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Winter’s Writing Choices

Approaching winter…

OK, maybe encroaching mid-winter
of life’s seasonal span
with resonantly compelling grace,
perhaps even transparent vulnerability,
feels controversial,
too laissez-faire

Too much courage
in declaring preliminary success
with too little curiosity
about what happens next
on planet Earth

Continuing to revolve all four seasons
dynamics
holistic lenses.

I recall the poet’s admonition
to not go quietly
into this winterish
cold night.

Life’s final reflective opportunity
does not invite quiet
so much as impassioned peace
of a windless snowfall
blanketing all I can see
and more faintly hear,
touch and awkwardly feel,
smell and bittersweetly taste
unsafe passage.

I recently moved from autumn habitat,
a creative tension between summer’s midlife climax
and this new winter habit
above Connecticut’s exquisite Salmon River.

This is a compromised writer’s winter hermitage
shared with my son who cannot speak
but can roar,
who cannot walk by himself
but can scoot
and belly laugh at his own internal sensations
and my external sensational sounds.

And, following Daquan
from my fall habitat
to winter’s eremetical search for peace,
however coldly displaced,
with social
and political
and spiritual
and natural distancing,

Behind Daquan
are daily in-home nurses
and his most avid companion,
my romantically distanced husband.

He comes bearing gifts
of clothes,
cleaning supplies,
far too much meaty food
for a proper hermitage
and not enough
for sufficient redemption
and for self-forgiveness.

He comes unaware of my ecofeminist wintering spirit,
longing for Earth’s warm womb justice
restoring peace
resilient through all four seasons
of present
past
and future Earth lives.

My ecofeminist lineage
feels too white to him,
not a journey for him
and our two brown sons
and my brown and cerebral palsied daughter
and Daquan.

So, this writer’s winter hermitage
remains newly compromised by past fall
and summer
and even spring
of extended multicultural family life.

May it always be so
or no,
I’m not sure which to pray for
or against
as I quietly write
into this warm and peaceful night,
just right,
not too dim or bright.

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Scriptures of Communion

In prose,
Writers hope to accurately capture
both felt and thought experiences,
realistic and unrealistic,
in a way that suggests
our writer knows and can deeply feel
the differences and similarities
between realistic and not so much.

Poets hope to not only capture
accurately felt and thought experiences,
realistic and unrealistic,
natural and spiritual,
but share this internal experience
embedding and thereby challenging
writers’ readers in shared language of communion.

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Word Producers

Producing large quantities of words
cleverly without considered substance,

Unveiling my needy novel entertaining intentions
yet not revealing news or even pretensions
about who I today am
becoming
or tragically have been,

Is this fertility
or merely self-absorbing pregnancy?

If the distance
between Earth’s nature
and Heaven’s spirit
is as precisely wide
and concisely deep
as a filament
figment of my imagination,

Then what could true or lie between
ecological processes of health
and theological systems of graced wealth?

If nothing lies polarizing between,
Then what more silence
need remain
dissonance unsaid?

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Voraciously Reading Writers

Hey!

Who?
Me?

Yes!
Do you remember back
when you were reading The Human Comedy
and thinking you would always live on a planet
where a few great writers
lived royally and with vast wealth
comfortably above yet among the huddled hungry masses
just waiting to buy your supremely great literature words
of eternal wisdom
and Pulitzer Poetry Prizes?

If you mean
Do I remember when most people did not daily,
or even monthly, write,
much less self-publish,
while only a select few
were gainfully employed as full-time writers
of scripts
and screenplays
and contracts
and constitutions
and poetry
and stories
and parables
and even designs
for polycultural healthy outcomes–
Yes, I do,
or did,
or whatever it was we both noticed
about ratios of democratic readers
to plutocratic writers.

Well,
I went on WordPress
this morning,
thinking I would read the democratic plutocrats first,
then probably add my own commentary
on my blogsite
when done with reading others.

And you can’t read that fast,
can you?

Exactly.
Now all the democrats are writing
and cooperatively self-publishing
and my dreams of becoming a plutocratic writer
have drowned in a sea of voices
in which there is no longer sufficient time
to hear each other out
before also entering something in.

So what’s your big take away
for this revolutionary turnaround
in now democratically growing co-investments
in broadcast writing
and emerging plutocratic readers?
Would-be writers
but we no longer live
in or on a RealTime 4D publish or perish world.

Right.
Now its publish,
no one bothers to read,
and perish
while still cloud-published
perhaps eternally, somehow,
with no one bothering to open
a closed for self-publishing mind.

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The Ambiguous Apprentice

When does ambiguously free verse
also become emphatically political verse?

I was emphatically reading pieces,
ambiguously written
about my sons,
to my oldest son’s girlfriend.

The longer I read
the more she cried.

Now it had been my hope
and passion
to become the next Kurt Vonnegut
of PolyCulturing Healthy Outcome Design,
or at least John Irving
at his all ecopolitical lives matter, and not, satirical best,
and so I finally had to ask,
Are these tears of sadness?

Yes and no.
Sometimes, says she,
mostly happy that someone else
sees him as I do
when I am at my best,
but sadness too
that we live in your world
of our own re-creation
about what you write
is too often left unsaid
uncreated
or even thought about.

I thought this might be a compliment
and so I read bravely on
through her quiet tears
of sad happiness
until she asked me to stop.

Could you teach me to write
like you?

No.
I doubt I could even help you write
like you.
Why,
are you having trouble writing by and of yourself?

Yes.
I worry I have nothing to say,
no place to safely yet nakedly live.

About half the poets
and novelists
believe that is a prerequisite
to great literature
and becoming an authentically mature artiste.

Having nothing to say.

Yes. But saying whatever very well.
And the other half,
what they mainly have to say
is to have something to say
which you would be wiser through hearing
yourself say
what you just said.
And if they believed
as does the opposing mindless half
then they would not embarrass themselves
by writing any no thing at all.

Well, which is right,
do you think?

More to your point,
which is right
about your writing?
If you can trust each empty page
longs to fill with your good humor
and best wisdom,
then you might begin
by having nothing on your Left languaged mind
except some brief turn of lyrical phrase
or return of some event
devoid of context
which musefully incarnates as content
as your pen rolls along each shaping word
and returning phrase
and 4 dimensional as seasonal
reasonal harmonic lines
and sentences for joyful life,
not just lonely sad death.

Next thing you know
sad death cooperatively together
restores joyful life justice
where lived sad loves lived evilly alone
and you are editing in search of paragraphs
to create sufficient spaces
between maturing lines of thought
you heard as one compare/contrast before
you’ve always said
and hoped someday to read,
then editing through pages of ego/eco-logical content
about…
what?
We’re not sure
until we’re done.
———————————————————–

She was crying again.
So I found an old barely used notebook
and a fresh pen,
a nearly full box of gaily pure white tissue
and handed them to her,
Suggesting she might write about tears
of sad yet lovely joy.

Where might I best begin,
she wisely asks.

At the top,
either left or right
depending on which hemisphere you most speak,
I not so wisely answer.
And, the first principle of multicultural story telling
is to be sure your reader
continues to understand and appreciate
and feel gratitude for
your protagonist
inevitably our favorite underdog,
because life’s a joyful sad bitch
but what are we going to gratefully do
with it?
The pen and notebook?
In your left and right hands?

So, I just start at the top
and re-imagine us
whether protagonist-in with antagonist-out,
or potential future solution
within a vexing co-present problem,
ways we choose to fold and unfold
sad space
as also joyful time of opportunity?

Spoken as a true tragic-comedy loving physicist
pretending to become a metaphysical teller of history,
your story,
written as we speak together
in domesticating yet still wild imaginations,
political thought experiments,
narratives,
prose as also poetry.

Precisely as I see our sadly joyful situation too.
All we have are protagonist underdogs
and antagonist overlords,
and each lies both sadly and joyously
across each bicameral heart and mind
singing
When I fall in nondual co-arising love,
we will be forever,
Reading stories of favorite sons
to tearful joys of future daughters
for revolutionary story telling,
more cooperative
than my damnably antagonistic
overlording sons!

When did ambiguously free verse
also become emphatically democratic verse?

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Starting with the End

As a young avid reader
I always read the Introduction or Prologue,
when offered,
to see if this treatise overture
would take me some place I cared to wade through.

As an old avid reader
I always begin with the last chapter
because I may not otherwise have time to get there
and because its always offered, eventually,
and here I listen to learn if it might transport me
to some place I care about and believe in
and might even faithfully hope for;
a place I have not yet been
promising a pause in wonder
about where I might be now
had I only visited earlier.

Biographies are especially telling
as the end where history has brought each writer
to remember what these assembled lives and thoughts have become together
and are now replete unfolded
for all to see and rediscover
how extremes of final stages
like shared nascence of embryonic birth and infant interests
seem to land as we began
withdrawn from adolescent and middle-aging fuss and blunder,
both respectability and revolutionary thunder,
so good in our coming to, and escape from, ripe time
now echoing warnings
to start and end each new narrative’s last chapter first.

I might not have time to invest
in earlier stages of this story’s redevelopment,
especially if the last chapter doesn’t sound
at least as healthy wealthy as my own
last day and night so far,
which I probably should plan
to finish writing soon.

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Dancing Soul Disorders

If I could write as dance,
sometimes get down mean
and sexy dirty blues,
recreating confusing hybrids
not safely translated in static language,
these ecstatic moments
entered and left without embodied holy shadows,
remembered fondly but soulfully
in smiling enspirited muscles
unwilling to let go of sensual life
without breathing glistened music.

Refrain training love moments to last through
passion rails of kicks and licks
balance taking giving leaps of faith
Earth will hold these swirling bones
bound arteries of flowing bliss
and dripping pulpy agonies.

Dance scripts unveil
moves and positions already body revealed and loved
within Earth’s kindness
and just balancing reward,
truth in and through beauty,
healthy love abundance in rich organic life
and peacefully arresting pause of death,
pregnant silent pause.

I lust not merely right write
but dance
with each cell swelling to sing
big and small
fast then slow
up as down
around each day’s choreography
on through abandoned freedom’s passion night.

If I could dance as write.

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Walking Baby’s Journey

Taking baby steps these days,

they hurt less than leaps and bounds.

 

An unusually negative way of saying:

small steps feel more contenting right now,

than larger plans for different memories.

 

What are these larger plans for different memories

you back away from right now?

How might you hang onto this dream

or avoid this nightmare

while continuing with your contented smallish steps?

 

Could you write and story-tell yourself through both messages,

perhaps nesting one within the other,

usually the smaller steps within the larger praxis and storyline

like a personal journal entry,

nested within each Earth Day headline.

 

Of which hopes and dreams is your life iconic,

as it is,

and becomes obvious by simply unweaving your story backward,

back through Earth’s spacetime enculturing history.

How you are different and the same as your grandmother

is the most recent episode in your epic

of how you are different and the same as Grandmother Moon,

is the most recent episode

in the universal epic

of how you are different and the same as  your Elder cousins,

Sun and Earth,

Yang on Yin, yet again,

Fire’s dynamic effect on Water’s self-absorptive evaporation.

 

Let’s Spring those Baby Steps, girl!

Read more at: http://www.poetrysoup.com/member_area/soup_mail.aspx?PoetID=21797&subject=Re–Dear+Gerald%2c+&MID=265395

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Silent Psalm

I long to write a silent song;

ringing resonant rising

round revolving reach,

risk relaxing riots,

quiet storming streams,

sentient string

waiting your

our

sharing story,

advent’s adventure

deep despair diving

diastolic drifting

out beyond sonorous sea seasons

sweeping flight to gather might,

speaking slyly deep

down steaming volcanoed channels

reaching roots of listening

into Earth’s core chi-soul.

 

Speak, justly shout enchanting contention

churning charry content,

informating reasons

fine-purposed meanings

boiling funnel tipping

turning spinning

spilling waves of Tao balance

revolving temperamental cross,

straining yang from West to East

reversing yin from East to West

like longing lingering

loitering within belonging

becoming being

yin’s right spins left

good’s evil space

wrestling voices

murmuring

pulsing

massaging rhythm’s blood flows

flying frequencies

echoing past identities

of storms still-dancing

through memory’s veins

and river swollen

spring’s raucous roaring

songs singing silence

I long to write.

 

 

 

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