Tag Archives: weather

the sunset something

sans gloves, i
pull the sleeve layers long
over my hands
_______
the vertebrae, the thin ribs
of gibbous, the incredible shrinking cat
defined and almost sharp under my palms
as i scoop him up
_______
the ice in the tire track pressed into the dirt road
that i crack with my tennis-shoe’d toe
and the ice in the intermittent stream
whose shades and shapes form
around the big rocks scattered
_______
the bald eagle gliding close enough (thirty feet?)
that i don’t have to squint to make out
if that is indeed a white head and white tail i see – 
it is, indeed, without a doubt
i reserve the question mark
for the other two or three along the way
that could have been red tailed hawks
or juvenile bald eagles
up on slater’s hill and along
county line road
_______

the possum
looking at me looking at it
in daylight
scampering slow off into 
the woods
and me, redirecting jack the jack russell’s attention
to keep
the peace
_______
the kitchen clock
once again silenced:
pulled off the wall from above the sink,
battery adjusted so no contact
is made
_______

the sunset something peach
(sorbet, perhaps)
along horizon

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the light and the lines

19 degrees  reads the outdoor thermometer at 9something in the morning
and then there is the walking in the wind – how mostly i don’t notice the 19 degrees except for on my face
which feels like a thin mask of glass
that is about to break off
my body
________
the light and the lines
on sharon’s face from where we sit
in the sun coming in through the plate glass
i felt ten times lighter she says
_______ 
how we use our fingers
to wipe the melty cacao off the sides of our mugs
as we sit near the orange flames
glowing/licking woodstove door glass
_______
the sound of the dog/cat door
flapping in the wind
cause enough  for mica and i to pause and check
if the prodigal cat
has trotted back

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reckless optimism

reckless optimism says nastalie
about the forces responsible for shuttering the doors
of an arts organization and gallery
that had been around (and flourishing) for 40some years
_______
sami, nastalie and i sorting through the grey mammoth variety sunflower seeds on a sheet tray at the kitchen table,
first separating seed from chaffe and then
sorting out the seedless casings (crushable between two fingers) from those with the idea of next year’s flowers tucked inside them
_______

the sun that finally comes 
after what feels like months but has only been weeks
and how it walks with us
up/down the kale rows for what i’m guessing might be the last harvest
of the season
________

the bright shock of yellow/green 
with an occaisonal red/orange flourish
of the silver maple leaves stll attached
to the tree i call my maple
because of how it arcs over the path that leads to the room/cabin i live in
_______

inheritance mahogany says 
about his hand on his dad’s heart
as it beat its last and
being in the room that changed/filled
with his huge spirit
and sole talks about the impulse 
to throw anything open – a window, a door, to make room

_______

the good that it feels
to look at a hand-carved spoon and know that the light-ish blond with dark swirls and the deep dark wood is black walnut
(something similar to how i said the other day the thing about
the years it can sometimes take
to learn things,
and how sandhill has been
one (of the many) greatest teachers
_______

rhymes with spruce sole says
about mahgany’s given name
and there we sit near the heat of the woodstove at night, the three of us
each knowing what it’s like to name ourselves
_______

a cold that merits double hot water bottles
(one for the foot of the bed and one for place my core will be once i tuck my body between the sheets)
in a 35 degree room at night

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chasing energy

the soothingness of the lemon ginger brew
that sumner boils on the stove
and how i take note
(one way to take care of myself/let others take care of me)

_______

a strip of copperpink cloud to the west – evidence after all these sunriesless sunsetless gray-filled days
that the big star still shines
_______
not enough layers, it seems, to wrap around me and insulate
skin, organs, bones
from the 20degree temperatures
_______
i’ve been chasing my energy all day i tell cynthia
after i finally got it together enough to sit down at the keyboard and type

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as the poems are born

the lnflatable cube blinking
bright on/off white behind me where it hangs
clasped on my backpack
something cartoony about this cute puffy glowing thing
and how it makes me think of the overhanging light of the anglerfish who scuttles here and there in the darkness of the deep deep sea
_______
the sunrise that never blooms
as we pedal into morning
up over the ridge and down again
before we drop deeper down into the valley of town
and how, on highway J, the clipclop of horses pulling a buggy
approaches and recedes
audible for quite some distance
a clear stacatto sound punching into
the soft gray of the day
_______
she brings me ginger tumeric tea steaming
and an amish babkery cinnamon roll
and warm-roasted chstnuts whose crackly-skin shells are so pleasing to peel off
and a cardamom truffle
and she stands solid at my side holding the umbrella over me
and the typewriter as the poems are born
 _______
how fitting it is
that the man who builds shelters for small and winged things (birds and bats) offers the use of his umbrella
in case the gray sky gives way to rain
______
i was not expecting that says the man sitting across the typewriter from me and wiping his eyes,
the man who was craced open by the poem pressed into paper key by key  
on the topic of making pizza and the crackle of flame warming the stone and the absence and the presence and the missing
and how the people who teach us 
are always with us everytime
we carry on what we learned
(in this case, tossing the dough and keeping the flame heat steady) 

_______
and then there are the kiddos
ordering poems about pugs and watermelon and beavers
and then also, how i must write the one titled real men wear floral aprons
for the farmer across the way
_______

physical metaphors  she calls out from her bike ahead
talking about the beam me up scotty tap to the chest and then held up to sky
that she used to talk about dissociation
which slayed me so hard
that it’s still slaying me the next day
just to think about it
_______

if you weren’t here, i’d be under the covers with a book and a glass of whiskey she says
about the windowfull after windowfull of white that flashes
as the rain drops down

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just to listen to the sound of something wild

the thing
that makes my day is the pinnies/mesh jerseys
that christina ordered
and how i joked about hot pink and low and behold
there we are, javi, baigz and i
donning the hot pink with black trim pinnies
chasing that disc and
cheering each other on
_______

post-frisbee and ted and i are the only two
at the pond’s edge
so quiet i can hear the sound
of water in to water
drizzle drops hitting pond surface
_______
how every time i get on a bike out here
i tell myself it’s been too long
including today
pedaling through the little spits of rain
and all that fall color coming in
_______
the squash kachina
arriving early (as birthdays go)
from chimayo
and how i can almost smell
the pinon smoke and certainly hear
debbie and liz’s voices and
laddie’s bark and the sound of water
dripping
from the sacred spring
reminding me
how it is something fierce
the ways i carry land and people in me
________
the view from stephen’s storage storage shed/office
behind the house
(trees, shrubbery, grasses)
while we talk rhythm and line breaks and
storytelling
_______
what is dust? somehow 
the way eric asks the question in the back seat as the four of us ride home
through the wet wet rain
on the wet wet gravelroads
plus all the dust-induced sneezes and wheezes
(post-clothing swap
where shirts and skirts and scarfs and socks all sailed overhead
as the auctioners tossed them to the bidders
[though there was no money involved
just eager hands signaling])
makes me laugh the kind of laugh which spirals into more laugh which means other people spiral into it too and then there are tears and then even more of the kind of laughlaugh that i often get the feeling i should suppress when it gets like this but why – when it feels so ridiculosu and good and other people are in the boat too?

_______
electricity flickering off for 30 seconds
here and there as we dine on front porch perch
while rain goes torrential
and the lightning shocks loose
________
i don’t know what kind of rule book it is
but in my book that contains the rule
for silence curing coyote calls – just to listen to the sound
and its sacredness of something wild
still alive out there,
there is another rule about turning out all the lights
just to watch the scraggles and illuminations
of lighting while a storm pounds and passes

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this is a muscle

bruin reflecting back to me that right now
i’m seeking enthusiasm and encouragement; that’s the kind of listening i’m most excited for
this is a muscle he says about making
this clear of a direct request
_______
Real Writers™ have lots of different work to do she says:
emerging, accepting, grounding, flying, sharing, breaking hearts and taking names
_______
in the nearly-dusk, those of us that gather do so around the red hot coals
of the darth-vadering steam boiler
_______

the second time in a week: a softball team pose for a photo
(the group in the sugar shack gathered while the sweet steam of sugaring rises behind us
_______
my rainwet cold hand in zeke’s at dinner circle
and how he helps warm it
_______
emory bumblebee and i emailing bitmojis back and forth from the same room
where we sit five feet apart
_______
stoking the internal fire
i move on a yoga mat
in a 55degree room
The rainwet cool air slowly slipping in
as i vinyasa
to the top 40 radio station
whose ads are so annoying that everytime i tune in
i eventually have to tune out

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