The issues that must be spoken about as well...

I believe that as writers we must address issues that are sensitive otherwise, we are not writing. To avoid is to conceal, and to write is to liberate. The issue of clinical depression has long been in my family. Recently, I have watched it ravage my mother's core as she sees the man-- my father-- she has been married to for 50 years slowly nearing his last days. The stress and strain that his impending ending puts on her is unbearable at times to witness. I just want to leave this little writing as a means to address the issue:

When in Depression

(Contained), as in a
cubicle, even in the open air.
Roofed, squared, seemingly
extant within the mind’s
intangible dilemmas. Exas-
perated, like from every
common cold;
yet, somehow– colder.

The way some of us handle loss...

This works comes from the the curiosity I had with a neighbor friend of my parents whose wife had died several months early and he just chose to tell no one. It was in a passing conversation while walking his dog that he matter-of-factly mentioned to my mother that his wife had passed on. I didn't think much of it since I knew his wife was sick, but my mother was besides herself that he had made no announcement to the community. This writing touches on this incident;



The old man across the street
(A contemporary sonnet)

In these senior communities
there is a code to the way
of the old
(so my maman tells me).
Some adhere to it,
while others choose not.
The old man across the street
lost his precious wife
on November 25th, 2009.
He chose not to tell a soul. He did not report
his anguish to any of us.
For him perhaps, it was like
walking his dog each day– you do it,
you clean up after– and mind your own.

A sense of old New England barns...

This writing was inspired by a christmas card that I saw in a store. I thought about the barn in the picture and how it reminded me of an anchor or lighthouse. It was a bit dilapidated from the winter's she had endured, but there was still majesty about the plain sense that she conveyed.This is my homage to her;


The Old, Red Barn
(An Homage)

There is an old, red barn,

somewhere–

amongst drifts deep– along

those winding, snow-buried, poet Frost’s roads;

usually in Vermont, traveled less,

that makes no claim to greatness.

In ‘the plain sense ‘of her– the burnt-brushed

wooden redness of her hues–

she speaks of times, some time ago.

Stoic upon a hill– woodshed not far off–

She sits, (anchored) perched with a view

a proud, taciturn farmer knows.

She invites those who may be cold

to come inside. She is the barn,

the farm, the wood-burning hearth

that keeps all things warm

in her rudolf-red rusting

New England glow.

Making sense of this world through words...

I have decided to let this little writing go. I have been working on it for some time, and now it is time to let her stand on her own. There is often the writer who cannot let his/her work go and the piece languishes in a revision mode. I have opted today to let this one free;



Words...

In the poverty
of the poor–
those not so well-to-do;
their sparse words pour
forth
leaning (still)
towards poetry.

In this most salient form;
hapless men and women torn,
conjoin (still)
to pen the circumstance of woman and man.
The poet; harbinger
of this collective condition,
as the robin foretells spring...

The simplicity of the bookmark...

This writing was inspired by the idea that the writer and the reader have a continuous, interactive relationship throughout any type of storybook reading. It is simple in its approach but then again, there's nothing wrong with simple;


The Bookmark

This is the mark

I spot and set.

night-weary eyes

no longer able

to keep keen pace

As the poet’s words

rage & race across

this page--

in vain.

The night-light

wanes...

Sleep is now here.

The good book

placed near--

for the reader

(the listener)--

to resume the quest

where this mark

has been set.

A certain Blues Musician that inspires...

For almost twenty-two years I have watched and listened to Michael Powers play the Blues in New York City. He has had a profound effect on me because although, he has gained in influence to this day he remains a musician who plays in small venues with no cover charges. But if you listen to his music and his words, you can learn an aweful lot about the world around us. This writing is for Michael Powers;


The Prodical Son
(inspired by Michael Powers
a blues musician from NYC)

The prodical son,
with slower steps,
steeps
back inside ‘their’retirement home.
Oh, the days– lined– spent, stupid
in stupor,
alone. . .
vapid, vacuous in such vain.
The false mph’s&rpm’s un-gained,
in cocaine rooms
not built for such high velocity
in The City.
Often wishing for that allusive,
original, old home (‘the plain sense of it’);
the bed slept in with soft, sheets white,
made linen sweet from maman’s constant chores
and her relentless up-keeps.

When in a February state of mind...

There is a term in French poetics called paysage moralise. And it is a technique used by writers that want the landscape to mimic or echo the piece they are writing. It is a commonly used practice and with the writing below I share the sense of paysage moralise;


February, or waiting for something like February to pass

...as the day’s late,
night light
leans long,
longer than before
into seemingless
tomorrow...
We begin
now– today–
to come to terms
or, perhaps, just display
who we are

all
– alone–.

(Within sheets) not so white,
sheets not so soft,
dulled, yellowed and stained;
made coarse by the physical need
to express our singular pallor
through our little body jostles.

Yet, within such masterings
there is no abatement towards
our collective contemplation
of the soft, curvaceous lines
of lovers, who
twist and turn
and conform to the discomfort
of the moments,
for such moments.