A (Found) Poem from October

Nature is not my landscape
The birds and trees and animals
Small to large
I love them all but
Cannot remember their names
And species cannot
Identify them by leaf or by dropping

My canvas has nothing to do with politics
Or the hip scene, or a life of debauchery
Has neither to do with country living nor
The fast-paced rat race
I find no solace there
And no inspiration

It’s the small, available things
(As Mary Oliver says)
That kill me
That fill me
That send me to sea

The pursed lip or pinky finger
The song, the chord, the single note
The tail wag
The toaster pop
The smell of mint
The scent of cedar
From opened box

These things send me
Shaking
Hungry
To the page
Where I scribble until
I’m full

More Mary Oliver

from "Whelks"

...

All my life
I have been restless--
I have felt there is something
more wonderful than gloss--
than wholeness--
than staying at home.
I have not been sure what it is.
But every morning on the wide shore
I pass what is perfect and shining
to look for the whelks, whose edges
have rubbed so long against the world
they have snapped and crumbled--
they have almost vanished,
with the last relinquishing
of their unrepeatable energy,
back into everything else.
When I find one
I hold it in my hand,
I look out over that shanking fire,
I shut my eyes. Not often,
but now and again there's a moment
when the heart cries aloud:
yes, I am willing to be
that wild darkness,
that long, blue body of light.

Haiku #1, #2, and #3 (2012 Edition)

An Era
When I near the end
The room fades to a dark blue
I fade to nothing

Happiness
If I ever was
Will I be again one day?
Or does change hold fast?

Spring Sunshine
All across this town
Sun glares through clear window panes
Onto chairs, and beds

Playing with Poetry / Lyrics

I feel so low. I feel so low.
My world’s apart. My world’s apart.
What do I do? Where do I start
On fixing up this busted heart?

I don’t care that it’s fine outside.
This whole damn life’s a bumpy ride.
And I am stuck inside, inside.
I only want to sink and hide.

What thing will make a difference here?
What thing will stop these tired tears?
What thing will bring me rest and peace?
I need it now, so please god please.

Another day, I cannot take.
There’s far too much at stake, at stake.
And too much time’s already past.
I need the fix—I need it fast.

I feel so low. My world’s apart.
Where do I start? Where do I start
In fixing up this busted heart—
This bruised and beaten, broken heart?

It's Been a Long Time, Baby

I feel as though the last year or so of my life has been a blur. I'm not sure where the time has gone. It's been lost to work, to responsibilities, to life. I'm trying to come back.

Here's a poem I read this morning that should help, written by Ms. Mary Oliver.

When Death Comes

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

Dreams

Last night, I dreamt:

--that I was moving to Boston but could pack only one suitcase

--that two agents were interested in my picture books

Last Week, Today

Last week I asked myself--why do I feel so out of synch?

Today I answered myself--because I'm too far away from what I love.