Saturday, August 21, 2021
Yet again, I start a new project. I’m completely pantsing this one. Highly unusual for me. It’s set in 1982-3 with a female teen main character, and in my hometown in CT. I want to explore the ideas of sexism and racism and privilege that is more recognized now, that I felt then, but felt like I was screaming into a void of privileged environment where I grew up. I questioned a lot, and was told it wasn’t to be questioned, just the way things were, as if it was the natural order, but everywhere I turned, so much was unfair to so many.
So now I’m working it out in a novel. I write it in short stints. That’s about all I can handle these days. My brain is slowly coming back, but everything is exhausting, from my usual health issues, cancer recovery, family stuff, to world stuff. But I am writing. And I like where it’s going. Maybe I’ll actually see this one through. Oh! I started painting again after thirty five years. It really helps me to open creative pathways in my brain.
Thanks for reading.
Monday, April 12, 2021
Poetry is the heart
Written with the mind
We poets try to express what makes
Our pumping vessels swell and contract
So that others may know their living meaning
Because we can’t know our own
Until we write it
Before the rain,
I brought a book outside
and heard the woodpecker
Chomping to find the heart.
I looked up and a breeze blew yellow
swathes from high in the loblolly pines
Before the grey skies shadow
the brightening sun
In a dance of spring.
Yellow yellow yellow jessamine
Overwhelms the chain link fence that
Keeps the dogs and cats in.
The new tabby, a wander in from the cold last fall,
Has figured out the pet doors finally
And chases the poor old quiet love cat
Under the shed.
He thought outside a reprieve from the little bully.
Water weighs the air heavy as love hangs on the heart
Griefs are many and tangled with pride
This season of flowers and burgeoning
Reminds me my kids are mostly grown
And we won’t blow the dandelions
Which populate the haphazard wildflower lawn.
The slate sky belies the wonder and
color of all that is new right now
and and and how nothing lasts, not even the
Knock knock knock of the woodpecker.
3/31/2021 1st draft