A few days ago at sunset the sky was unearthly. The Painter came home, grabbed his camera and tripod and headed to the beach to take a bunch of photos. My internal, unspoken take on this, having never seen him take a sunset photo before: You had a frustrating day in the studio. Nothing was working … Continue reading Poem of the Week, by William Stafford
You know those maps where you fill in all the states you’ve been to? The only one missing from mine is Alaska (I don’t count the time that I landed at the Anchorage airport on my way to China). I’ve been to all the lower 48 states, most of them multiple times, because road trips … Continue reading Poem of the Week, by William Stafford
This one goes out to my dad, who taught me how to make scrambled eggs, how to drive stick (kind of, anyway – after a few too many times of me stalling out the little red truck he got out of the cab so as not to yell anymore and told me I could figure … Continue reading Poem of the Week, by William Stafford
When I Met My Muse, by William Stafford I glanced at her and took my glasses off–they were still singing. They buzzed like a locust on the coffee table and then ceased. Her voice belled forth, and the sunlight bent. I felt the ceiling arch, and knew that nails up there took a new grip … Continue reading Poem of the Week, by William Stafford
Remembering Brother Bob – William Stafford Tell me, you years I had for my life, tell me a day, that day it snowed and I played hockey in the cold. Bob was seven, then, and I was twelve, and strong. The sun went down. I turned and Bob was crying on the shore. Do I … Continue reading Poem of the Week, by William Stafford
Father’s Voice – William Stafford “No need to get home early; the car can see in the dark.” He wanted me to be rich the only way we could, easy with what we had. And always that was his gift, given for me ever since, easy gift, a wind that keeps on blowing for flowers … Continue reading Poem of the Week, by William Stafford
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"drink from the well of your self and begin again" ~charles bukowski
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Musings on poetry, language, perception, numbers, food, and anything else that slips through the cracks.
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