Someone close to me sent me a booklet a while ago, photos and written memories of her life. It’s a fascinating glimpse into a childhood spent solo with older parents in upper Manhattan, a gentle childhood filled not with money, of which there was very little, but with family card games, shared meals, trips to … Continue reading Poem of the Week, by Mary Oliver
Hey there, little guy. It’s been almost a week now. I washed your blankets and hung them on the line. The mats and small rugs we scattered around on the wood floors to help you with traction are stored away. The Painter put your bed in the storage room and washed your food and water … Continue reading Poem of the Week, by Mary Oliver
Yesterday my faithful companion and I were out for his twice-daily walk, and by “walk” I mean amble. Wander. Meander. Pete is fourteen years old now, and the boy who used to tear around the lakes for hours on end, never tiring, with me half-jogging to keep up, and who would then come home to … Continue reading Poem of the Week, by Mary Oliver
I don’t know exactly what it is about this poem that haunts me, but I keep coming back to it. It might be a bunch of things – the Skoal-tin ring in the back pocket and the work-calloused hands that make me think of a lot of boys I grew up with, the fact that … Continue reading Poem of the Week, by Saeed Jones
Excerpt from Work – Mary Oliver 4. All day I have been pining for the past. That’s when the big dog, Luke, breathed at my side. Then she dashed away then she returned in and out of the swales, in and out of the creeks, her dark eyes snapping. Then she broke, slowly, in the … Continue reading Poem of the Week, by Mary Oliver
“The stars have fallen onto the sheets, fallen down to sleep with me.” Lines from poems scroll continuously through me. Beginning at dawn, when I wake up, and throughout the day, lines from poems come to me, recite themselves silently in my head, in my voice, like song refrains spoken not sung. Without poetry I … Continue reading Prompted by a line from a poem by Wyn Cooper
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your own PDK for writing
a collection of beautiful words.....
Objects, Memory and Meaning
If it can't be said in a hundred words, then it can't be said in a thousand.
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"drink from the well of your self and begin again" ~charles bukowski
The Good Things Black People Do, Give and Receive All Over The World
Musings on poetry, language, perception, numbers, food, and anything else that slips through the cracks.
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Bipolar is my superpower
