Would That I Might

I Wonder If Anyone Knows at All What It Is Like inside Another Mind My mind is not like many minds, I know, at least because of my dyslexia, because my brain operates in some ways that are non-standard, so my experiences are not the same, but I can never tell what is so different for me from anyone else, even though people have always asked me what it is like to be dyslexic.

While I did suggest that I want to get back to longer entries, and that is certainly true, I am afraid that it will not be tonight, unfortunately.  It has been quite a long and busy day.  I cooked a whole bunch for the holiday, and we had company here most of the day, so it has been quite busy.  I did get my four poems written, and also selected one that I thought would be worth putting up tonight.  Though not exactly the most patriotic poem for the holiday, it seemed that now was the right time for it.  I mean, if not on July Fourth, I would want to wait a whole year until it was appropriate again. I am still in the midst of a bit of a dry spell as far as inspiration, but I am also finding myself still writing poems that I find interesting and valuable, and I think that they are moving in directions I wouldn't think up if I were sitting around conceptualizing poems.  Some of them are strange and I am not entirely sure what they mean, though that is not a...

4 th I go, at times, to the fireworks because others want to, Melissa in recent years, who loves them herself, and I do not want to steal from her that, but I cannot see the same way as she does, instead, only wonder how it is we think to commemorate the solemnity of victory in war, the founding of our nation after bloody conflict fought with weapons of gunpowder and flame, the very implements we flagrantly blast towards the sky, as though this violence against the air itself has different meaning.   Perhaps it does, but I cannot see it, but, of course, I am colorblind.

As I did yesterday, I posted a new poem here on the blog.  In this case, it was actually a poem I had written a few weeks ago, but I had been thinking of posting it. First, it was inspired in part by the upcoming anniversary of the moon landing, so I thought it worth getting out there now, and second, I felt that it was a piece I was impatient to see in the world.  I'm not sure why, but I just really felt an urgency about sharing this poem. I do wonder if it is a bit of a mistake to put poems here, but I am hoping that the work will find an audience, even if it takes some time. It seems to me that the most important thing I can do is just to keep going.  It is the same as with any of my other writing projects.  While I do want more people to see my work, I am aware that I don't control or decide those outcomes.  I can only do the best work I know how, and try to put it out there in the ways that I can.  The rest is not up to me. While the poem I posted ...

Overview A small bubble floats along, rides through the empty space. Not a soap bubble, but perhaps as delicate in its own way. A large bubble, within which, a cloud of gas, a bundle of rock, our planet, small thing in these terms, all of us within. Imagine it, far off, small enough to watch, from here, the whole hemisphere. Think: all you know is there, inside that oasis: all of us, together. It is the one place we know where we can be, the delicate miracle that all of us call home. Watching it from here: not vast planes, but a tiny tender thing standing alone against the cosmos, it is home: all the earth, your house, all life, your housemate. Let us all do the chores together, cleaning, painting, making dinner, repairing the toilet. Let us do it all together, so we finally may live in a place all of us are proud to call home.

So, I posted a poem just now, a new poem, one that is sort of an example of the kind of plate spinning pieces I have mentioned before.  I don't want to really discuss it, other than to say that I am putting it up just to sort of get myself used to the idea of posting a few poems every now and again.  I have enough work that I want to share.  If I can afford to put work out to journals that don't pay, I can also afford to put a few pieces here.  It is a small step, but I hope those of you who read this blog will consider sharing that piece, if you find it interesting or worthwhile in some way. I am going to keep this a bit short, since I am rather tired (as in the poem).  I did get my four poems in, and I am rather pleased with the work, even if I am still feeling a bit low on inspiration at this moment.  It's funny that a part of me also is itching to think up a good idea for a new animal fable of the sort I have previously described, and I think it may b...

The Hour Is Late to Be Sitting Here I want my bed, want my sleep, but I am here instead, sitting at the desk again as I find happens in dark, lonely hours, the times that can be stolen from the world with the only loss my own rest. writing, though it seems my mind is only able to muster up the easy thing, writing about being here, about writing this very poem as it is happening, making me wonder, of course, why I am awake for this, why I have stayed here, done this to myself, sacrificed nightly repair only for this poem, this nothing of a poem, the only thing to show the world tomorrow if anyone asks about my bloodshot eyes or why I need a nap, but still, it is mine, these words are mine here, even in your mind reading them, they are what I have done, have made, something that will last longer than the sleep, than even the need I have tonight for that respite, so, flimsy as it may be, it is what I have traded my night for, what I am maki...