Fridays. Always on Fridays. From the picture window in the stairwell on the fifth floor, after class, just before I begin my descent.
drawing my gaze
imperfectly
the sea
The room dark. The air cold. The realization coming, little by little.
no longer dreaming …
the sound of the clock
the sound of the rain
Pausing. Because sometimes I need to. When nobody is looking. In a place where nobody can see. I plant my feet. I look up. I listen and feel. I release.
blue sky
inhaling deeply …
snow falls from a tree
Finally finding time to talk and connect with my wife, to swap stories, to laugh, to realize that we are both still people, the conversation builds and then …
cliffhanger …
mid-conversation
the baby starts to cry
Driving home, a line comes to me. It seems compelling. I know I want to use it but what can I pair it with?
I give it some thought. After a few variations, I find something that works.
Fictional poetry because … why not?
tugging at
the snag in her sweater
the truth comes out
Opening Instagram I find a Zen proverb—Travel lightly, even yesterday is luggage. Hmm … I think. I like this.
The following morning, treading through the snow, I pass a Camellia tree. Its flowers are red and vivid, but there, at its base, half buried in snow, I find some of what it has let go.
red petals
scattered in the snow …
yesterday’s luggage
My way. That’s the way I like to do things. Sometimes, though, I encounter doubt. Many writers recommend specificity over vaguery. If there is a bird, they say, name the bird. Obviously, there is a time and a place for this, but in short poetry, I prefer to leave the door open.
one story at a time …
the way things
implode
All poems and images are original. If you have any comments, feedback, or suggestions, please feel free to share them.
