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full moon is the star of this poem

yesterday morning’s full moon
pale and insistent
wanted to star in today’s poem.

I nodded to acknowledge
that I heard the moon,
jotted a scribbly note to myself
went on into the long day of
rain and teenagers,
books and research and
sneaky craft projects that
only exist to make them
talk to each other away from
all screens

I forgot the moon.
So the moon rose over
my street last night, just as
I turned the corner
to remind me
it wanted to be
a star
Some moons are like that

another reason for all these words

another reason for all these words
is so I don’t forget
how yesterday a blue jay swooped
beneath my moving car, under and
out again or the junior high boy
with long red hair and a notebook
full of pencil sketches
he wanted someone to see
or how that jet contrail caught
sunlight and carried a
gold thread of connection
across the blue sky
threading together
all these pieces of a day

the multiverse, right here

A banner appears on the screen
congratulating me. As of yesterday
ten thousand times
somebody read these poems.

Ten thousand. Who could imagine
A number that large?

In other news, also yesterday
low clouds hooked
lace through the trees
tall and antlered, he stepped
slowly towards and across the road
not bothering to meet our peasant eyes
so accustomed to the admiring, fearful
way we gaze at forest royalty

And then there is now—when I
write the words, stir their places on
the page while coffee brews
full moon shines through
and the restless puppy circles,
settles and I try not to make any
Interesting Noises so I can finish
this poem, for reader number
ten thousand
and one

maybe a bear

far out in the field
dark and four legged
Dog? Bear?
between us
blurs whoever you are


fall dandelions
by the cemetery gate
spiced and windswept dreams

puppy’s favorite treat
autumn dandelions
sweet bites of yellow

dandelion fluff
promises to sleep till spring
fresh crop of sunshine

raptor in the fog

raptor in the fog—
less terrifying
when we call you
early-morning hawk
at the top of the tree


that quickly
gone again.
stress leaves on the out breath
of a storm.
one strong gust
and you can see again—
almost dawn through pine branches
U-Haul truck passing by our quiet houses

two small deer

two small deer grazing
blue Adirondack chairs wait
sit still, in sunshine


Incessant rain is one detour, shunting you away from the long autumn walk you meant to take. Instead of crisp leaf crackle underfoot, here are flash floods, thick mud that remembers being a dirt road, puddles deep as the dream of a lake.

A detour. And why does it frustrate you so? A detour means that once upon a time you had a destination in mind. You were going through the forest to the castle, or the fair, or to the market to sell the old cow when—

A detour means: This is where a new story begins. You run to escape the woodsman, the witch, the wolf. Or some stranger offers to sell you magic beans. And there you are, on a detour—in the house of dwarves or bears or in a world of hungry giants and golden eggs.

You weren’t born to grumble, wonder if the road will flood, worry about being lost or late. You were meant for this instead. So shout for joy—A detour? Sure! This is where adventure unrolls itself thick as a magic carpet floating over a road you didn’t ever plan to take.

rain boots

once again, rain boots
and umbrella—
in the car. Me?
In the house.
Is there an app for that?

A Hundred Falling Veils

there's a poem in every day

The Novel Bunch

aka: The Happy Bookers

Red Wolf Prompts

I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"

typewriter rodeo

custom poems on vintage typewriters

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One Poet's Writing Practice

Writing the Day

A Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014

Invisible Horse

Living in the moment