the folds in my shirt are creased with sweat
in the blaring sun, the lawn glows like green molten lava
a haze seems to grow out of the hayfield
thunder tumbles over the hill
cloud cover crowds the sky
the air lifts and cools
a breeze tap dances in feathery wisps
the sky becomes a dove grey bird
right before it starts to sing
A jar of iced tea
shines like Excalibur
Light slices through concrete
bleeding sharp yellow points
Delivers a postcard
of the rising sun
a bluebird swoops down
frantically chopping its wings
through the shallow stream
the bluebird freezes
doesn’t see the hawk’s beauty
clings to his dead branch
a hawk on thermals
glides above forty pear trees
loaded with blossoms
a bluebird perches
in the one tree that looks dead
on the lush hillside
heavy, warm, and grey
spring lies under a blanket
dreaming of summer
When I notice I’m living in my head too much- for example, if I start getting emotional about imaginary situations- I find that writing haiku is a good remedy. It brings my attention back to my senses and into the present. What do I see in front of me? What do I hear? How does the air feel against my skin? What’s happening right now? Write about that. Haiku is a good medium for capturing the immediate. Working on a haiku makes me feel more real.
I start by writing down what I notice. All or most of these lines are dull. “lots of clover on the lawn,” “wet cement,” “white blooms.” But if I keep at it, a line or word might spring into my head that surprises me. A poetic phrase might appear. I might not even know what it means. Those are the rewards of creativity. Or work. The magic of thought. It’s what makes the sometimes excruciating writing process worthwhile. Poetry is the heat that transforms ordinary, mundane sand into stained glass.
Several years ago, I wanted to write more poetry. Luckily, I had a job where I could usually eat lunch while I was working at my desk. Then, on my half hour lunch break, I’d sit at a picnic table by a pond or at a table in the library and work on poems. To try and help keep me motivated, I entered a few poetry contests online. The prizes for these contests were publication and sometimes money. One submission was to a well-known [to those familiar with the genre] haiku magazine.
It seems normal to not get any response to a submission. Well, I got an email from the haiku magazine, where one of the editors figuratively hacked apart all my poems, threw them on the floor, and suggested I read some of their issues to get a sense of what they’re looking for (which, of course, I had done before I sent anything in). Some people may have appreciated an editor taking the time to give them feedback, but I didn’t. (My thinking is, art is subjective. If you like it, then print it; if you don’t, then don’t. Just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean the poem is bad or that I need to change it. I know- diva!)
I had been vaguely considering starting a blog for a while, although I hadn’t seriously looked into it. That incident became one of the stones in the bridge that eventually led me to create a blog. Why was I waiting for someone else to determine that my poetry was worth publishing? I would decide that it was worth publishing. That was (and is) an important lesson to take forward in life in general. If you want something, claim it and make it happen. [The poems that I submitted to magazines (plus more) have since been published on this blog.]
For anyone who has a fantasy of “being discovered” by someone with power or authority, just look in the mirror. Decide for yourself that you’re beautiful, talented, smart, strong, have a good idea that’s worth pursuing, have a skill that’s useful, or whatever else empowers you. And then live like you believe it.
At dusk
there’s comfort in a staggered row of lit-up doorbells
cars stuffed in parking lots like sardines
the neighborhood prepares for a new week to begin
I’ve been writing letters by hand
Trees are shedding
leaves loosely hang on
like ghosts of heavy fruit
rust, yellow, scarlet
Isn’t it amazing how words, a few scribbles on a piece of paper, can change your whole life?
High-pitched barking, muffled from inside
raindrops as fine as pinpricks
You’ve left an impression on me like a watermark
it’s getting too dark to read it
A cluster of mailboxes lit up, a beacon
a deserted island
the air turns minutely cooler
the smell of chalk and dirt
the rattle of a lone car down a country road