Just some random thoughts…thinking about writing fiction and this character came to mind, and he was thinking…
And as he wrote into the night, he realized his stories, his poems were almost always about the outsider–like his dreams. He was always outside looking in at well-lit warm kitchens, just trying to smell the dinner cooking, trying to hear the parents and children talking.
I’m an old crazy coot, he thought. I’m the outsider for sure, even in my own writing. Even in my own mind.
A few years ago, I found this old rough draft of a poem I started after we had moved. I keep losing it and then finding it. This time, I won’t lose it, but I will revise, edit, and work on the poem. There is something to the “moving on” theme that is compelling–maybe escape is the correct term?
In any case, thanks for reading.
Note: …..many stanzas before this…won’t post here so I can publish one day… and took out middle stanzas
Memories, you said. I cannot move.
These have been
the best years of my life here.
How can you say that, I asked,
not wanting to see the paint-peeled walls
or the missing tiled floors even one more time.
They were my years with you, you said.
Today I looked for photos
I am sure I threw away in my
haste to leave and I wonder
how I could have been so cruel
how can I
live with such moving love?
I wrote two poems recently in a very different style from what I usually write. I brought one poem to a writing workshop tonight. Three of my colleagues in class cried. (They said it was a good thing.) It was a poem about the changing seasons and when I got to the line about when summer returns to autumn? I heard sniffling.
I think I’ll play around with the poem a few more times and make it better. Then submit it somewhere.
***Done. Worked a lot on this poem and submitted with the other one.
And what’s with speech to text that it does not recognize POEM? It types it as POME. Isn’t POEM a common word anymore?
Thanks for reading!
What a pleasure to find an old rough draft of a poem on an old flash drive. I was looking for a document when I found this, simply titled: “Work on this poem.”
So I will work on this poem. I’m not sure about the rhetorical questions or who the “you” in the poem is, but I like a bit of mystery.
It starts like this…
wrap blistered feet.
Earthbound, I walk
How would I drive?
Bridges stop around curves,
hidden in the fog or dust
a glimpse of surprised faces
into the wide river of our poetry.
Where could I drive?
Then it goes on, but I won’t post more since I want to revise and rework to submit.
Thanks for reading.
Parking here to edit and revise
The woods, late spring
pond at sunsets
white tail pulled down
new leaves. The hawk flew low
Over the walking path
my shadow squat and low
no hooves, no wild thing.
Even the blue jay flew low
that night, while grasshoppers
jumped quickly across the path
my short shadowed sadness and dread
belied the flood of gold.