My words are blood,

Hissing incarnadine,

upon the page,

A hot spattering weld

Of self and sorrow

upon the page,

A calligraphy of joy and pain

Upon the page,

A click of a blister beetle

Burning my flesh

Upon the page.

Writing is more violent

Than I might like.

It is more like welding

Than I might like.

Set the metal plates in place.

Strap on the dark vision.

Strike a spark.

Draw the bead.

Write.

GoogleNotebook explication:

I am alone.

You be alone

with the trees.

Be fluid in your walking.

Be free in your canopies.

Visceral, too.

So many futures,

So little time.

Dismiss edges.

There are no edges.

No threshholds,

no margins,

Nothing separate from.

Loose them.

Be the tail of the kite.

Be the rudder

atop the rudder.

Be ye thee

Here’s an explication using Gemini Notebook:

One learning protocol can be used as a tool to open the door to another learning protocol. Perhaps I should say ANY learning protocol can be used as a tool to open the door to another learning protocol. Cello practice is a good example. It can be applied to any “instrument”: make your ‘target’ precise, then fix the damned thing be it a note, a phrase…

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in the pool

of my remembrance

I realize

this anchor

is way too big.

I tug on it

so I can fish

the next spot.

It won’t release me.

I can’t pull it up.

Will I be held forever,

this memory’s

Steely hooks

stuck grapple-fast

to the chassis

of some ancient

Delta 88

so many fathoms down?

There is no answer

Save a knife

Cutting loose

And lost.

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Dewy mornings meant no rain,

sweet quiet on a bike,

flowing over with ledes in a wire basket

for my readers.

Under its flag and banner,

over and under the folds,

in the alley and in the gutter,

the first edition was my genius.

My news-stained mind

from print-stained hands composed,

I was the issue of that masthead

and, thus, a newspaper’s boy.

Even now I w…

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Sing for Me, Tornados

I will live to hear the day

the twisters sing

in four-part harmony:

One part pond

sucked up with fish,

another, dirt,

shriven and hurt,

another part air

whipped hard and solid,

and one part fire,

flint and iron.

I dream one day

to hear this Fat Lady

sing,

without translation.

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Robert Twigger has an approach to learning he calls micromastery where any discipline can be learned through its “entry trick”. For example, you can enter into the discipline of cooking by learning how to cook the perfect ome…

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Here’s a preamble to the poem. I walked out into our sunroom this morning of Phoebe’s birthday to find a frantic fledgling battering itself from window to window as cats leapt and leapt to catch. They did catch it but did no harm at all as I pried open the jaws and cupped the fledge in my hand. I calmed its racing heart and then I realized it was a ph…

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A dead hedge is a traditional way to turn fallen branches, pruned limbs, and leftover wood into a useful natural habitat/fence. Instead of throwing yard debris away, you can stack it into a rustic barrier that marks off an area, tidies the landscape, and gives wildlife a safe place to hide, but it is much more. Hope the poem is its own dead hedge.

Dead …

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We are the purr

of an elderkitty

on a desk.

We cannot write

like she can

seated on

a cool blank sheet of

paper,

swishing her tale.

With luck

she will work it out

and I can get on

with my job

or perhaps we can both

manage the page

by writing between

each other's lines,

alternately sharing

this irritable

and joyous

and inevitably

blank page

that ends.

Or we can

walk the dog

w…

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We have moved.

Pissed off mockingbirds,

robin flyovers with birdshit rewards everywhere,

Jupiter and Saturn and Mercury filtered

through cityhaze under the moon.

Sirens layered like so many

bank clocks

and LED thermometers

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Artist M.L. Rio is just like the rest of us who create--sometimes she needs a little help, a nudge toward the possible on this Winter’s Solstice darkest day. Consider this your quiet gift of a hip check into the creative lane.

Overcoming Creative Obstacles (Writer’s Block)

When wrestling with writer’s block, Rio uses practical strategies, often relating t…

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The Passing

Let things grow

A little wild.

Let the little pattern

emerge.

Let that satisfy.

Sand

the rough ‘go’ of it.

Sit quiet with the sheep

on a stump

that you have

sat upon

for so long it rots

underneath

while th…

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I have a dear friend who died recently

or what seems only yesterday.

He and his partner

were the best market gardeners I have ever known.

The last time I saw Bruce,

he and Muz brought us a bag of peaches from their trees.

They were glorious,

but were ripening too fast

so I vacuum-sealed and froze some of them.

Now that he is gone,

when I open up the free…

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A Poem Further Realized

for Muz

My life’s art says:

do no harm.

While coincidently

I conclude so much life under foot and web.

It does not much good to care or know

As we all swim on

through the tide of an unconvinced self.

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