Category: creative writing
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I’m not religious, and I hope I don’t offend anyone by saying what I believe. I believe in a higher power. I believe that higher power is manifested most purely in love. I don’t mean only romantic love, though that is one form. In our culture, that kind of love is held up as a…
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Poem-sword in one hand, packing tape in the other, recycling bin in my third hand and tissues in my fourth. (For the dust. It makes me sneeze.) My fifth hand is clutching a steaming mug and my sixth hand is wasting time on Facebook. My seventh and eighth hands are clasped in some kind of prayer,…
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That May the peonies were my countdown— I knew they would bloom when she did. That heady hot spring of unfurling expectation, of watching marching ants making their incredible journeys across Planet Peony while I marked the days. Oh, the heaviness in my ankles, the humidity, the wonder of my belly swelling like a bud…
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Like star charts inside my brain extending to the edges of me; electricity— constellations conducting current, leaping synaptic gaps to link thought to action in my dark interior
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Broken or not? At snack time or lunch, that was a favorite game of my daughters. One would hold up an apple slice or a Ritz cracker or shiny orange Clementine and demand of the other, “Broken or not?” They were both pretty masterful at holding a broken cracker or piece of fruit in such…
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That voice Sinking into my gut like a spire into a low sky it walks with me, or used to— maybe that’s why I learned to walk so fast, shins burning hot uphill, it always beat me… until I learned not to hear.
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Another 7×7 poem (seven lines, seven syllables per line.) This one inspired by endings—of seasons, of eras. Marcescence Sometimes we hold on too hard; cling to what should be released— old, winter-worn, transparent from time and weather, rattled, beaten, tattered— it’s hard to let the familiar fall away, let new growth emerge Note: Marcescence is…
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Another 7×7 poem February Sunset Heater blasting hottest air seat warmer radiating— knuckles whiten on the wheel as Neptune’s tail lashes hard; it is three degrees below— my heart catches fire watching this sunset through driving snow.
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I recently heard Pauletta Hansel, a wonderful Cincinnati poet, read some of her work. A series she read introduced me to a form I’d never heard of before: the 7 x 7, also known as a “49-er” by some. The form is simple, 7 syllables per line, 7 lines. I really loved how her 7x7s…
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To the churning of the world How my brain flares as I dream of you, electric spark illuminating songbirds fast asleep, hidden in branches dark a single egg met a particular sperm in warm depths and became you a miracle like every seed sprouting green from the loam now your eyes widen at the whispered…
eeo 