me to remember
anyway

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News

It’s national poetry month.
I read the prompts on twitter.
I join a webinar
on young folks activism.
I watch the Dickinson videos
in an online class.

The candidates position themselves
for the upcoming presidential election.

The dead are mourned.
Deals are struck.
Baseball season has begun.

The snow has given way
to fog and rain
and in the plains
tornados spawn.

Dinner has been eaten.
The sun has set.
Sleep.

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Insomnia

It’s not really in the middle of the night.
The writing hour is around four a.m.
It’s not really in the dark of the night.
The clock dial glows, showing the time
and the light of the waning moon
leaks in through the windows.
It’s not really being wide awake.
It’s where the memories
of the evening’s dreams
that quickened the plus
are still vivid and real.
It’s where the concerns of yesterday
and the plans for tomorrow meet
over and over again
until eons
of lying in the warm bed
for five minutes have passed.

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The Unknown Guest

I saw him again today, the unknown guest
riding in a blue van down Main Street,
a homeless man I’ve offered words of hope to.

I don’t know his story,
if he is a descendant of the good Samaritan
a relative of St. Alban
or an angel in disguise.

Perhaps, he’s a character in some poem
or in some story I’m reading
or even a part of an unremembered dream.

Does he have a special message for me?
Would I be able to hear it, if he does?

Do we all have special messages for one another
that get lost in the transactions of daily life?

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