Tag Archives: sun

spelled in spent flowers

not a good morning
but a thank you
spoken quiet and close, this
is the way the day begins
there is no way of knowing
what’s next except for
moons rising and
sky sizzling with light and
words and more words and 
wheels rotating on the earth which rotates
around the sun which rises in the east and sets
in the west
i joke about the patch of morning light
landing on my face, my thingh
quoting my own poem saying
that is me saying hey, good morning
while providing pro-tips of how
to safely exit and descend
the loft (also referred to as a treehouse)
dyke-alike she says as we walk the bright white gravel
by chance both donning 
a blue shirt and a purple skirt
swinging the front porch door open
for the final day to gather
around breakfast at the big table 
picking up the batons from our realy of running jokes
and heading off around the curves of the track
the fucking question ‘yes, but what can writing/what can poems do?!’ i say when answering 
the what i’m leaving behind portion of my favorite transition trifecta of: 
one thing you’re taking with you
one thing you’re leaving behind
and one thing you’re looking forward to
applause filing the room as i hand out
glitter-meteor-streaked certificates
honoring each recipient
as a real writer 
and how we shake hands
the gesture a joke
in a room of such intimacy
walking ourselves across the imaginary stage
from where we came from
to where we are heading
comedically draped/position in the sagging hammock amongst hammocks
after the flurry of see you laters
we shuffle the deck to find out what’s next
since the only answer i had to the question was we get on those bikes and ride
the cards revealing
the bike and fireworks of
the eight of keys and the mystery/possibility/systme of the code 
the two pages of brought to light fluttering
in the wind 
fastened to the porch with a half gallon mason jar
containing two rocks
(one blueish one red-brown)
the word YES spelled
in spent flowers
remaining in the space that housed
a moonwatcher
a star-gasper
a lightning-beholder
a big cat
hot enough in oklahoma to wash our sins away
i write down this lyric playing on the country station
and maybe it’s not so much the lyric
but how right a choice
the country station feels at this moment

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the only detail that needs to be written

the only detail that needs to be written today is this:
i sleep in a loft and there are two long skinny windows up there – one at my head and one alongside me.
this morning, i woke up to catch the copper-orange sun glow in the sky, mottled by the woods i live tucked in, but still some of that redorange light meeting my greenbluebrown eyes.
i was super sleepy and heavy lidded and in this glimpse, i also saw what looked like a bat – perhaps the one that sleeps everyday on the exterior side of the wall that i sleep on the interior side of
so i laid my head down again before i turned over and propped myself, resisting with a ferociousness the heavy sleep wanting to roll back in, on elbows to just watch (one of my most favorite activities of all time – just watching, especially in a more wild setting)
another sight of a bat flitting by but then
(here is the magic) one small owl landing on the young maple trunk that leans more horizontal than vertical
gray in color and when i say small i mean about 8 or so inches tall
and then another swoops in and they do their funny head dance and for a while it is just them on that trunk probably not more than 20 feet from me
and then i notice a third on that very same trunk
and then one by one they swoop off to other branches and limbs where i can still watch them until they each swoop off yet again and this
is the world saying good morning
to me

another detail (can’t resist)
wherein the phrase comes into my head
that goes you
have so much
to look forward to

and a third, irresistable detail:
moonstar the cat
(who i must carry to my room
if we have a sleepover
because there’s a certain point where she seems to get too scared to follow me
through the dog terrain)
meowing at my window tonight
and how i can’t stop telling her
how brave she was
ok, and a fifth:
the owl calls and hoots and shriek
10pm (barred owls, eastern screech)
going off overhead
and i feel like i am in a treehouse
sleeping with them
and in a sense, i kindof am

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all orange

the second tomatoe harvest
cradled in my palm:
all orange
a bit warm for a run i say
as i run past the white-cut-off-tee’d and blue-jeaned farmer man
who’s walkign down the gravel road between trucks,
a road that, in my four years of running here, i’ve never encountered another human pedestrian

the smallest of pink petals on the tiniiest zinnia (thumbelina variety)
blooming by my front porch
how it feels like the flower is saying hi
so i say hi back

a serious-looking wasp-ish creature
the likes of which i’ve not seen before:
bright yellow antennae,
black tail about five inches long
and from where i sit on the saw horses
with moonstar in my lap
i see one mounted on another and then a third joins in
the oncoming slow burn
which has me recognizing the blister beetle blister by feel
before i confirm it by sight
received most likely by being on my knees in the tomato beds
just as i head out for a back-way walk
through the neighbor’s treeline i catch a view
of the radiant orange-pink
of the great sun-star
skinking into horizon
from the water world:

Participants cheer on a portable shrine carried by others as they parade through the sea during a purification rite at the annual Hamaori Festival at Southern beach in Chigasaki, west of Tokyo. – voice of america, day in photos

Izabayo, 13 years old, leaves the boat where he spent the night with 10 other fishermen after another fishing night at Lake Kivu. – voice of america, day in photos

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the cool creek calls me back

the soft pink of an early sky
lightening as seen in the west through the stands of evergreens as i poke my head up out of the sleeping bag layers
while the sun rises to the east
baja or bust we joke on our way out
driving the same route we drove yesterday
but this time with eileen in her toyota truck with the cattle mover on the front
and our toes chilly with the cool of morning
the swallows circling around the one barn they seem to always circle around and the sheep sheared and grazing in fields behind fences
and that one strange garden on the left that just seems to be pots on concrete/astroturf fenced in as we roll past
the little birdling sounds that eleicit sole and i peering over the creekside fence
to find baby quail probably about the size of one of those standard plastic easter eggs
rustling about and their parents too
skittering to/fro
dust rising from the paths,
spangles and glitter and pasties and loin cloths and shor shorts and galactic leggings and crinolines and busties and tie dye and wigs and faerie wings and dragon costumes and paper mache rattles and giant bubbles and the blast and bass of marching bands moving past 
this is the tiniest slice as observed from a careful distance
of the oregon country fair
and all the while i’m taking massage reservations
on a color-coded sheet
pressed onto the surface of a clipboard

no street shoes reads the sign outside the dance pavillion tent
and so we doe-see-doe and allaman right and balance and swing
barefoot minus those
who came with their dance shoes packed
away somewhere

give her some elbows,
beat her up a little bit
michael from minnesota in the lime green says
about me on the massage chair which i like the sound of so
later i point to him and demand some elbows
the slices of chocolate mint pie treat
that sole cuts for eileen and i
and the risk of sleeplessness eileen and i take
by partaking

another night of sleeping under a moon-filled sky
and the great trees that canopy over me
reaffirming my decision not to not sleep in the zone of party domes and porta potties and even though the night comes alive
with fire shows and bass beats
the sound of the cool creek calls me back
and yes there is a part of me that remembers a little bit wistfully the up-all-night nights of 
bass beats and djs and the frenzies we’d work ourselves into over sound
but there is another part of me that knows
that spirit is far from dead

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limbs and lungs

the sun, gold first, then pinking and orangeing
rising further to the north each day
so that now a little bit of it comes in
through the north facing window
before it cascades in
through the east facing window

limbs and lungs feeling /working strong-hard
as i stride across packed dirt/earth
around the bends to the trainbridge 
and zigging and zagging (forward/reverse stitch) so that i catch a train finally
rolling beneath me as i cross for the 
umpteenth time

cherries so impossibly red
and even more impossibly sweet mixed with the sour
if there ever is a question of what the hell am i doing here 
it is moments like these cherries,
burst-bright against deep leaf green,
that help remind me
and yet i wish there was even more time
to gather each
and savor

it is probably ridiculous i say to be weeding this by hand
to eric who kneels over the big bed of
seed cosmos with me
where we pluck the small nutsedge grasses
and baby smartweeds
as the day just begins to heat up
and he asks if i’ve always been someone
who liked being outdoors

how would that change bruin says if the goal
was heightened vulerability
which makes me want to run
far away and scream and recoil but that
of course
is the point – to look at what that knotted tangle
is made of

the book matt leaves on the table for me
that he went back down the road just to fetch
 braiding sweetgrass which is appropriate
not only because i’ve taken a mental note of this book several times and not only because of how much i love smell of sweetgrass wafting but also because
ther are places i walk or run these days
that are packed with that same light sweet growing-things smell

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they say mountain lion

working my way down the spinach and pea bed
while trish works her way down the salad mix bed
the morning dew dampening our feet and shoes
reminding me of sauvie island farm mornings
where we woke with the sun
and went out to the greens
so that we could get to washing them before noon
the wildcat sighting tyler reports 
seen on the gravel road on his way to town:
a bigger cat like creature and her young
from the size of it, he was guessing bobcat
(and later, emory and althea go out to inspect the tracks and scat
and, looking at the tracking book, they say mountain lion)
did you measure the tracks with your hand  i ask
you are rich, i like having rich friends darien says
rich in kindness

smudge of sunset
a short walk between meditation and calling it a night
light hues already disappearing into the beyond:
peach pinks and dusty purples
evaporating from horizon

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synchronized with the sunrise

difficult to name but something
about the differeing qualities of color/light
between sunrise and sunset these days
(ashby the cat’s rising from his perch on my bed
synchronized with the sunrise
which is a magnificent mix of neon pink and copper)
and how i like being woken up at sunrise
because it feels right in my body
 but my body depends on a cat
to rouse me to catch it

anyone wants to come down to the sauna
 i say of my room
whose stove is too big for its space
and whose floors and windows are too leaky to hold the heat in
which means by the time
there are coals in the stove, i’m opening the door and down to bare feet and tshirts
on a 40 degree day

11:08PM ozzy osbourne’s no more tears 
on one of the two classic rock radio stations
that my four dollar radio picks up
while my four dollar porcelain electric kettle slowly comes to a boil
so i can fill the hot water bottle

emergency broadcast radio alerting
the mississippi river at quincy is forecast to rise above
flood stage sunday evening/monday/tuesday evening
and crest near 17.81 feet (16 feet being flood stage) until wednesday morning


what’s his face has approved
to expand off-shore drilling
is one thing i read at the end of the day
when i check in with the rest of the country/world
and immediately after i read the thing
about what’s his face saying we are really really close to bombing north korea (what kind of president talks like that!?)
and the news of north korea’s government handout
with the image of the whitehouse in the crosshairs

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