Arrivals

The soup is better having room to steep

in the deeper time of its own goodness.

Many things unite in one great thing.

We learn hunger.

 

The ground, now patched and sown together

with summer’s glowing refuse, is somehow brighter –

having taken its time.

We learn beauty.

 

Her pleasure, no fait accompli, 

but in a reverence for slow heights.

Climb slowly this peak.

We learn desire.

 

Her tiny immensity, a sacred squalor, protrudes

nose first, dark to light, damp and cold –

one last hurrah of anonymity before donning

the first breaths of vulnerability.

We learn awe.

 

Pulled nose first into the warmth

of kitchen bread, newly plump and rising to greet us

square in tongue and tonsil, teasing

and teaching the crust-browned life.

We learn perfection.

 

Shoes, worn and well-gravelled, grind away

at the miles. A distance made less with repetition –

repetition of repeated renewals of the long

overcoming of road.

We learn perseverance.

 

And, in all of it remains the best of all our waiting.

One arrives, caught in the minutiae of the cosmic unseen.

Here to surprise our own expectations.

Come to convince us of lost remembrances.

The one great beauty in our catalogue of fear.

We learn salvation.

Advertisements

On Writing a Memoir, Part III

Recently published on my innerwoven site…

innerwoven

It is an odd thing, this whole memoirishness. 

poets-pen.jpegTo read a memoir is to sit in someone’s living room drinking beer and eating Cheetos as someone outlines plans to save the world, or at least make it a little less shitty.

Except for a few cases, their stories are rarely intended for their own self-aggrandizement. Instead, they act as a window, a prism of sorts that divide up a fully lived life into its constituent parts for our amusement and awe. Once we happen upon these parts, it is for us to find ourselves within them.

Although not entirely without a modicum of gravitas, I am embarrassingly unknown. A small-town guy writing for other little guys, but with a tale to tell. What I can offer is a fireside tale told by a friend you just haven’t met yet. A regular guy with a story for other non-luminaries out there.

View original post 850 more words

On Writing a Memoir, Part II

My invitation remains open. Join me in the journey toward a story on paper? Share with me your impressions. What has moved you? Delighted you? Disgusted or enraged you? Your thoughts mean everything to me. As do you.

innerwoven

I love to write. Whether it loves me back is not for me to decide. The jury’s still out on that one. No matter. It doesn’t change the fact that I am compelled to tell people my story. Well, bits of my story. Bits of my unfolding story.

poets-pen.jpegWhy, you may ask? Because stories unite us. Jesus loved them. He had a particular attachment to stories. Parables to be exact. Parables are simultaneously beguiling and didactic. They amuse as they teach. They are immediate in their images and settings. It’s like we get to be in on the joke. And, their disarming specificity is surprisingly universal.

Once a story is rooted in the ground, where we all walk; once there is an address, a face, names, insider talk, maybe a joke or two, it becomes magnetic. They bring us together in ways few other things can. They are the campfire…

View original post 214 more words

On Writing a Memoir, Part I

I’ve posted this to my other blog, innerwoven.me. In case you’re not following me there, I wanted to share here as well. Why? Because I need your help, dear readers! Help me pull the book outta my head and onto “the page.” I appreciate you all!

innerwoven

poets-pen.jpegSo, dear friends, I need your help. I’ve had a book percolating in me for some time now. But I need your help in pulling it out and getting it down. I’m inviting you, my dear readers, to help guide me on this journey.

Many of you have faithfully followed along with my often random, esoteric ramblings, with grace and dedication. I am utterly gratified to be in this with you. Truly.

Of the pieces you’ve read, what has struck you most? Deepest? What are the bits and bobs that have most touched you, made you laugh, or cry, or angry? I mean, the kinds of bits you’d read more of were they to find themselves between covers? So, this is an open invitation to you, my beloved readers, to walk with me toward some as yet undetermined goal of a memoir.

I appreciate you all so much. Your input…

View original post 18 more words

Chasing Fog

Art yet to come.jpg

Let us strive to understand why

artists of different stripes, through all our times,

have sought out darkness, terror, and woe.

Is this alone enough weight to serve the best

grist for the mill,

the most creative soil?

Some see hope only in pain – best straw for the man,

scare for the crow,

leaves for the tea.

But love yet remains the hottest kiln fire,

best ink or brush, chisel or note, key or bow.

Unrequited?

Better still.

The lover writes, paints, sings, sculpts, dances

her way to unleashed creativity, effortlessly

producing beauty in saying so.

Lose that love and comes a torrent of page-busting pain,

notes of mourning and loss,

all the colours of the universe distilled into singular grey.

Art becomes the dense power of the black hole,

sucking energy from anything unlucky enough

to be in proximity. It is pulled in,

crushed, passed through the dark,

then, released again, purified in travail.

Let the art come then from orbital gravity –

two heavenly bodies in mutual dance.

And, sometimes, great art still issues

forth from the flinging wildly into endless space,

victim of some heavenly collision.

The sculptor trains his eye on her flowing

body, chipping away what stone blocks

the way of the visage that drives him.

Shoot an arrow through her and the same

tools are used to take his own life.

Then, the composer, matching them both,

crushes grisled notes onto a tear-stain’d staff.

The musician throws note after throbbing note, dying

as on cloth all our emotions in each one. She loses a hand

to prepare the way for the still

broader statement of the one who writes of her loss.

It is all an exercise in drilling holes in the sternum

to siphon enough life-blood for the great gushing

onto page, stone, canvas, or staff

one’s gratitude or grief;

tears or triumph;

grist or glory.

There is good art in the good. Perhaps even better art in the bad.

There is art within art. Light from dark from light,

we find the most lasting thing tucked in

the gravitas of every moment.

Baffling.

Unnerving.

Discouraging.

Beautiful.

The artist must find the kernels of beauty tucked

in a backwash world,

like chasing fog in the dark.

 

Let us begin.