Memoirous

I'm amazed that everything is dirty again, that once again I need to buy groceries it seems I just shopped The hours, the minutes the days repeat, until-- interrupted by a good book, a star shower a hidden, ripe tomato found under a leaf. Therefore, I can live again.

As a writer we are always looking for inspiration—be it nature or Netflix. I’m always amazed by writers who say when they are in the midst of a project refuse to read other’s work that might affect their own. I readily admit I steal. Poetry causes me to slip sideways. Words or phrasing ignites a memory of something softly hidden. Perhaps so ordinary it fell beneath the midden of everyday life. The attitude of who cares. Well, obviously this crazy brain of mine because it will suddenly offer up what was already there, wanting to be revisited. When I moved out to Eugene it was with a bicycle and a suitcase. Word. And, that suitcase could not exceed 50 pounds. I obsessively packed, unpacked, reconfigured items until I reached a number I thought could win me the Alaska Airlines lottery. At the airport I came in 2 ounces short of the maximum!!!!! More than clothes, more than Christmas gifts (though there were those, the lighter ones) I brought with me James Schuyler. His selected po...

Next to last weekend in October we leave the campfire mid-way through with the idea we will go for a ride We see the city lights from Montrose Point we ride the lakefront path in semi-darkness past the golf course the tennis courts the batting cages the dog park the quiet zoo streets deserted, riding into the heart of the city as if it were a full moon At a certain point the wind picks up leaves scatters them before us a swirling yellow tide and I try to say it makes me feel sad, a sense of transience and you say in English your second language how the blowing leaves always makes you feel happy We are both right a moment pregnant with happiness and sadness is bittersweet We rode home content.

Moss on the Garden Gate In shadows the gate stands open The grey wood weathered Upon closer inspection a fluorescent Green shines through One way or another the gate is returning To what it once was, decomposing The gate to the garden will one day Become a garden

Waiting for Christmas At Christmas every light comes on, in the basement where my daughter home from college retrieves ice cream, in the dining room a lamp illuminates the abandoned puzzle, the laundry nook dazzles, while the back porch radiates a smoky incandescence, the TV flickers a blue twilight, in the middle of the night my heart pulses as I reflect. Soon the house will be silent, the only light the bulb above my reading chair. I'm lonely and miss you

Again following in my theme of all things Maine and New York School of Poetry-ish and memoir, haiku prose, flash. All this to say: I’ve been reading the poems of Anne Porter. Her first collection, An Altogether Different Language (1994), published when she was 83, was named a finalist for the National Book Award. Her other volume of poetry is Living Things: Collected Poems (2006). I was struck upon beginning this collection how many of her poems seem to be reminisces. In deed, she lived a long life, passing away in 2011 just shy of 100 th birthday. A number of her poems begin with the word once . The Wingéd Children Once when my friends Were driving through the desert In Mexico They passed a pickup truck And in the back of it Each with a pair of wings Of sky-blue plush Such as is used For making bedroom-slippers There rode a dozen little Mexican children. In addition she began a series of poems with This is . Summer Cottage This...

Last Friday I wrote about poetry books sitting on my shelf, and how the titles themselves lend inspiration. I have a book titled Poems from Italy by R. H. Bowden. From what I can find online he was something of a literary dabbler. He wrote plays, poetry, fiction as well as nonfiction. He and his wife often traveled and loved to vacation in Italy where they often walked the hills of Tuscany and Umbria. He has one poem, “In the Umbrian Mountains Above Gubbio” an area I have also explored. Another poem is “To Italy at Fifty.” These poems are basically travel notes, observations, the kind of thing all of us (or at least think about) jot down. In the midst of a journey, when we are looking with fresh eyes, we are keen to make comparisons, contrasts—we leave the analytical for later. In retrospect we can make generalizations or judgments, but in the moment it is best just to get things down. Just like how we take pictures. We photograph something and think, Later I’ll get prints m...

I have a lot of poetry books on my shelf. Sometimes even just the titles are inspiring. For today’s Hot Flash I want to highlight one of these titles. The Weather of Six Mornings by Jane Cooper The book contains some of her earliest poems, those referencing a love killed during WWII. Her life continued hesitatingly. College, career, teaching, publishing. It seems she grieved for the better part of her life. A few other poems have to do with her childhood home in Jacksonville, Florida. I especially like the one about St. John’s River and the water birds. My mind drifts back to my first solo bike trip, Jacksonville to Key West, and an alien feeling comes over me. Pelicans and bursting sunsets, warm sand and foaming ocean. It was another world—in January! Let’s borrow that title for Hot Flash Friday and begin now to write consecutively for 6 mornings. Sunlight lies along my table like abandoned pages. I try to speak of what is so hard for me --this clutter of...

Been working on this for awhile, the state I've been in lately: Doctor-Prescribed, Number 1 Once or twice daily, Levitra Over an extended period, Victoza I am confronted by mortality, Januvia Postmenopausal women are at high-risk, Boniva For fracture, Prolia, The urgent need to go, Viagra Sudden tightening in the stomach, Humira Tired restless legs, Orencia Insomnia, disrupted sleep, Lunestra Make more tears, Jublia Shortness of breath, Spiriva Heartburn, heartache, Ranexa Overall achingness, Zetia Do not take, Lyrica If agitation or changes in mood occur, Cymbalta If your depression worsens, Truvada Or if you have suicidal thoughts, Dulera Or if you experience hallucinations, paranoia, or confusion, Latuda In some rare cases, death, Avandia Stop and seek help immediately, Nyulasta Is there a cure for all that ails, Namenda This lonely broken heart?

Change Changes, and that will never change There used to be an Old Man in New Hampshire, Now it’s just the tree-covered side of a mountain. There used to be a Wall in Arches, Now it is two points without a middle. There used to be a shallow cove, warm as bathwater Where I once swam in Door County, now with lake levels down it’s a marshy backwater. Natural Bridge in Virginia used to be a cavern before it collapsed. Crater Lake used to be a volcano caldera which used to be the peak of a mountain until Cataclysmic catastrophe. Just like how marriage can become divorce Just like how friends move apart Just like how a river cuts into rock We are, until everything changes.

“Let us remember...that in the end we go to poetry for one reason, so that we might more fully inhabit our lives and the world in which we live them, and that if we more fully inhabit these things, we might be less apt to destroy both.” ― Christian Wiman I’ve written here at my blog numerous times about funding for the arts. Endowments for the humanities. In other words: a handout. A piece on NPR this a.m. caught my attention—so many musicians are gaining an audience because of Spotify, YouTube, and other mediums made possible through the Internet. Yet the Internet is killing them. With downloading and digital sharing royalties are siphoned or greatly diminished. It’s the same for publishing. Without the Internet I wouldn’t have had 30 stories published. If I had to rely on print journals alone maybe I’d have 2 stories out there. But with the advent of hand-held digital devices, more and more people are reading from the screen—thus flash is growing in popularity. It is a f...