This is Where

•April 16, 2014 • Leave a Comment

In the Louisiana night
Playing on a splintered gate
Another predator by my side
A heavy paw he placed

This is where
The cricket song and heavy air
Rallied the chirp and weight
In my gut
This is where
I found my voice
Carried over the chorus
Of evening bugs
This is where
The “no” that was not heard
Years before left me loud
This is where
The little me got bigger
Echoed “not again” and found me
This is where
I looked away from ponies
And willful stared into a monster’s face
Called his bluff
This is where
I put my childhood out to pasture
Beneath a southern summer sky
Grew up

Pushing off that splintered gate
My feet firm on Cajun ground
I walked away with my own brave
Too young, “I am a fighter now.”














Broken Gate by Dave Sandt


Inspired by the #ThisIsWhere project mentioned on NPR.  This is the place, picture, memory, that came to me and would not leave. So I wrote it down.

Divine Comedy

•April 14, 2014 • 3 Comments

When I first speak in the morning
Catching, croaking, from my throat
When I swallow water wrongly
Invading sting, straight out my nose
When I walk blind into a memory
A sliding door I did not see
Surprising smacks by slapstick life
Humbling delight, this comedy



Painting by Jonathan Case

Dear Word Lover (corrected)

•April 12, 2014 • 3 Comments

It is I who must
For my tardy
I never know
Quite what to say
Or how to take
Sometimes no words
That I can make

I might not follow
As you lead
Except on pages
Where we read
In truth it may stay
In my head
A foolish fiction
Falling dead

So dumb and blind
Like poets, I
Create connections
‘Cross the sky
Where many waves
Of sound and light
From dreamers weave
Both left and right

No way to tell
Beginning, end
Or lie from truth
Or fierce from friend
Perhaps it’s all
Or both
Or none
In instant same
And still no one

So what to make
Create from this
I do not know
I will not wish
Except I give
A writing hand
That alone
Is all I can
And when all falls
Is what must stand



Young Woman Writing by Pierre Bonnard

Originally a series of micropoems, a conversation with myself, the reader, the writer. Perhaps I will post to Twitter as such.

Re-posted because in the last instant before publishing, the form suddenly seemed to rearrange itself in an intolerable way.

Nature Nurture

•April 11, 2014 • 4 Comments

Nature is not noble
It is raucous wrenching life
And calls me to my core
Not for its peace but feral drive

Nature is not noble
It is a raucous wrenching drive
And calls out from my core
Panting pulsing wild alive


Nature vs Nurture I by Daniel Marck

Suspended Self

•April 10, 2014 • 2 Comments

Here appears a pause
About me
Positioning itself
With closing in proximity
Circling enough to slow
My shuffling ambition
This disruption demanding
Attention to be grasped
Grabbed, held still
Against my itchy flesh
To spite my restless chest
I am afraid
I have no choice
But to let this recess pass
And embrace it as it will
Provide some respite, perhaps
Or, it just might lull me peaceful
To the gallows



Painting by John Waguespack

Poetic Self

•April 10, 2014 • 2 Comments

One fleeting point of poetry
Is feigning immortality
We pour it out by pen, pretend
Perpetual existence then


The Dream of the Poet by Paul Cezanne


•April 8, 2014 • 2 Comments

A broken mirror has no meaning
But what imagination makes
Simply reflects a scattered image
Of an ever changing space

– a.r.

Hotel Intercontinental Panel 2


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