I want to describe my life
in hushed tones
like a TV nature program.
Dawn in the north.
His nose stalks the air
for newborn coffee.
~ Jim Harrison & Ted Kooser, Braided Creek: A Conversation in Poetry
Notes: Photo via Your Eyes Blaze Out
Month: December 2016
Gulls
Monday Morning Wake-Up Call (Long Walk. Breathe Deep. Taste the Air.)
Take a long walk.
Breathe deep.
Taste the air.
Keep your eyes open.
Try not to think.
Wet your lips with your tongue.
Tilt your head slightly into the wind.
Separate the sound of a single stone
cracking under your boot.
Feel the difference in weight
between a milkweed seed and a blackbird’s feather.
Stray from the road on your way home
until you are waist high in wet corn.
Approach your house from the back.
Whistle for the dog with the white mark
like a crescent moon on his chest.
Look your children in the eyes when they speak to you,
and raise your eyebrows, and smile when they smile.
Notice your son’s mouth curves up on one side,
and his fingers are long and squared-off at the tips like his father’s.
Search your daughter’s right heel for the star-shaped scar
where they tapped her for blood when she was two days new.
Drop everything when your husband gets that soft, glazed look
and presses his palm into the small of your back.
Think to yourself how like the spreading roots
of a silver maple
are his hands.
– Marcella Remund, How to Practice Poetry
Notes: Poem – The New Poetry. Photography: Patty Maher (The Quiet Storm)
Faith…is tensile, and cool, and has no need of words
In the winter I am writing about, there was much darkness. Darkness of nature, darkness of event, darkness of the spirit. The sprawling darkness of not knowing. We speak of the light of reason. I would speak here of the darkness of the world, and the light of _______. But I don’t know what to call it. Maybe hope. Maybe faith, but not a shaped faith— only, say, a gesture, or a continuum of gestures. But probably it is closer to hope, that is more active, and far messier than faith must be. Faith, as I imagine it, is tensile, and cool, and has no need of words. Hope, I know, is a fighter and a screamer.
~ Mary Oliver, from “Winter Hours” in Upstream: Selected Essays
Watercolor: Boyana Petkova (Bulgaria)
Running. And Free Fallin’.
Let’s take inventory.
Four Falls.
The heals of both hands scraped raw, instruments used to break each fall.
A right knee bruise. Severity? Somewhere on a continuum between Deep and below the surface. We’ll know for sure in the morning.
We are a self-correcting, self-learning being, right? Otherwise we wouldn’t be standing, breathing, and reading this, Right?
Adam, in his hunt for food for Eve and the kids, after falling face-first the first time, said, hmmmm, that didn’t feel good. That didn’t work out. Let’s not do that again.
24° F. It’s the first snow of the season and I’m prepping.
Underwear. Thermal Underwear. Thermal Socks. Thermal undershirt. Wicking overshirt. Heavy Down coat. Tuke. Gloves. Fanny Pack with bottle of water, smartphone and headphones.
I catch a glimpse of this package in the mirror before stepping into the garage. Holy Sh*t. Sasquatch.
I pull on Ugg Boots, two pound leg weights strapped on each foot. Who runs in snow in Ugg Boots?
First fall.
A flat surface, I’m caught by surprise. An ice patch. The legs fly out. I fall heavily on left side, air gushes out of the belly, which is still jiggling. I roll on my back. Where’s my smartphone? Right pocket please. Right.
Second fall.
A steep incline. Uggs are crampon-less. Right leg slides out. Left leg follows, and a tumble down a short embankment. I’m covered in a mixture of snow, leaves and dirt. Camouflage. Military drills. No, more like Carl Spackler the greenskeeper on Caddyshack: “They’re like the Viet-Cong…Varmint-Cong. So you have to fall back on superior firepower and superior intelligence. And that’s all she wrote.” Continue reading “Running. And Free Fallin’.”