I journal, somewhat obsessively. Nearly every morning. The sunrise and me. I write. It rises. I have had this partnership with the rising sun since I was a wee little thing. My day is just not right if I don't begin it writing. (And funny, the day wouldn't be right if the sun didn't rise!)... Continue Reading →
My oldest daughter Riana was fascinated by numbers when she first discovered them as a child. Numerals actually. She had no concept, really, of what numbers were, no understanding of value or measurement. When she was a toddler these were words she knew and knew she liked. Funny, now she is teaching statistics, but then... Continue Reading →
Walt Whitman reportedly said that he wished his early work could be dropped into oblivion, well, ditto that, Walt. I believe the only reason that most of us high school kids had our work published in this sweet little journal, Mosaic, was that we were brave enough to submit. Okay, that's the only reason my work... Continue Reading →
I just finished Bruce Springsteen's Born to Run, his amazing autobiography. I have never read an autobiography. Or a biography. Or just about any non-fiction. Try as I might. Every new year's I renew my resolution to read outside of my favorite genres. 'Read non fiction, biography, essays, not just fiction and poetry,' I command myself.... Continue Reading →
I can't say that I remember the exact moment it happened, I mean it's not like your older brother just suddenly likes you after years of teasing and tricking. For some, sibling love develops very slowly. I do remember the night I noticed something had changed, and my hero, my older brother Pat, saw me as something... Continue Reading →
In these days of rage and reflection, I question everything, everything more than I ever have. One question, always gnawing at the loaf of bread that may be my brain is 'why do I write?' And now, blog. Answering this questions is a life's work for many writers, why? What drives us to do it?... Continue Reading →
An Anti-Trump Poetry Reading It begins with listening. As writers resist I hear ridicule of the ridiculous. I hear more, again, no! Hands and penises and size... No. Like eating ice cream with my ears brain freeze I stop listening. It begins with listening. A dozen synonyms for orange. Tangerine. Cantaloupe. No! All fruit all... Continue Reading →
Yesterday's hike revealed crashing waterfalls. Okay, not like Niagara, but nonetheless wonderful flows charging down the boulders. As I neared the mountain, or better said, as I left houses and neighborhoods behind--we're all on the mountain after all--I spotted several happy rivulets flowing near the trail, and sometimes across the trail. I followed the largest... Continue Reading →
I believe it is a woman thing. Choking. We choke up. We choke when we laugh too hard. Or cry. We choke on our food. Or I do. Laughing and eating has led to food or drink flying straight across the table from my mouth to the face of my date. I remember this happening... Continue Reading →
I have journaled, kept a diary, put the pen to my brain, so to speak, since I was five years old. And I have that diary, still. My favorite entry being one where I expressed how seriously furious I was at my brother Bernie. It's like peeing. Sorry, but it was the first metaphor that... Continue Reading →
pocket poet 