Monday Potes on Tuesday: Retro-Pome

I’ve been wanting to write about the birds for weeks. We have character birds in the neighborhood. They are my confidants. But alas, the poem has not unwound itself from the glue-sticky of fresh wordness. So, I am posting a retro poem. If you can call the early 90’s retro. I was flipping through an old poetry chapbook I printed 16 years ago and found this funny little piece. The idea of the poem was to write 3 stanzas using all the the same words, but in a different order each time. I notice that I stayed with the same 4 commas, semi-colon and tab space, too. But I did take one small liberty. Can anyone spot it? It’s not as hard as you might think. If you do, I will mail this chapbook to you. It feels like freshman Danika Dinsmore poetry, but at...

Monday Poetry on Tuesday

Cycle of Dizziness I want to touch the matter in front of me and say I am recording you to reassure my science when I go inside to have a conversation to appear days later in a foreign place with David Byrne singing in my ear ginger is the new black I’m getting old and all the things the peace-resters told me are True little bang little bang            bang my medication is grief I make a tea with get burnt and sober sipping my choices grind myself helpless and thin or open up wider     to fall limitless...

Monday Potes: from 3:15

From this year’s experiment. This is the first 3:15 poem I’ve ever written from a hospital room. I had to take my husband in one night. (He’s fine, btw. He had a nasty virus.) Aug 4, 2010 Vancouver General Hospital Vancouver, BC the moon is red like a sci-fi planet surreal in the night out the emergency taxi window three cats to the wind then all windows vanish and replace themselves w/white hum disembodied voices test for cures charts mark the anaesthetic blocks to your hands and feet you’re the patient under the sheet you have a fever of 101˚ you ask if you are dead not yet on the TV a man kills 8 in Connecticut but you are safe for one more red moon rise             more red blood sun the plasma rays reach out touch earth skin heat it like...

Monday Potes ~ A Room of One’s Own

Moving my belongings into the old shed / new office space was overwhelming. I’ve uncovered things that have been boxed for over 5 years. Items I had thought lost or had forgotten about entirely, stirring both melancholy and joy. Inspired by my own creation, I stepped back to write about the space, remembering the lines of Virgina Woolf’s essay A Room of One’s Own that I read 20 years ago as an English major: A woman must have money and a room of her own in order to write fiction. I haven’t had a room of my very own in over 7 years. I know there are women (and men) out there who may never have this privilege, so I feel quite blessed. If you haven’t carved out a room (or a space if en entire room is impossible), I highly recommend it....

Spider Relocation Project – Casualties to Date: 1

There was bound to be a casualty sooner or later. Spider relocation is risky business. I didn’t mean to do it, but I wasn’t exactly looking out for the little guys as I caulked the room. I was just caulking along and ZOOP, accidentally caulked a spider into a crack. Egad! Condolences to the wee beast’s family and a tribute – an oldie but a goodie from my chapbook Her Red Book. Days After the Spider was Dead She knew that time of year when trees invent new colors and the sunset from a pacific Northwest train is an angelic hole in an otherwise clouded sky She’d been waiting for some appropriate memorial for the dead spider Big-as-Your-Hand leg span tennis-shoed into a basement carpet as 40-year-old schoolboys revisit songs they’d written...