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Cold-footed geese

on this road
I’ve never driven before,
cold-footed geese congregate
in a snowy field
keeping company
in a vast expanse of white

in the past ten minutes

in the past ten minutes
morning moved from night
tinged by faintest ghost of light
into this–
blue skied,
sunlight singing day, again.
What a clever world
how it reminds us
as if tying a string
to one of our grasping fingers–
ten minutes
can change the day
it just did.

February 16

the predicted storm
didn’t arrive

skeins of purple yarn,
blue yarn, brown, yellow
by the bamboo knitting needles
for the promised
undelivered quiet.
It’s only February–
snow is in the forecast

zucchini, tea, my father’s birthday

heating water for morning tea
small drops of olive oil
on the silver stove
of last night’s supper

through the window
across the street
and through another window
and another
I see my father
Most days, he reaches for
the telephone
as soon as he wakes
Today he sits for a long time
while I wait to hear his
weather report

as a mom, too disorganized for scrapbooks

little wooden turtle
carries on his back
three heart-shaped rocks
found on different roads
to live together
for a while

Pandemic Primary Source

I am confident that someone (you?)
is Documenting important facts
on disease vectors, death, deep
inequities grown visible as boulders
mountains too large to ignore

But, all this too–
All the tiny facts in our diaries and poems and lists
will become Pandemic Primary Sources.
Schoolchildren will be forced to read
the silly things we write today.
So, what do we want to tell them?
I’ll start:
Children, let it be known,
I have developed Strong Opinions
about fake Zoom backgrounds–
and though several doctoral candidates
will someday write about the psychological
implications of choosing Paris or a zoo–
Let it be said that I,
an ordinary person living in the middle
of your primary source material,
I want to see the real room
behind the person I’m talking to
And even then, know this, kids–
the whole time we talked
I wondered if they curated the contents
or if that picture was always on the wall.

And now, fellow primary source,
Write down something of your own
and see if you, too, are comforted
knowing that someday, someday
this will all be the past
and kids will have to study
whatever nonsense we say today
and call it History.

bring an umbrella, it looks like steady rain

As if his life
were a weather pattern
there was an
stretch of calm
with intermittent sun
but the wind shifted
he’s overcast again
gray clouds to his horizon
occasional crashes of
swearing and thunder

deep winter, haiku

here, again
but no longer surprised
(after years of this)
at the winter urge towards haiku
The same impulse drives me to clear my desk,
coffee table , book bag. Holidays are gone
once our decorations are packed away
I learn
to love a room, a desk, a page swept bare
Once cleared,
I scatter a few
across this plain surface
and watch it transform
see space and spareness

a tendency towards unicorns

yesterday, a flock of small children invaded
with all their gear–crayons, Legos, picture books,
stuffed animals scattered everywhere–
a fluffy inanimate zoo, with a tendency
towards unicorns

Luckily, it was a day awake enough to choose
from the river of images rushing by
to remember the trick, and pluck from the river
which image to hold (the one that builds
a tiny joy cathedral in the mind)

Long gone, the invaders
left behind crumbs, juice box carcasses,
and crooked bits of paper taped to the walls,
waist high, white, red, pink, vaguely heart-shaped
on one, Charlie had scribbled “Cute!”

at this pace, we’ll never get there

At this pace, we’ll never get there
wherever there is
but take
one slow breath
and consider
our fast-paced, frenetic selves–
Despite our breathless hurry,
we managed to create
slow dance and cursive writing
and bread recipes that require
rest and rise and rest again.
We dreamed up so much slowness
here inside the houses we built,
the castles and schools,
hospitals and hovels and highrises
all these shells that cradle us
shells covered with rain or blossoms
tree pollen or ice or heavy snow
while we dance and write and
cook up something delicious,

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

A Poet in Time

One Poet's Writing Practice

Writing the Day

A Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014

Invisible Horse

Living in the moment

leaf and twig

where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry