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Oct. 22, 2014

A Find

I recently discovered this e.e. Cummings poem while digging around on the internet one day. The more I read it, the more beautiful it becomes. Simple. And beautiful.


somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
e. e. Cummings, 18941962
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

Poet Mother

a  fragment


When you forget how to be a poet

and your days are full of dirty diapers and bottles and slobber

and empty of the poetic or lovely or worthy of verse;


When you forget the beauty of language

and your ears are full of whines and cries and I wants

and no beautiful sound drops into your life or your page;



any workshop-esque thoughts?

December Perspective

for Tom

We went into the woods to find a Christmas tree.
Our boots crunched though the untouched snow.
We walked deep into the fragmented woods–
bare trees shriveled in the cold, but we finally found a tall cedar:
it would smell good in the house, we figured; Mama would like it.
So my brother began to chop, a small hatchet his only tool,
and he chopped until youthful arms lost their vigor.
Dragging it back to the truck proved another difficult task.

When we propped it up outside the house we realized
that when surrounded by the fragmented white,
hints of summer skew your perspective,
making you think grandeur is just something
you can cut down and place in the corner of the living room.


Chasing the Dreamer Down*

For Bill


the dusk of time when dreams become tangible animals loosed to the world

flashes rise before me with the smell of burnt motor oil and engine heat

a movement–a burst of motion outstretched

a length of brown reaching across our path


the nighttime is on my tongue

I swallow flashes of light, peripheral and brief

a hushed buzz vibrates the air

the round tone of a distant frog answered by one near

slicing sounds of insects then sudden silence


my clothes drape with the heaviness of the air

freedom, always freedom, when this summertime weight falls on me

my body moves through the underbrush

here, where the night knows me


*remembering a magical moment when my brother and I rode a four wheeler through the Forked Deer River Bottom at night and a doe jumped in front of us.


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