May 28, 2022

wow.

pavlovian response to
lofi music playing:

immediate urge to poetry.

~~~

some days
(most days)
i need the poetry-writing to wake me up
(the coffee is simply comfort-waking
now
rather than an actual stimulant)

but then
some days
(rarely)
(but it does happen)
i need the coffee/the doing/the something
in order to wake myself up
before
i start to write the poetry.

today was one of the latter
days

~~~

a reference?
a reference only my spouse and i will understand?
a reference that might simply be an inside joke in poetry-form?

it’s more likely than you’d think!

May 21, 2022

trying not to write poetry
for the blog
and only for me
makes my writing
come to life
in a way
i want to
immediately
show off

(perhaps
that’s the key
to every success)

May 20, 2022

i wonder if poets of yore
ever practiced writing
with mundane daily tasks.
i know they wrote of the very human
feeling of falling in love,
but were there ever any poems of
getting a bit of poppyseed stuck in their teeth,
or that feeling of falling right when you’re about to
lose consciousness to go to asleep?
there were poems with storms as metaphors,
analogies,
but were there ever poems where storms were simply storms
and they enjoyed in the moment,
and wrote in the after
of feeling the thunder
shake
and quake
the whole house?
i feel as though my poetry hits a spot
that hasn’t necessarily been hit
that hard
yet;
the mundanity of human existence.
and i can’t be the first person
to put prose emotions into poetry,
but i do wonder if the greats
of late
or long
ago
ever did what i’m doing
it just wasn’t as accepted
or expected
then.

May 11, 2022

poetry
is coming
[and going]
this morning

nothing sticking around long enough
to become a full fledged poem
but damn, are my tried and true topics
flinging themselves towards my brain
making me start
multiple
pieces
just to get bored and toss them aside
(or get distracted by other things
and totally lose my stride)

so

poetry
this morning
is coming
and it’s going

and i’m just a vessel
half finished poems
can flow through
[maybe to you]

May 8, 2022

most mornings
as i write my silly morning poems
i have a cat
on my lap.

since the new puppy’s arrival,
the cat has avoided all points of potential contact
and not set foot in the entire downstairs area,
save for moments when the pup is
well caged away
(crate and gates and the like)
but even then,
a cat paw on the main floor
is a rare sight indeed
theses days

so instead
of a cat on my lap
i must write this poem
with a dog by my side
barely touching
but still comforting
to have her there
as a reminder
that there are creatures around this house
(human and non)
when i get so lonely
hanging out with
just my own words…

May 3, 2022

it is
very
hard to concentrate this morning

and i don’t know if it’s from
the stress of last night
or
the vividness of the dreams
or
the sadness of this morning
or
the lack of coffee in my bloodstream
or what

but

it is
very
extremely
extraordinarily
bizarrely
quite
hard to concentrate this morning.

~~~

i feel like i’m getting a better handle
on what makes my poetry
my poetry

(but i really have
absolutely
no idea
still
about what makes any poetry
‘good poetry’)

~~~

i would like to write
another
slam poem;
start a flow
and just go,
balance out the rhythm and rhyme
with internal structure,
alliteration,
and find
the transitions,
the cues,
from one section
to anther,
playing with words
and meaning
and framing
the repeating
as metaphor
as a tool
as a lock to turn the key
and find out something new
about me,
about life,
about our home planet earth,
and our collective strife
to stay alive
when all we want
is eternal sleep
(not necessarily because
death is the answer we’re looking for,
but because all these
isms
and power structures
and so-ingrained made up concepts
keep us so wide awake
that sleep seems a necessity
we never get to get
[when was the last time you had
an actual
honest to goodness
no stress
very good
night’s sleep?]

so i guess
that’s what this poem’s about:
the collective trauma
that is
white supremacy/capitalism/america
and how the one thing
that could give us
the fight
we need
to dismantle it
is the the thing
it keeps us
from doing
every
single
night.

(and are my daytime naps
my making up
for this lack,
or is that just a symptom
of the depression
my awareness
of these systems
gives me?)
((or is that a subject
for another poem
for another day?))

April 29, 2022

so much poetry
about tired/sleepiness
about writing poetry
about grief and grieving

but where’s the poetry for me?
where’s the poetry where i actually wake up?
where’s the poetry where i analyze and create new forms/
new words/
new kinds of poetry?
where’s the poetry where i feel
(at least a little)
more healed after writing it?

where’s the poetry where i have a sense of accomplishment
post-writing
rather than a sense of
‘well, i guess that’s ok enough to stick on the poetry blog’?

where’s my big/epic poem?

April 23, 2022

breathe through
the pain
and the guilt
and the hard moments of missing
and soak in
the memories
and the change in yourself
you’ve seen
over the last 7.75 years

she taught you
well
how to be a good dog parent
and you taught her
well
how to see she was already
such a good dog

~~~

Kip writing down
all the memories
of Louka
is such a sweet thing
and has helped them

i don’t think i’m in a place
just yet
to write my memories
without weeping
(and that’s ok;
Kip’s words have such a beautiful balance
of intrigue
and comedy,
even in the saddest of parts
there is still so much humor there,
as gentle as the dog was)
so Kip can [and should] have their moments
with memories
and prose
and i can talk through poems
and photos
piecing together my remembrances
pixel by pixel
and ponderment by ponderment
and we are each grieving
and remembering
in our own ways
and loving
in that way
that is so very Kip;
wholeheartedly
(just like i wanted)

~~~

oh boy
the tears
they seep out
of my sockets
with only a half second’s warning

and they feel
today
like good tears.

April 22, 2022

even though
it’s getting slightly easier
every day,
it sure is hard.

~~~

trying to write
about not Louka
(not because i don’t want to write about her,
but because i know
i’ll just let myself write about her
and be sad
for p much
the rest of my life
(/or i’ll write for so long
that the first day i do end up writing
about not her
i’ll feel so guilt-ridden
it’ll eat me from
the inside-out)

but i suppose i should appreciate
and admit
that she still is on my mind
and will be
for a long, long time,
and grief will be there
for almost as long,
and the best thing to do
for her memory
and my own sanity
is not to force
any
thing
(the forced stopping
is probably as bad as
the forced continuation
of poems solely about
Louka the Good Dog)

so, please, forgive me
as i ride this roller coaster of emotions,
the highs of the silly memories
and the lows of the guilt
of needing to make the choice for her
and her failing body
to let her go
across the Rainbow Bridge/
up to Dog Heaven/
transition to the next life/
the next body/
whatever happens
next,

and Louka,
please know,
our love is with you
always.

~~~

there are certain things
we haven’t done yet
and continue to not be able to do:

long walks
around the neighborhood,
meandering around
these streets/
up to the college/
saying hi to everyone else
walking,
taking the side path
from the backyard/door
to the front
(our path with Louka
because stairs weren’t great
for her old arthritis legs),
having bagels for breakfast again…

but there are some things
we are starting to do,
tentatively,
still with the presence of
Louka
in mind:
yesterday i tried to nap,
and though the cat is not quite as great
of a nap buddy
as the dog was,
she still stayed with me
until i drifted off to sleep
at least once,
and today we are listening to music
in the morning
once more
(though apparently it’s easier
to have music we’ve never heard before),
but it’s all still very hard
but we’ll make it through
with those memories of Louka
with us.