Trees are weeping

Trees are weeping sap
from all their broken places
winter's losing ground

another email with no heartbeat

What do you do when
you get another
email about a
nephew you will not
have the chance to know

because your sister
has had another
miscarriage, and you
have no way to give
her any comfort?

I write a poem.
It doesn't really
help anything, but
I still have to write
to make space for tears.

soon

purple dusk sky rests

on bare, weary branches, but

spring is coming soon

not yet

purple dusk sky pierced

by sharp, black winter branches

spring is not here yet

How many people does it take to change a light bulb if one of them is me?

I am wondering if I should call my elderly neighbor the retired cop over to hold the chair while I try to change the ceiling lightbulb. I'm not sure it would actually help. Just because someone else is here does not mean I will be less likely to get dizzy or lose my balance and fall off the chair, and I'd feel terrible if I squashed and injured him if I fell. These are not the things I though I'd be concerned about in my mid thirties.  Sigh.

such extravagance

such extravagance

Minnesota winter sun

diamonds everywhere

the wrong foot

I hate
how an accidentally
too-long hike can destroy
my health for half a year and
already be eating
into this year,
too.

thoughts at the end

Today
was for writing
for reminding myself that
even though it was not my best year in any other way
I still wrote more
than the year before,
and if that is not a success,
what is?

fractured prose

The shameless self-promotion 

from the Facebook group read, 

'Looking for the perfect 

CHRISTMAS PRESENT for that friend 

or relative who loves poetry 

and laments the fact that modern 

"poets" have abandoned it 

for fractured prose?' I was

inexplicably delighted by

this accurate characterization 

of what I write, as if it had

no value or purpose or reason

for existing when, for me, 

it represents how I think

with my bent toward narrative

prose combined with my fractured 

concentration and attention 

span because of the pain 

and the sleeplessness

it causes, so thank you,

disparaging and dismissive

and self-righteous poet busy

flogging your own obviously 

superior form of writing, for

unintentionally presenting me 

with the gift of words 

to accurately describe 

my own.  : )

a little thanks

thankful today

in English and real life

cello and snow rhyme

When your eye says no

Today was the kind of day that goes like this.

Me: Hi, eyeball, I'm going to gently put this piece of plastic in you, so I can see.

My eyeball: No.

Me: Oh, I'm so sorry. Do you have an eyelash or something that's irritating you?

M.E.: No.

Me: Is there something I can do to help?

M.E.: No.

Me: So, can I just put this in and then leave you alone?

M.E.: No. N. O. Nonononono. Have I made myself clear?

Me: Perfectly. So, how about some glasses today?

Birthday questions between book chapters

Why, do you suppose, is it so hard for me to

rest--to focus only on ignoring my own 

entropy--when it is so recharging to my 

soul? Is this constant excuse of attending 

to the entropy around me instead, especially 

when I need rest so desperately, another 

series of the small acts of self-sabotage I 

am so good at not noticing myself doing 

until I write about them?

Tomorrow's pledge

I will ignore should

and do what needs to be done 

hibernation, rest

plans for this birthday

Plans for this birthday include

French toast, apple crisp, tea, 

the couch, blankets, music, 

hibernation, limited human 

contact, pain medication, and 

BOOK. Book. book. BOoK.

bookBooKbOOkBooKbook.

They exclude news, opinions, 

politics, brainlessly repeated 

rhetoric, and any internet not 

directly related to writing with 

the exception of the blog I am 

going to create for me 

and a friend 

to share.

already

When did this happen?

Trees stripped so bare already

November half gone

Sunday afternoon, autumn

and when the wind is

not blowing I want to

stop and stand in this

sunlight recharging

storing up warmth

until I get too stiff

from cold air and 

have to move again

the shame of late autumn skies

Sky blushes deep pink,

ashamed of bare branches, 

but spring will come again.

November gales

On the sides of homes,

gales of November slap rain: 

last wrath of autumn?

Autumn means

The cuddliest

box elder bug in the world 

just wants to snuggle.

me and the box elder bug swarm (again)

Yay, it's warm again!

says me and the box elder bug swarm 

as we bask in the last (?) breath 

of summer. They must think 

we bonded because later they visit me 

at home, and they are terrible guests 

who won't leave no matter how 

many times I tell them it's 

really time for them to go.