enthusiasms in decline
or already dead
motivations lacking
or never-were
faltering footprints of self-pity
give way to immobilization
boot straps — broken nubs…
curled up, knees to forehead
sunken cheeks, cool to the touch
eyes a-glaze…
covers in a heap, empty side of the room
noon whistles blasts
the requisite three and a half minutes
yes, covid is a thing
but, girl, you’ve got to
pull yourself together
This summer I participated for the first time in POPO 2020, the August Poetry Postcard Festival. When you sign up, your name is added to a list of thirty-one others. Due to COVID-19, the festival began earlier than usual this year but the premise of the activity is to send a postcard to each person on the list by the end of August. The idea of which is to just sit down – on the fly! – and compose a poem for the recipient. And, to further challenge one’s artistic bent, use whatever means to communicate your poetic message (or not!) by decorating the other side of the postcard. You are also free to use any kind of postcard such as those to highlight the community or area you live in. You can use an already ‘decorated’ card if you prefer not to flex any artistic muscles of your own. Anything pretty much goes!
Here is a showcasing of some of the cards I decorated. Um, as for the poems — well, let’s just say maybe some other time! But the gist of the exercise, to get us to let our thoughts FLOW on paper, was enjoyable and time well spent. I’ve sent all my cards out and I must admit to having a few withdrawal pains! It was fun. I photographed every card and poem I sent and will let those verses marinade a bit. Later, I’ll see if I can’t just do a little bit more with them!!
If anyone is interested in participating in next year’s Festival, here’s a couple links with more information. Registration for POPO 2021 begins September 1st! You can also search for them on Facebook.
Some weird shit, man.
COVID-19 and all the ways of the world
mangled, twisted —
set on fire.
Another confirmed case,
the county adjacent to ours.
Close enough to us now
that it totally feels real.
Like, how real will it be
when friends, family,
neighbors
begin to die?
I could be one of them.
Compromised, weakened immune system
and fragile, as my sister tells it…
This fiend could slay me.
It could.
It really, really could.
My 2019 goal was to publish five poems. When I met that goal midyear, I expanded my horizons and made ten the new magic number. Well, I fell just shy of that by two. Still, I’m happy and pleased that eight of my poems were selected for publication. Here’s Numero Ocho. It’s called Horror Vacui and it was published in SPLASH!, an online journal courtesy of Haunted Waters Press.
Horror Vacui
~ the fear or dislike of leaving empty spaces, particularly in an artistic composition
yesterday, I watched cumulonimbus clouds dance their anvil jig
tomorrow, I will cruise among their almighty thunderheads
today, I hunger for the tart, clean texture of a Colorado peach
today, I yearn for the lusty breezes of spring,
winter remnants skimming across novice green grass
today, I adore the pungent taste of black licorice
puppy’s exquisite kisses, until I cannot handle them even one minute more
the exhilaration of a rowdy wind in my hair, pedaling my Townie Electra fast as it will take me
street photography, subjects unaware, placed within my viewfinder, chill and aloof
today, I crave the scent of ciabatta bread fresh-baked with my own two inarticulate hands
flamboyant array of hats and scarves, crocheted with love
the impactful power and reach of the written word (occasionally, my own)
alway, I seek joyful reassurances from authentic hearts
nestled snug and warm within a canvas that lacks for nothing
nothing at all
It wasn’t often
I was invited to a friend’s house.
A grand adventure
for one always told
No,
we can’t afford it.
My mother’s touch
of the feminine.
I’m tempted
to live in ignorance
agnostic
of the partisan divide
that threatens our democracy
unity we once held dear
disregarding
the ubiquitous Breaking News,
turning away
from chaotic commentary
manufactured outrage
the whole darn world gone mad…
Simple beings, we
search afar for love, beauty
yet so close at hand
Cal’s class ring, barely snug
despite the red yarn
wrapped around its band,
slips off her finger, clatters inside
the cast-iron basin.
She places it on the sideboard
holds on to its uneasy memory,
one she wraps around herself
in scathing moments
of doubt and lonely regret.
Details of their last conversation,
tinged with subterfuges
she did not know she was capable of,
bit down — hard — on the heels
of all that messy death and fog at Khe Sanh.
The choice had been hers alone to make.
Redemption, now, never once a possibility.
Sinister longings perish
in a hail of loneliness,
solitary specters of humanity
twisted, tainted, tormented and tattered.
Writhing in misty coils
vanquished blue-haired nobles
smoke their pipes
and drink their tea,
moral beneficence lost amid
the dithering squalor
of their own wanton needs.
Frosted-glass pillars
glow amber and vermillion,
intentions forever severed
by hazy razor-grim phantoms.
Cinder blocks elevate in an obsolete breeze
powder puffs of pink videotape the masses.
Lemon-lime apples tart & sweet,
my fever rages on, hot with need.
Tides permeate the lower grasslands,
neon spectacles of fright
and immense longing,
reeled in one antelope at a time.
A Sawyer's Daughter 
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