Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Friday, August 30, 2013

Tracks of Stray Wolves

302/ Once he recorded everything—anything that was supplied to him: tracks of stray wolves circling, patterns of frost across stone.

Thursday, August 29, 2013


301/ —establish the scene: his room ghosted limestone, an Old Man and his fire. A world brought down to winter— lines of continuous snow.

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Metaphoric Pyre

300/ He burns questions for a source of warmth, piling words and phrases, every syllable of the language, in a metaphoric pyre.

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Bundled Winter

299/ In an act of transference—of repositioning—he becomes as one lost in bundled winter, as the bundled kindling itself.

Monday, August 26, 2013


298/ There are days he feels nameless— he remains simply ‘the Old Man,’ gathering kindling: broken oak branches, bundled scraps of stray papers.

Sunday, August 25, 2013

Unfolds the Night

297 / He unfolds the night, watching satellites fall— random sparks flashing near the sparse horizon line, before full cloud cover returns.

Saturday, August 24, 2013

Early Morning Dream

296/ from an early morning dream, before the family awakes: the hem of your dress collects stray seeds from the fields between our houses—

Friday, August 23, 2013

My Father's Pulse

295/ the insisting tide pulls forward, matching rhythms of my father’s pulse, matching the slow ache of my mother’s persistent worries—

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

The Ache of the Gulf

294/ the ache of the gulf pulls across the horizon—invisible line of one’s history unspooled from a casual gesture—

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

Just as Sleep

293/ just as sleep takes hold, the clock downstairs chimes the hour, muffled tones ringing—yet our son sleeps on, soundly, unaware of passing time—

Monday, August 19, 2013

Taking Root

292/ as a dark blooming—the growth of a mole radiates from the center of my father’s shoulder blades—a strange flower taking root—

Sunday, August 18, 2013

After the Ocean

291/ after the ocean, the taste of raw salt lingers— even my father’s coarse hands are coated with a fine layer of sediment—

Friday, August 16, 2013

Reassembled Observations of a Fence, Disassembled

01/ a division onto itself, an act of undoing, the splitrail fence splintered to disrepair across the landscape

02/ the territory fractured into divisions, property lines stitched between the momentary fences, the casual barricades

03/ the divisions built overnight between us, fences of indifference,

04/as a symbol, a fence serves only as an archetype of protection or a restriction

05/ after nightfall, a she-bear wanders closely beside a fallen fence, rubbing her back along the bottom rails, seeking the source of her itch

06/ silence constructs itself around a fallen fence

07/ —until a fox moves under folds of ferns in the shade of a broken railing

08/ a fence dividing itself from itself, shifting definition,

09/ —a discarded plastic bag caught along the bottom rails

10/ as a cell separates, building molecular fences between its halves, then quarters, territories split into infinite divisions of self, the body whole, a collection of boundaries and fenced properties

11/ the collective cells become a boy, a young man repairing a fence—

12/ a fence is not always a fence. Even with a grackle preening from the top rail—

A Paleful Sundress

290/ she wears this old house as a paleful sundress— flower prints fading even as she walks hallways murmuring to herself—

Monday, August 12, 2013

Distracted by the Pause

For over thirty minutes I have been staring at a blank computer screen: an endless electronic field of fresh snow leading the rational mind-set to fall into a pattern of random daydreams and wandering speculations. A small-scale tundra consisting of a layer of rime, frost.

Okay, to be honest, the time frame established is a lie. In reality, the time interval averages out to a scant thirty days without product or completion of a project. Thirty days of mild frustrations and irritations have passed without major output. The small spark of inspiration which leaped into fruition at the close of July remains a miniature ember of creativity by mid-August. In fact, up to the middle of the year, I have allowed a heavy sense of apprehension prevent me from formulating any development towards my search for a publisher. It is easy to find excuses and blame circumstances, blame outside influences, rather than blaming the primary source— but here I am, once again complaining about past actions, over-dwelling on recorded events and not focusing on dramatically changing the course of habitual patterns.

This process of inactivity seems common. The Twitter account of @Poejazzi posted a laughable-precise pie-chart about inspirational projects. Created by Shaun Lynch, the diagram exposes the full experience of Artistic Creation.
The diagram (even in jest) proves a point: we all avoid processing out our ideas in full detail. We are easily distracted by the pause, the hesitation between actions. That brief inaction after placement of a period on the page. The moment a pen touches down on a blank page or a laptop opens out a empty document screen. Terror sets in.

For me at least, that brief moment, that terse pause starts a cycle of analyzing, reanalyzing, dissecting, and reexamining— rethinking the whole point behind a project’s main intentions. However. This week a more positive shift occurred, with clear opportunities falling into place for sending out query letters and for bundling manuscripts out into the cold world for editors’ eyes. I have to remind myself to seek out the positive possibilities which exist in almost any situation, rather than sit and stare at my laptop for hours on end, thinking only of the rejections.

And too, more poems were produced this year using new writing exercises. These new poems produce a strong feeling of completion. They stand out on the page as book poems; words with a voice. —with a purpose. An aspect of the greening which breaks through the arctic ice, revealing a hidden continent below.

Sunday, August 11, 2013

Falling to the Inner Self

289/ Full bearded, he stands before the mirror wanting to trim excess years, falling to the inner self, the hidden identity—
Today’s post and the last five verses relate through a loose connecting chain of events. Suffice it to say, a small idea has been brewing in my head, a social commentary/fable dealing with ramifications of human interactions and the Natural World.
Through Winter
Ruined Bell Tower
Remains a Constant
Collective Overcoat
The issue at hand remains is what format to present the plotline, slim as it is at the moment. For now, the Old Man is nameless. His landscape is buried in winter. The timing of his century undisclosed, yet hints towards a medieval period. He remains an isolated individual, locked in memory. Through the ramblings of recollection his story is told with an indirect moral of the present.

Perhaps it will remain a casual experiment.

A Collective Overcoat

288/ He wants to wear hours— a collective overcoat— random memories stitched without a full pattern, a quilt of past lives recalled—

Saturday, August 10, 2013

Remains a Constant

287/ All he has ever known is winter— it persists eternal, complete: a rime of snow remains a constant, infinite fact—

Friday, August 9, 2013

Ruined Bell Tower

286/ To gain shelter from the north winds, the old man sits a moment on the key stone of a ruined bell tower, talking to himself—

Wednesday, August 7, 2013


285/ The old man trembles before his fire, either from the intense cold or from his number of years— he cannot yet decide which—

Tuesday, August 6, 2013

Through Winter

284/ The old man trudges through winter— a bundle of kindling on his back; fresh snow starts to fall, just outside the city’s gates—

Monday, August 5, 2013

As Witness

283/ the empty table alone as witness— in a square of sunlight, the picture hangs crooked on faded autumn sunflowers—

Sunday, August 4, 2013

A Ghost Memory

282/ by the window, a ghost memory lingers in the abandoned house, watching the advancing pines slowly take over the yard

Saturday, August 3, 2013

A Knot of Cypress Trees

Reading a collection of poetry by Yannis Ritsos, titled Monochords. The works are set as terse phases, fragmented sentences, or clusters of words with surreal arrangements. I had forgotten how much an influence his work impacted my own writing.
4— The words left out of the poem are sacred.

228— The Greek line of the hill. Its missing temple floating in the air.

250— All right, heaven. Even if it doesn’t exist.

270— Mounted on hazardous scaffolding, we are cleaning our temples’ pediments.
Likewise I forgot how much Ritsos helped formulate the patterns I utilize — specifically for haiku or tanka situations. Sparse details, without background exposition. A stress placed on imagery. Allowing the reader to provide personal reactions to atmospheric objects, actions.
281/ a knot of cypress trees lean forward slightly in the midday rain; from back of the house, the sound of steam rises off damp laundry

Friday, August 2, 2013


280/ —overnight: a loaf of bread, a cup of coffee, or even a glass of wine. Forgotten items set on the kitchen counter.

Thursday, August 1, 2013

A Body Reclines

279/ in the folds of sheets a body reclines, pausing in moments between waking and sleep, transitions between past lives and the unknown—