Enjoyed a vivid dream about powerful, white neoprene gloves during my lunch time nap
- It was a beautiful sunny day
- A mated pair of cardinals hung out in a tree near the train station
- I went to a poetry slam at night, read a poem at open mic and made some connections for interviews for NPS2011
- I came home to an email from a friend requesting a critique of a couple of poems
The Cantab Lounge in Cambridge, Massachusetts hosts a weekly Poetry open mic, featured poet and poetry slam every Wednesday night. Yours truly read there last night (a poem I will later post and record someplace) and arranged an email interview with the driving force behind the Boston Poetry Slam, Simone Beaubien.
Please check out the interview at Eye On Life Online Magazine.
- A goldfinch and a blue bird at the train station
- I walked calmly through a corridor of hundreds of bumble bees busy with these little yellow flowers
- Wildflowers are everywhere after all that rain and a couple of days of sun
- People were interested in knowing how my bike ride went
- I meditated in Copley Square by the fountain. When I looked up, I saw a tree in which many had carved their initials and such into the bark. It came to me that the tree had accepted these wounds and was completely at peace with itself, happily growing and filled with golden light.
- Kikipotamus sent me a book!
The womblike long dark hallway of night
Cracks around closed doors bleeding light
Behind them rooms are bright
They chase away their thoughts
A sandstorm erodes transparency
Until it aches, opaque
And the lone searcher can see
Neither revelation nor mistake
Cracks around closed doors bleeding light
Within the rooms behind them bright
They distract away the night
While I roam, stillborn in my thoughts
Arriving at the destination of my cumulative choice
No ear is near to hear my voice
My sadness having sucked out all the air
Within their rooms they stay bright
Shining hopelessly through the night
At the end of the tunnel see no light
I am chased away
I would be born out of this womb
From this tomb exhumed
Reanimated in some private room
Where I alone my bitter cup consume
Sweep up the pieces with a broom
Weave a new life on a loom
Cheat myself out of my doom
Screams are silent in a vacuum
Thoughts chase them away
Behind their doors to bright rooms
That bleed light through the cracks
As I retreat to my long dark womb
To hear an audio recording of this poem, click here.
- Found myself surrounded by beauty several times today
- Arrived at work as the first drops of rain began to fall and a snowy egret circled overhead
- Started an article about mind, body and sleep
- A poet has returned to Eye On Life with another poem for us
- I am ready to ride in the CCG bicycling fundraising event to benefit the National Multiple Sclerosis Society this Saturday and Sunday
Is not a miracle, as all nature
Is miraculous in her power
And love is a miracle, we are sure
So as by miracles surrounded we
Cannot deny that they exist therefore
Should we be surprised when there comes to be
Unexpected wonders at our own door?
So when complicated life is rendered
Suddenly and gladly simple, or your
Problems by some hero vanquished, tender
Your belief at last that dreams can come true.
Believing can work miracles for you.
Upon the ledge, the little poet at once young
Ponders the trusted universe
And love songs by poets sung
In forgotten meter and tender verse
Professing love with variables;
Bearing gifts: ethereal and tangible,
Comforts and attentions.
On a horse nearby, a second poet mentions,
“All love is good.”
The little poet, something about wood.
As three time zones exact tolls
From her own ledge a poet trusts the universe
While burning images onto souls
And composing searing passionate verse.
She accepts selectively gifts of the poet on the horse
And the little poet who stands, ledge crumbling
Beneath his feet, manufacturing balance before
A leap that could prove humbling.
Shortly the window may be gone.
The universe may move on.
Yet if the leap be made too soon
The the poet will likely miss the moon.
If only the famous cow would happen by
Leaping fantastic into the sky
Udder dangling like a great latex glove.
The poets wonder, “What is love?”
A great chunk breaks off each of the ledges,
Nudging them even nearer their edges.
Decide the poets must.
Time the universe to trust?