Tag Archives: poetry practice

30 in 30, day twenty-three

sept 2017 30-30Just in case the world actually does end today, I wanted to be completely caught up with poetry and posting.

A poem for the end of the world

today is the last day ever, so yesterday
I got my hair cut and went
to a baseball game with my honey
and watched fireworks

this morning I called my mother then
saw my collegian son, ate an extra
piece of chocolate, and had a beer
with lunch

there are dishes in the sink, dust
bunnies in the corners, and clothes
in the dryer, but the world is ending
so I will finish that afghan


30 in 30, day twenty-two

sept 2017 30-30My sweetie surprised me yesterday afternoon with tickets to the Reds game, so my schedule got thrown off a bit. Here is yesterday’s poem.

Dangerous secrets of the nuclear family

little brother has been playing with a chemistry
set father left in the shed, testing
the patience of everyone

crazy uncle says he will be sorry, has threatened
to destroy him if he doesn’t stop

we are all worried about possible explosion
or that the whole back yard
could go up in flames

30 in 30, day twenty-one

sept 2017 30-30This is a very straight-forward derangement (if such a thing is possible) of Amy Clampitt’s “The Edge of the Hurricane.” The source poem seems particularly apt given this year’s Atlantic hurricane season. (You can view the source poem here.)

Hurricane of the edge

Mangle and wring, drench — trample also —
can levity again yet notice? Serving
laundry as white-bleached moon, single; up hangs
nightfall, away. Packed wardrobe, cloud-bright, ends day: the debris of fouettés,
twirling in, upstands gales. Sibling fading and brightening, shade leaf lacewing
flying, footprints’ liquid fripperies — vaporous gusts point young
by crossed clearness of windowpanes. Mediterranean overhead opens
to begin transparencies, rinsed all afternoon by passing. Keep cumulus
Caribbean flounces of dark mud pieces, torn rain of tambourines, and lariats
with winds careening the wheeling.

30 in 30, day twenty

sept 2017 30-30Here is a somewhat tongue-in-cheek trace poem of D.H. Lawrence’s “Moon Memory.” (You can read the original here.)

Fog Forgetfulness

When the fog rises in a student’s mind
grey and clammy, as in the green shadow of a copse
pooling together, and sticking to his skull –

then the tranquil, ordered thought-world
exists no more, nor ever truly existed;
but instead
this thick grey dullness
oozes, and drips seeping, drifting sideways, muggily against his skull,
on his thoughts that are verdant forest within him.

And through the sticking of the grey sponge of the fog
furry creatures enveloped plunge inward and grow dim
in muddy gloom of torpor, leaf-enveloped torpor
in the sleepy, sludge-ridden blockage of ordered thought
that has left the woods in pea soup, even in daylight.

30 in 30, day nineteen

sept 2017 30-30I’ve been reading a lot of poetry lately. I’ve noticed that the reviews on the covers, written I suppose by other poets, are often quite poetic themselves.

Found in review

Like the life of the poet, the life of the world
is saturated with pain and ache
not yet finished, not yet answered, not yet resolved.

The poet sends her words into a different
kind of darkness with steady exactness,
their arc of perception over and over striking true.

The poet opens up thrilling new worlds
by fearlessly inhabiting
poems of sorrow, survival, and identity.

The poet creates a haunting, echoing
distance, a sound
from some unidentifiable place.

The poet brightens the shadowy
corners of her world
with verbal pyrotechnics.

All the pores of her poetry
are open, exuding
her entire flesh and spirit.

Over and over, at each wild
leap or transformation, flames
shoot up the reader’s spine.

Each poem is a riddle; the answers may sometimes
elude us, but we continue to read, hoping
that we may stumble upon answers.

30 in 30, day eighteen

sept 2017 30-30This list poem was inspired by the large, beautiful spiders that I find outside my home this time of year. I posted early-morning pictures of one in her web the other day, and at the bottom of this post I have a close-up photo of one of her sisters. (I left a bit of space before the photo so readers don’t have to see it if they don’t want to.)

Neoscona crucifera

French arachnologist Eugène Simon authored the genus name Neoscona in 1864.

The literal Greek translation is something like “spinning a reed,” but Simon was only 16 years old at the time and did not speak Greek very well.

His intended meaning was “spinning among the reeds,” since he had seen the spiders living near the water’s edge.

As for crucifera, the Latin translation would be “cross bearer,” from cruci- (cross) and fer- (to bear; carry). This species does have a pale cross pattern on its abdomen.

The spider occupies the hub (center) of the web, hanging head down, during the night; it usually hides during the day, though in late summer or fall it may spend some daylight hours in the web as well.

Females deposit eggs in late summer or early fall; the egg sac is made of fluffy yellow or orange silk, attached to a rolled up leaf or some other protected place.

Spiderlings emerge the following spring and remain clumped together for a day or two, after which they disperse.

Some “balloon” to other locations by riding the air currents, while others stay relatively close to where they were “born.”

Even the spiderlings create a very cute, tiny, orb-shaped web.





spider 2

This lovely lady was busy catching flying insects outside my window this morning.

30 in 30, day sixteen

sept 2017 30-30

Night and day

shrouded in birches, the house on the corner is
dark and foreboding
by day, overgrown and shadowed
with an air of neglect

but at night the windows glow
warm through the branches
casting welcome light
on the undersides of the leaves