Susi Bocks, Editor of The Short of It, has announced the release of Reflections & Revelations, which includes seven of my poems. It’s available in a paperback edition, and the details can be found here.
Many thanks to Editor Susi Bocks. I’m honored to have my poetry included in this collection.
Reading Between the Lines
Beneath the Waves
In the Dark
Path to Winter
Disillusioned cohesive thoughts tenuous, the poet stares at an empty page. One abortive attempt after another, long past the hope for something lyrical, he turns to a word generator. Even when they’re given to him they yield naught, yet his resolve remains steady. Always wanting, searching for the right words, the best he can do is transform them into a poem about writer’s block.
Writing a-poem-a-day National/Global Poetry Writing Month 2023 has been difficult for me. This is my fifth poem about writer’s block. I’ve used the Kerfe’s random words, chosen by Oracle 2, including 9 of the words.
In our early days, I was not your secret lover, nor were you mine. But when the moon, sun, and stars seemed to revolve around one person, some wondered who could be the center of my love poems.
Poetry connected us when we had to be satisfied with the distance that separated us and all I wanted was to be in or at the edge of your atmosphere. You responded to my poetry with your own, but broadened it with music by sharing your favorites, reflecting the moon and sun back to me.
You may have to coax me onto the dance floor, but our song will always be When the Day Met the Night, by Panic! At the Disco. Music continues to be one of our strongest connections.
This is my response to Poetics: Let music speak, the prompt from Punam at dVerse ~ Poets Pub, which is write a poem about music that uses two titles from a list of songs from Linda Perry’s albums. I have used “Edge of Your Atmosphere” and “Secret Lover.”
Hoppin’, boppin’. Strollin’ along. Who is this cat?
Is he the bass, layin’ down that smooth beat? The piano, weavin’ highlights in and out?
No, man. He’s the sax, with places to go and people to see. He ain’t sittin’ still for nothin’.
But what’s with this crossing, his route takin’ him where he don’t belong, headin’ north where I-70’s goin’ more than 70?
But there he goes, that armadillo startled jump, straight up as a pickup passes right over him.
So there he lies feet up, his shell flattened as a semi crosses his path.
And this jam ends, a long fade out of a wail, as if Mingus knows.
It’s been a busy day, including a 2+ hour drive to read at Savannah’s Coffee Corral in Pevely, MO (south of St. Louis), but I’m home in time to post my April-poem-a-day just under the midnight wire (Central Time). On the 60 mile (or so) stretch of I-70 heading east towards St. Louis, I must have seen a half-dozen armadillo roadkill. Of course, by the time we got to our destination I wrote this poem, listening to Mingus at Carnegie Hall Live (C Jam Blues).