Category Archives: Poem

sunday

my feelings, brimming / about to spill onto the floor/ i’ve got no strength, bread or bucket / to sop or mop them anymore/


worth

i measure my worth

in deer so at ease they’ll eat kale from the garden, less than five meters from my door

by a home-cooked meal eaten together, still hot

in heritage Jimson weed blooms on summer nights

& harvested, unblemished squash on autumn afternoons

in bats sighted overhead at dusk from the stoop

in thriving houseplants, all named and watered

in clean sinks, sheets, floors and birdbaths

by pages read, no matter

by the number of rabbits who see me and then ignore my presence

in folks, walking exhausted, or in rain, who accept my offer, climb into my truck with their groceries or booze for a lift home

in miles walked with the dog, and in patience as he interprets the “news” thoroughly with his nose

in native prairie plants restored, by my hand, New England asters, sweetgrass, have mercy,

in minutes spent on the phone with my son,
my golden boy

in bluebirds who sing on my bedroom windowsill especially on my birthday

in knowing how the Moon will look this evening even before she rises

in poems written by, for or about me

in acorns from the sapling white oak i planted, knowing one day, i won’t be able to count them all

with a plate of at least 6 different kinds of freshly cut fruit

in hummingbirds, monarchs, hummingbirds, monarchs, hummingbirds who visit to feed, rest or cocoon

in vibing unabashedly
to music playing loudly
in the barn, in the yard, in the car

in frogs perched on the back porch light, and toads spotted and avoided on the sidewalk in the dark

in trust placed in me

in Duchenne smiles from friends and strangers, but especially strangers, and in the intense knowing look from babies anywhere, but especially in line at Walmart

by how long i kept the christmas tree – fir, spruce, or pine – drinking and alive, far more so than a dozen long-stemmed red roses

by the crows that come back again and again, recognizing my face, voice and reliable aluminum pail / us, counting on one another

by a batch of perfectly brewed and bottled sweet, iced tea

in spying even one snake, one turtle or one heron all year long

and,

by love,

by love,

by love

and that’s why / for a while,

i will feel worthless
worth less
less worth

less.


“for all your fine washables”


the mundane,

it reminds


blush-colored lace bra soaking in bathroom sink
blush-colored lace bra soaking in the bathroom sink with a smidgeon of Dreft during the evening of January 4th 2023


amnesiac

my amnesia is nearly complete
i can barely conjure
what it felt
like
to
l_ve
y__


Arte Digitora

Arte Digitora, alternatively, arte digitora, artedigitora, #artedigitora

Arte Digitora is art/e that is organically, intentionally or incidentally created, conceptualized or derived from intentional or incidental digital/cellular communication and/or collaboration and hosted primarily – though not always exclusively – in digital space-time.

The art/e primarily consists of digital/cellular communication text content including email correspondence; word-processing documents; text and direct messaging conversation blocks or bubbles; shared photos, images, screenshots, icons/reacts/emojis; shares and links; voice clips/messages; and social media comments — using a variety of digital/cellular applications and platforms; anonymity or identity may be implied, preserved, protected or negotiated.

This art/e is created, conceptualized, utilized or reproduced by one or more participant humans based on singular, multiple, continuing or abandoned digital/cellular communications; it may be fixed i.e., “locked” and immutable, or the art/e can be fluid, altered, edited, deleted, interpreted, archived or restored in its original form or any subsequent altered/edited form by any of the the original communicators or subsequently, by those with access.

Arte Digitora are not NFTs, but NFTs may contain elements of arte digitora.

Any Arte Digitora may be migrated and reproduced in physical space in the form of inspired or derivative 2D or 3D works such as prints, photos, books, sculpture, crafts or objects, or as audio/visual, performance, tactile or projection art.



from Wikipedia:

Art is a diverse range of human activity, and resulting product, that involves creative or imaginative talent expressive of technical proficiency, beauty, emotional power, or conceptual ideas.

from Wiktionary:

Digital

  1. Having to do with digits (fingers or toes); performed with a finger.
  2. Property of representing values as discrete, often binary, numbers rather than a continuous spectrum.
  3. Of or relating to computers or the Information Age.

New Me.

And, most of the World,
well, at least, the entire mattering World
came together
for one brilliant night and
even part of the next morning
with a somewhat contemplative,
protracted, very long, somewhat meditative
five ENTIRE minutes squeezed in between

And, it came to pass that there
were nearly 18 continuous hours
of agreed-upon
global activism and change-making
that had not been witnessed for exactly
364.24153644 days, previously

The World’s manifesto:

Whereas, starting tomorrow, January 1
life will be better,
so much better, different, good, great even

Again, they each individually proclaimed:
starting tomorrow, January 1
life will,
might, may, could be better, so much better, different, good, great even

Ahem, that is, to be clear, not your life,
just mine.
new year, new me.
Me. Me. Me.

keep your Sun,
give me the Moon.


(inspired by mckersin: “Just helps that the world’s energy is all in agreement that we doing everything different now”)


The Very Last Zeptosecond of 11:59:59: pm on december 31st


the future ending

and re-beginning

in one, arbitrary moment


old year’s, new year’s ode

And she took a bath
and washed her hair
and cleansed her [w]hol[l]y self of that
grimy year
though 365 memories remain in the dark roots of thousands of her golden strands,
more are silver now

Out into the cold air,
pitch black, save for waxing gibbous Moon
naked
open pores
bare feet
wet hair
pouring her bathwater into a remnant patch
of snow-covered ground
drain and septic are unfit for this ceremony

Let this vintage
permeate the garden/
recharge the aquifer from which she bathes and drinks/ evaporate into cycles of the atmosphere that she breathes /

breathe, human, woman, breathe

believe this, yet better, know this:

everything is ouroboros.

nothing ever begins.

nothing ever ends.

nothing.


The Song of The Lark

it’s always been one of my very favorites – because of that gorgeous, dayglo salmon-colored Sun and her arrested, awed attention and ear-witness to the birdsong //

i’ve experienced Jules Breton’s “The Song of The Lark” twice — in The Art Institute of Chicago’s collection – during college – and most recently, in 2015, on loan to the University of Nebraska’s Sheldon Museum of Art;

Nebraska was home to author Willa Cather (Cather is a Nebraska native by way of colonialism and settlerism) and her third novel, was named for this 1884 painting//

while i was viewing the painting at The Sheldon, i conversed and queried serendipitously with the Chicago-born docent: does the lark sing most sweetly or urgently at sunrise or sunset; does this work depict a sunset in the west; or a sunrise in the east; is her fatigue residual, a worker rising so very early, again, on end – or is it from an already completed hard day’s work? or both, both, both?

let the mystery be.


her first december there

She can now tell the difference between
Lake-effect
and “real” snow
purely by observation
without having Googled the weather

senses attuning
She becoming corporeal

She can now tell the difference between
wishfulness
and alchemy
purely by existing
without having read leaves of pulp

spirit honing
She becoming ethereal

both, humbly naturalizing to leeward space


time

i stay here, alive,

by the minute, for you

by the hour, for my dog

by the day, for the crows

by the week, for my son

i can’t measure time any longer than a week

these months and years just dis/appeared


in the shallow of “halfway” – an untitled poem by Khalil Gibran


“Or do you need more?”


Do not love half lovers
Do not entertain half friends
Do not indulge in works of the half talented
Do not live half a life
and do not die a half death


If you choose silence, then be silent
When you speak, do so until you are finished
Do not silence yourself to say something
And do not speak to be silent


If you accept, then express it bluntly
Do not mask it
If you refuse then be clear about it
for an ambiguous refusal is but a weak acceptance


Do not accept half a solution
Do not believe half truths
Do not dream half a dream
Do not fantasize about half hopes


Half a drink will not quench your thirst
Half a meal will not satiate your hunger
Half the way will get you nowhere
Half an idea will bear you no results


Your other half is not the one you love
It is you in another time, yet in the same space
It is you when you are not


Half a life is a life you didn’t live,
A word you have not said
A smile you postponed
A love you have not had
A friendship you did not know
To reach and not arrive
Work and not work
Attend only to be absent
What makes you a stranger to them closest to you,
and they strangers to you


The half is a mere moment of inability,
but you are able for you are not half a being.
You are a whole that exists to live a life,
not half a life.

– Khalil Gibran


residuum

“The Distances They Keep”, Howard Nemerov, the blue swallows, 1967


this is no time
to evict
spiders,
centipedes,
the occasional, lone
boxelder bug,
dozens of out-of-season ladybird beetles
or
the almost-always odorless stinkbugs

from
our houses

to do so now means certain death, outside

there is a field mouse
in the dormant compost bin
depositing black “rice”
in washed egg shells and pomegranate rinds/

a mole engineers deeply excavated burrows around the foundation (much too close),
mound-builds in the prairie, and
constructs a minefield for toes and ankles in the remnant, dumb lawn/

the grey squirrels shelter in the woods across the snow-covered dirt road
the red squirrel in the barn is insulating with stuffing from the patio cushions/

black walnuts, please mast next year
oak sapling, pray, grow faster/

i will plant a meadow exclusively of sunflower come Spring/

black-eyed juncos,
black-capped chickadees,
bluejays,
woodpeckers,
and cardinals,
but especially,
the juncos
have learned to tolerate,
and expect my winter presence among them, per nemerov’s counsel,
i don’t wear feathers in my cap – or coat/

the remaining turkey and deer
still grieving, post-hunting season
are tentative,
but returning;
i set out stone salt licks and millet, reverently, repentantly, respectfully, for them/

i count the crows each morning
but truer, i count on them
their steady, regal presence
their voices call to me for sardines, kibble, peanuts
i oblige and always will

[can] we all [can] live here
alongside
inside
and outside together, as kin

i don’t speak
but i telepath
that,
and
this:

i am the residuum here

a wolf spider and their reflection / every spider should be presumed to be an incarnation of Anansi

poemo

poem memorandum

poem memo

poemmemo

poememo

pomemo

poemo



poemo: noun / pōɛmō /

a written memo disguised as a poem

a written poem disguised as a memo/memorandum or as “business correspondence“


memo to a particular poet

i am going to bed, now
at 7:08
to lessen the ache
of being awake

this is a poem
this is the business
of us artists
this is “business correspondence”

inform a collaborator
a coworker – if you will
your passwords and processes
before taking those pills

my corazón has nearly bled-out
migrating across my torso, my limbs,
and my crown
settling into my cornflower eyes
bloodshot with or without drops and disguise

the weight of this goddamned red muscle
i’m so fucking heavy-hearted
this cursed organ’s still goin’
my sweetest, singular escape, now aborted

the only thing i can do right, right now
is to sleep
the only thing i can do wrong, right now
is to think

(who should i send this memo to?
– no one, if not, to you)