National Poetry Month: Poem on the Range, mapping places through iconic poems. Go ahead. Check this out.
Himself: Illustrates Hole in the Wall Gang with photos of holes. Fill holes today.
Herself: Work on poem, get salad makings, pick up MB at 5, and to dinner with K and D. We are getting just so social I don’t know what to do about us.
Reading: A beautiful new book that’s too fragmented for me.
Gratitude: G, sunshine east of I 5.
Until I go shopping for salad makings, I have the whole day free to hack and slash at words, clarify their meanings in relationship to the next series of words, and finalize things till the lady poets shred me on Thursday. I’ll start over again considering the whole after that.
The biggest problem is that every time I open a string of words I think are done, I find something not quite right with them. In the poem, “Old Cops,” the whole first verse is gar-bage, out, fini, and I put the piece back in the “needing work” pile to work on later. This piece, “A Flowering”, doesn’t need a total overhaul, but it isn’t finished. There it sits in the finished pile, and it’s not at all done. When I did a painting, I could almost always find an end to it. With this new medium, I have trouble seeing the final line or the final word.
I pause before getting out of chairs,
only with support
then hanging half bent
in a never, never land
At first I couldn’t laugh,
had no smile for this at all
now time has wiped the frown
and left me with a repartee
polite filler, jokes,
as my pauses blossom
into long halts.
while others pass me by
talking while moving on
they leave me unfolding
into my own space