The world is carnivorous – poets not so much. We are grass on a suburban lawn, planted like a good idea, fertilized. Mowed. “Know your place,” says the owner. “Stay low.” Ah, but how green we are. How green. As if we will always be young. #KatherinesCoffeehouse
Because the matted hay blocked his wrinkled gaze, and because I am who I am, I felt the call to move him to a higher place. And thus, soft as a mother’s hum, I wrapped my fingers around the mottled shell, grazing the creases of his thick neck, raised him just a few inches, resting
Yesterday’s sunset, clouds so close to street, settling into early bedtime, red plugged into the sky, like a shorted nightlight – I thought Armageddon had come. #KatherinesCoffeehouse
When day looms long, heart too small to hold it, Earth, too, pensively looking at the stars, I find it works to encourage a reluctant smile. See how the universe grins back? “Oh, my darling Did you believe for one moment I’d divorce you? You are my beloved. Come now. Step closer. Let us renew
This train wreck? Look closely. A hand reaches from the rubble. Take the trouble to reach back. Be the conductor. #KatherinesCoffeehouse #PoemsAroundTown See this poem live at Manassas City Hall.
And then, there are days when the world tears itself apart. Or maybe it’s just my heart. #KatherinesCoffeehouse
See how time moves, slinking along like some aging cat, shoulders hunched against the moon, a silhouette of fur and philosophy? My dog barks at it, wants to rip its throat out. “Settle down now, dingo. We’ve all got our job to do. That’s a girl. Go lie down. It’s almost time for bed.”
Living as a poet is hard. See, the teacher is always changing, not just when September comes, but every moment the temperature drops, or the rain does the same. That moment you started to sweat? Or turn on the bathroom tap? Or revel in a short shower? Or cry? Those things, they make the coloring
Do we all get where we’re headed? I’d like to believe I do. I’ve held a cold hand or two, rubbed a few backs, running my fingers, lightly, from illness’s base up to where it all ends. See, it’s a paradox. We come out top to bottom, but mortality begins at the foundation, works its
It’s hard to believe only last year Bury My Under a Lilac was released, and I’m already ready to release another poetry collection. But when you write for a year at least once per week and you take the time to go back and edit, it might be time to think about publishing – again.
