Monday, August 30, 2010

Prose Poem - Tracking

I think with some work this could be a good one:


This morning
I open the door
Step out
And push through
The new-fallen snow.
It’s already tracked
By deer, and rabbit and squirrel.
I follow their tracks
Through the yard,
Across the garden
And into the field.

Tracks are clues,
Tell-tale signs;
And what do my tracks
Where have I been
And what have I done?
Can you tell?

From the right perspective,
And with enough distance,
We can see
Our tracks form patterns,
Both intricate and haphazard.
They meet and mingle
With the tracks of others,
And those points
Of intersection
Are the most alarming
And lovely
Of all.

Monday, August 23, 2010

Belated Thanks

I would also like to thank my nagging sister-in-law, Flash, for afore mentioned nagging!

Back Again/ Bach Again

Well, here we are again (that's me speaking to my tape worm). I have given myself 40 lashes with the proverbial wet noodle, and am back for another go.
It's August...the second half of August...speeding toward September! Yikes! It's funny how time works. It's tricky. Stretching out when you have nothing to do, and then suddenly racing by when you're busy and not looking. I came across a funny quote, "I try to take one day at a time, but occasionally several days gang up and attack me at once." -Jennifer Unlimited.

So, here is a poem that has nothing to do with time, but with the feelings of isolation or connectedness. Go figure...


Morning light angles across the room
Bright and harsh
Showing every fingerprint and dust mote,
Intensifying the blue of the bowl
And the yellow of the buttercups,
Warming the back of my hand,
As it moves across the page,
Filling up the blank space.

Birdsong comes in the window;
Sound does not travel through a vacuum,
And we are not separate, discrete, alone
Like stepping stones in a pond.
Look below the water,
Beneath the surface,
The stones may turn out to be
Ridges of one big rock formation,
High points.

And so today,
I have this sunshine
And a very old block of crumbly cheddar
And the small, smooth stone
Surrounded by water
But underneath, a part of something larger
As I fill the blank page