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The Forecast Depends On The Sighs Of The Weatherman

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In the quiet of July
their tiny faces shiver—
purple, white, soft lavender
all the violas in my garden
call this breeze a windstorm

13 Ways Of Looking At The Yoga Retreat Center

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Thoreau said, “We find only the world we look for.”

Then what world is this?

World where middle-aged ladies
shed layers and let themselves
a dream of a space
where bodies rest from
their stories
World of maple tree birds
and clatter from the kitchen
where (hallelujah) someone else
is deciding the fate of leftovers
World where, even on vacation,
some ladies cannot stop themselves
from striding with purpose
World where tiger lilies
congregate in the shade
and lawn mower drowns out
the chatter of lemon water addicts
World where afternoon is
the hour of opera practice
rising over the trees
Puccini on the breeze
World of Emily, benevolent ruler
in the world of Ayurvedic massage
her bare feet inked in
birds and flowers
and the ancient Greek words
for mercy and grace
World where a woman in faded flannel
greets the view with arms spread wide
as if she is here for lessons about flight
carried by last night’s dreams of birds
they guide her gaze to the lake below
and sing, Lift your plaid flannel wings
Catch the air, Glide.
World where one by one, more appear
singly or in small pairs
eyes sleepy, hands empty
hair in messy braids
holding only one thing, loosely
the incredible luck
to be here
World where everyone meets the little birds
chubby and well-fed and content
juxtaposed with us, mostly human,
mostly women, tending towards
sharply thin, tending towards
Seeking, with an intensity
unfamiliar to these birds
birds more closely characterized
as not seeking but browsing
Whatever else this world carries
it held this moment:
Women’s words falling like petals,
vowels all over the clean wood floors
while out the window
a man sings in the flowers
what can you do but smile
in this room of big music
A bell that continues to ring
World where, while the rest of us slept
someone raked the sand
into cool rows of
perfect beach front

Likewise, someone
washed the dishes
cleaned the bathrooms
is even now cooking
breakfast for the rest of us

while I write and
the girl in tie-dye
poses for a selfie
so the world will see
We, too, are awake
World where I get to sit beneath
a tree, then take this notebook, that tattered leaf
home to my adjoining world
World that taps our shoulders
Murmurs, Be mindful
birch rustles in sunlight
world carried on the breeze
world we each carry within


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Memorize this life word by word
in two tongues—
One, our everyday speech
of lost socks in laundry,
sardines and daisies, fireworks, grocery lists.
The other language, Sanskrit,
mysterious as a distant island
uncharted but rumored, reachable
far out in the middle of the sea

The Art Of The Cat

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Study the art of cats
at their new exhibit
titled, not coincidentally,
The Art Of The Cat.
The cats of this street
gather early beneath the trees in my yard
bother blue jays and give the red fox
across the field food for thought.
Creatures of comfort and habit
cats gather up cool mornings, supplies
spent extravagantly each afternoon.
Naps in the shade for everyone, they say,
and then do a live demonstration in case you
need a visual guide. It’s the opening
gala, which looks exactly like every other day
of this extended engagement
on display all month, here
in the heat of July afternoons

Static On This Line

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We listen
mothers and daughters
to what we
Imagine each other said
parsing tone, phrasing, sighs,
sound of raised eyebrows above
eyes that might have just rolled
deciphering words in real time
and over again deep in the night
translations so clouded with years
of noise and dreams
it’s amazing luck when we manage
through thick, persistent static
to hear anything at all

Shadorma: Poems Are Not The Only Pollinators

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with the bees
is where words have gone
was what they craved, to try lives
of buzz and honey

Haiku By Kayak

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     The neighbor’s white truck is stacked with kayaks he is too busy to unload. Yard work and dogs, wife, family, wife’s family, day job, errands, children’s sports practice, the house he is rebuilding room by room, board by board. Was it last weekend we camped with kayaks and tents? The weekend before that? Next weekend.? Maybe, maybe. Time will tell.

rainstorm in the night
truck bed became a stream where
Kayaks learned to float

rainstorms many nights
truck bed becomes a small lake
Look! Kayaks can swim

The Novel Bunch

aka: The Happy Bookers

The Sketchbook


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 Poetry Practice

Invisible Horse

Living in the moment

leaf and twig

where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry