venturing out of doors

i'm at starbucks right now, stealing internet from a nearby panera since it costs six dollars an hour in starbucks--yeah, like i'm gonna do that. this is the first time i've gotten up the nerve to go out in public in four days, and i get the feeling i must look pretty ridiculous: bandages down my left arm, completely encased right one, scraped up all over, and slowly, meticulously attempting to type with my left hand, face close to the keys--i think i was even biting my tongue, stuck out the corner of my mouth for a while. it's not that i'm particularly vain about all this--i hadn't stayed in out of embarrassment, but pain. but you know how it is when you go out and suddenly become aware of your appearance and feel very naked? that's how i feel now.

in other news, i have recently discovered that my brother, Marshall, has started reading this blog. hi marsh! he's leaving for Tanzania soon, and pretty damn cool.

anyway, this is something new i've been working on. i hope everyone finds it enjoyable.

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walking
sticks
tap
roads
lazily
run
long
afternoons
perked
above grass
rabbit
ears
with
lion heads
in sway
gray manes
fly away

good news and bad news

good news: the forecast for this week is rain. it's going to be lovely.

bad news: unfortunately, in an effot to enjoy yesterday, memorial day, which is supposed to have been the last dry and sunny day for a little while, i went for a bike ride. i won't go into the gritty details. suffice it to say that i fell and broke my right arm and thumb. the sad part is i'm right handed. so it's going to be a little difficult posting wrting for a while, and will probably be a little slower for the time being. i'm giving myself a headache just trying to type with only my left hand.

i was considering putting some pictures up of all the little cuts and bruises that come from hitting the asphalt at about twenty miles per hour instead, but that's gross.

farm-house-coffee-shops and revisions

i don't know how many of you saw my last post about the farm house coffee shop that i have started to use as my hang-out/writing-room, but i decided the poem with it (that had already taken six years to get to that point) was horrible, after all, and in need of revision straight-away. so here's the new version.

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neath canopies of storm
trees
dressed in green
and yellow leaves
on branches
that bear them
hang
near the ground
around me
with hands
in my coat
warming fingers
set my cup
on the lawn
in the bluegray
and green
whispering
passers
breathe
in the haze
smoke
with rain
catching
dreams
in nets
it's raining
in my cup

poetry about home

well, i'm home at last! actually, i'm about 8 hours from home, but i'm in a portion of the united states that is similar to home, and it's closer to my real home both in sense and sensibility than abilene, tx, where i've been living for the past 2 years. i'm in wisconsin, and it's lovely. if you haven't ever seen wisconsin, you must! especially in the fall.

anyway, in commemoration of finding myself back where land, weather, and people's accents are familiar, i have decided to post a poem about home. it's very nostalgic, new, and it has no title yet.

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stalks of wild oats
crash
in waves
on the wood
as rains
bring weight
to fields
unheeded
drunk
in midsummer
the grass
hangs in the wet
and shaking out
its odor
from my umbrella
i watch it
washing
my legs
and steal
oaty memories
crushed in my hands

waking

some of you may have seen this in an earlier stage, but the revisions have been considerable. i like to call it "waking." i feel a bit premature posting it as it now is, but, here goes:

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in the morning
when you wake
from stillness
i walk
through garden
and wood
and ruin
i stride
by stream
flowing full
by trunks of trees
and fruit
left to slumberers
who listen
to the swinging swaying
songs of yesterdaying
wishing
of would be sailors
who would
otherwise be
dirge players
or star gazers
in the morning
when memory is clear
of moments unmeant to stay
on the rhythmic growing gongs
of the bleating waves
on the sand
with closed eye
on the ocean
from the shore
i sit
and continue my adoration
watching the sea
overtake me

to all of you regular readers out there

i'm working on some new stuff to post, but very little is at a stage i feel comfortable with sharing. it's mostly all in birthing stages, and what with my dividing my efforts between verse and prose, birthing i think takes a little longer: i don't concentrate for very long in one place. but i don't think that's a bad thing--it keeps things from getting stale--or at least, i hope it does.

but to satiate any dying thirsts, i have decided to post a little bit of what i can that it isn't totally embarrassing. and i might just keep doing this.

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The grass of the Iowan hills is worn to a dull green by the sun. In the rainy season it will achieve a dark lushness, but it is never comparable to the wetter regions of the United States. It is arguably beautiful, but it is dull. In April and May the storm clouds move over the waves of green land and bring rain, especially at night. And after, the sun shines on the clouds’ flanks, and the earth profits from the rain, and from it comes its green. And then it might rain again after the day begins to cool, and then again the sun will shine against the clouds, turning them pink and orange and red, and as it sets they will turn blue, and then gray with the hills, and then blend with the sky unless the moon offers some distinction.

In this way the years passed, in the rainy seasons, with the summer, and the long shabby fall, and the winter, in between, until the people forgot. And the land didn’t change, except for a gradual leveling through increased farming and development, and through the more gradual fated erosion of the loess. The years passed, and the hills began to grow short, crouching into old age, until the people forgot. And then they forgot who they were, and where they came from. And then they were nothing. And then maybe they were something new, but they didn’t know it, and they had no pride.

a dancer, and a fan favorite

I wouldn't say that this is the best thing I've ever written, but people seem to like it. I hope you do, too.

across icy meadow
she dances
on her stage
in her play
she steals hearts
with tiptoes
along glass
and dips into the smoothed
porcelain surface
in the crystal theater
beneath the snow
as shining eyes gaze in
shake up the globe and play it again

what should I call this? do you like it?

in autumnal rains
wind stirrings
of leaves let loose
flutter
round me
and we
kiss
in the gusts and clones
yet i am weighty
in my collar
and folds
i catch them
in my pockets
with no intent
they fall
fall
and dance round their tree
in drizzle
and blow
but i am weighty