What a wonderful little word and inventive subject. I’ve written of pens and paints, but not of ink, before now. I even read the history of ink and how it was and is made. Forgive me brother and sister writers. I got so excited—I wrote two twenty-two-word poems. Like money and sex, only too much poetry is enough.
5K Years Since
permanent. India’s art.
Printing or pens.
Words on paper,
ink, a catalyst to creativity,
with words and art.
Lines of Magic
See the flow on paper,
watch lines, curves, and shapes
appear in history, law, art;
even in silent music on a page.
Look both ways for waves of imaginative creations.
Mind the gaps for innovation’s utility and art’s beauty.
or is it my mind?
Whatever. It’s rebelling. Just for today, as they say in AA.
It will not allow
even a crumb
of creative thought
to come in,
to the page.
“No, no, no,” it says,
“I will not go!”
As I sit here.
(Ever have this?)
It feels like fear,
of emotion and purpose.
Where to start?
Much less, any thought
of how to finish.
Just this silence.
The sleep that disallows
doing the exercise,
with lines pulled too tight.
I feel stymied
by an overworked
it simply does not
work for me. I’m sorry.
I have ED of the mind.
I should leave.
Take a nap. Wane a bit.
They call it “block.”
I’m sure it’s temporary.
But what a shitty
I feel museless.
Look both ways for the walls of chaos.
Mind the gaps, gasps, and gyps. And this…
“Many people hear voices when no one is there. Some of them are called mad and are shut up in rooms where they stare at the walls all day. Others are called writers and they do pretty much the same thing.” – Margaret Chittenden
Words of uncertainty apply.
Probably, and maybe perhaps,
as proportions with numbers
inconceivable and unimaginable,
describe vastness where nearby, local galaxies, about fifty-one,
are or were within a mere
three megaparsecs. So close.
Suicidal giants like Tadpole, Black Eye,
Sunflower, and Cigar. Our nearest
neighbor, Andromeda, plans to crash
our party in four or five billion years.
Like the cosmos,
this Milky Way is mostly nothing,
toying with conversions of
angular momentum, universal
collisions of astronomy’s galactic
darlings. The realm of nebulae,
halfway to the edge of the known
universe, whatever that is.
Look both ways to search for a “small, quaint, tidy universe.”
But science “never ends.”
Mind the gaps for a “single ultimate truth.” (Quotes from Cosmos by Carl Sagan)
It’s Mexican Hat season.
They dance in the rain, anyway the wind blows,
swaying smoothly back and forth,
bouncing—just a little,
with wet touches from showering raindrops.
And now it’s time. Put away dark felt hats.
Get out the white straws with good brims
for hot summer days, sunscreen
for kids out of school and in the pool.
Masks down. Baseball games. Dad’s Day.
Lock-a-ways minus hugs-er-kisses, going or gone;
eating outs, coffee inside or out-back, it’s all on the list
as some virus ebbs but not yet gone.
Not yet. Not all gone.
Nature’s changing. Deer sleeping. Skunks are mating.
Birds begging loud and lively, ready to party at sunrise.
Long days inching sunsets later
as we give Spring a pass—its due.
All of us, a season older.
Here come the suns of another Texas summer.
Three sisters tapping on season’s door:
June, July, and August, ready
to straddle time—solstice to equinox.
I’ve memories, some good, some bad.
I want more, and more.
Then, I want still more.
Look both ways at passing seasons.
Mind the gaps and water the plants.
Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge,
in the 10th of Poemcrazy said,
“in practical shoes, holding forth
with firm opinions”
were too many Sues.
Birthed and baptized, lacking
middle saintly nomenclature,
seeking to assert rightful independence,
Confirmation granted my pick,
Saint Bartholomew, a sub
for unsainted Bartley.
Mom had a fit. We fought.
She wanted Richard. I did not.
my lifelong reminder,
my middle moniker: John.
I wish I agreed to Richard,
at least a better memory.
Look both ways for better self-names. How often would we change?
I’m Dad, Opa, Mister Bill to some, cantankerous (and other adjectives)
Bill or Billy to the few.
Mind the gaps where we may only name things, pets, and kids.
My Dear Brave
and Foolish souls
of towns and villas
near here and over there
and in the wilds
of states and nations,
And especially to the genius
members of clubs and churches
the poor pussy cats, so tortured
by death-catcher face-hankies,
burdened by distance to spit;
fearful of immunology,
skeptical of fact and science,
with brains pushing intellects
matching your belt size, named
for nothing but yay-me,
or hooray our-side;
what the fuck were you thinking?
Your claim to care
is as selfish as your
to the disgusting, proud
of abuse toward woman
and children. You went
from zero with no worries
to disaster (one you caused),
then you tried
to pray and lie
your way out of it.
Good job, Fester fake-brain!
in making meaningless
with your galactical
Look both ways because sometimes
you just must say what’s on your mind.
Mind the gaps in these bizarre, crazy, and worrisome times.