it’s always so strange
writing in the nighttime
everyone around me already asleep
it feels like a secret
i may get to keep
unlike the morning writing times
where it flows from me
and into the ether/the void/the endless space that is the internet
those secrets i always
let
go
[and i think they may still be going]
frustrations
and stress
and an almost good day yesterday
which should have lent itself to
an almost good sleep last night
but instead, it was some of the worst sleep i’ve had
in a month or two or three
[or more]
i suppose i shouldn’t discount
the amount that stress
impacts my own nighttime
half-waking ponderings…
grey skies and
drip drops on window panes and
the perfect day to nap your stress away
and
the perfect evening to be lulled into deep deep sleep
~~~
evening pages
much much later than normal poetry time
[am i just doing this
to say that i did it?]
[isn’t that all life is anyway?]
~~~
i think
three
poems is enough poems
for such a late late night
poem-writing-time
evening posting
evening writing
evening time in bed
cuddling
and creating
and falling asleeping
[it’s nice when the whole family’s here]
it’s wild
the nighttime writing
so different from the morning
but still so much the same
night writing
no longer the default
no longer the place at
which i’ll
stop
and ponder
and get stuck in the mud of my mentally ill mind
come find me in the sun
come find me in the morning
come find me when the day has just begun
because night writing
is no longer
my home
there was a fox
who lived in our old neighborhood
(in Madison, Wisconsin)
and even though we never saw it in our own backyard,
our neighbors informed us it was often there
and Kip would gasp
every evening
into the darkness
and whisper
“The Fox!”
here in this neighborhood
of The Bronx
there are two skunks
roaming the sidewalks,
rooting around for food
in our zen garden of a backyard,
burrowing in the bushes
near the front,
and though i was the only one to see one of them
hiding
in the hostas,
if i don’t shine a light down the alleyway
Kip will gasp
into the darkness
and whisper
“The Skunk!”
and that is how
“The Skunk!”
became the new
“The Fox!”
our dog
is a beach dog
but not an ocean dog
although
she treats the sand like snow,
rolling around in it,
licking it up and eating it,
rolling around some more in order to get out of her eyes that sand from the first roll
and even though we had to pull her away from that joy,
and even though we had to rinse out her eyes so they would stop swelling,
it was worth it to see her jump around like a puppy
(and to see folks’ faces erupt in surprise when we tell them
“this dog is thirteen years old [today]!”)
~~~
i didn’t realize
love languages show up
so early
but damn if that
less-than-two-year-old
didn’t hand off his juice,
and blanket,
and bag of apples
the minute he decided
he liked us.
~~~
arriving home
far too late
making eye contact
with a young buck
as he munches on leaves,
hardly concerned we’re twenty feet away
(as my dog remains frozen with the decision
of whether to chase this creature
as friend or prey)
kipventures 