Asleep Upstairs

•278/ the family lies asleep upstairs, while I lie downstairs trying to write—in the silence, no poems filter across the hallways—
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Spare Acorns

•277/ my toddler-son brings home handfuls of spare acorns, dropping them carefully into the center of my upturned palm—one by one—
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A Fragmentary Note

•276/ —for instance, the fallen nature of an acorn, the pull to the earth’s core, as we resist the grave and the urge to sprout saplings—
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Paring Back my Nails

•275/ paring back my nails; a thunderstorm sulks over the horizon line—with closed eyes I can feel it inching closer. Then closer still—
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Broken Words

•274/ —or a bowlful of frozen grapes, each one pearling individually, clusters of different colors frosting over—broken words—
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Syllables Blur

•273/ too tired to think— syllables blur together; a basket of figs in the night’s humidity— water beads on their faces—
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Becoming the Bed

•272/ folding back bed sheets—the act turns on itself, khaki sheets poured out over the bed becoming the bed: translated, transformed—
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Wanted to play with repetition— casual echos reshaped between lines, phrases becoming something other than their intended form. The same manner the domestic act of changing the linen of a bed is more than just making up a fresh mattress. In the end, you become the bed, the bed altering its identity to you and who ever sleep between the warm covers—

Scarecrow

•271/ we move the scarecrow across the back gardenscape to startle new flocks of haiku out of the ground— a gathering of new words—
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a story

•268/ afterwards, she braids her hair into tight knotted circles, wanting to keep the memory of him within, as a close embrace—
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269 / before, when he left, his backwards glance provided more words than his voice could ever provide— even now his memory runs deep—
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270/ his lingering scent still clings to her hands, her hair— a casual turn of the head brings it all back: his voice calling out in sleep—
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Experimenting with notions of fiction with the short verse form, other than autobiographical references. The latter is more expected— composing material based on an actuality, rather than a fantasy or imagine scene. But lately, my days have slipped into a level of deeper habitual patterns even beyond the average, mundane reality.

For this post, composed of three different writing sessions, I wanted to create a series of poems centered on the figure of a woman, living in an indeterminable era, yet motioning through her liaisons with a contemporary logic. Her perspective of a current lover as she goes about her day—

Language Unreleased

•267/ a poem forms beneath the branch of my swollen tongue, language unreleased—waiting for the right moment to break away from silence—
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Discarded

•266/ discarded across a chair, today’s clothes waiting for a new moment— a slow moon rises outside, his eyes closed to the nightwind—
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Summer. Late afternoon. Walking across the neighborhood. Brendan reacts to ordinary objects made extraordinary: common blackbirds arching in the dimming light of day or drinking from water collected on sidewalks— the act of their actual being surprises his sensibilities— the newness of life.

Empty Vase

•265 / in this old, warm room, the empty vase by the bed blooms with absence—a dense light circles tightly inside its cold, empty belly—
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Five Darkly-Red Plums

•264 / five darkly-red plums wait in the icebox—handfuls of a bloody rage, impatient in their orbits around cartons of fresh milk—
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For a Second Night

•263 / for a second night this week, I wake at midnight pissing out remains of the full day— then lie back, unable to sleep—
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Over the Front Porch

•262 / shadows of water oaks spill over the front porch, even as I lie in bed willing the night hour to lengthen, stretch out minutes—
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Found a list of of quilt patterns— new idea for my “She-Bear” poem: create division subtitles based on these abstractions. Metaphoric representations of landscapes. Household situations. But twisted into new phrases. Different labels.

Quilt Pattern Designs
Down on the farm
Weather vane
Corn and beans
Rose of Sharon
Puss in the corner
Log cabin
Hen and chickens
Broken dishes
Bits and pieces
Cherry basket
Sunbonnet Sue / Overall Bill
Flying geese
Double wedding ring
Nancy windmill
A hole in the barn door
Road to Kansas
Grandmother’s desire
Bow tie
Cutglass dish
Kansas troubles
Dresden plate
Cake stand
Clay’s choice
Whirlygig
Old maid’s ramble
Robbing Peter to pay Paul
Star burst
Queen’s petticoat
Double Irish chain

tanka variations

•260 / we watch barn swallows— their midday epiphanies— arching emotions across approaching thunderstorms, blue on the horizon—
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261 / we watch barn swallows arch their wide epiphanies across approaching thunderstorms, smears of bluegray resting on the horizon—
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In the middle of prayers at church, the deacon recites a phrase which triggers a literal, linear reaction in my right brain— I forget now what the chant said— all I know, an epiphany merged in the center of my head as an answer to a poetic problem which has troubled me for over a year. An issue of abstraction versus conventional expressions. How to push creativity and still maintain logic. The poem series in question fell into language poems without channeling emotion or purpose. In other words, my persona was on stage talking within a surrounding, specific undisclosed environment— and I expected (wanted/wished/hoped) the audience to understand the character’s full hidden back story without supplying any necessary information. This was dangerous to the music of the poem and the struggling themes hidden in metaphor.

But now, now the cycle shifts forward again— no hindrances. The grounding element these works needed was a hint, a suggestion of autobiography to show the writing process. Through text, adding a subtle reference to the creation process adds an element of personality of the writing— the style’s roots exposed, so to speak. The Poet acknowledging to the Audience that the words are musical tracks and poetic metaphors— creative expressions and not elaborate symbols.

Curled, As If Asleep

•259 / without words, this week lingers on the edge of the mattress, curled as if asleep— yet, closely watching me, with his half-opened eyes—
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Spent a series of days flat on my back with another viral infection— again, the same effects: without warning dizzy spells, high temperatures, chills, night sweats— the silence of this carries a resonance as a lingering false echo. At the moment I do have the compulsion to write, but the words and phrases themselves do not show. Time to revisit all projects— nightly exercises. Splinters of notions.

A Sleeping Child

•257 / he falls into sleep, not even sounds of mowers wake him as he is lifted across the rooms, then carried up two flights of stairs—
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258/ as simple as that, the child falls asleep in broad daylight, exhausted— at the corner house, barking dogs rise in tempo— still, he sleeps—
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Over-ripe Peaches

•256 / over-ripe peaches, spotted with bruises— the bowl becomes the full room— or as the full weight of day, breaking through the drawn curtains—
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Tonight I wanted to aim for a greater sense of abstraction— blurring three images as one. By juggling the traditional syllable count to a pattern of 5-5-7-7-7, my habitual rhythms were thrown off, allowing a stronger sense of mixed impressions.

—all based off a paper bag of fruit my parents gave us from their trip from Plano. After a few days the bottom layer of peaches grew too soft, broke open oozing a syrupy liquid over the kitchen counter tops. The peaches became the room, their presence confirmed in sunlight.

Turning Off the Side Lamp

•255 / despite the late hour, he is determined to write at least one tanka before calling it a night and turning off the side lamp—
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Midmorning

•254 / our son, unaware, singing— we pass a grackle rearranging the corpse of a snake, middle of the parking lot, midmorning— •