All Categories - Neo-Victorian Poetry

The inspiration of tethers ...

9/5/2019

Occasional dry spells befall me, but I think I’m learning to take them in stride. The term “take in stride” is an idiom which alluded to a horse clearing an obstacle without checking its stride. (1900).

A few weeks ago, our local skies were adorned with colors and motion when the local kite festival drew hundreds of kite fliers from a wide area. This proved to be just the motivation I needed to write.

My muse woke from its slumber and I began to compose a poem. It was exhilarating to finally be writing again! Words began to tumble onto the page: an edit here and there as I went and it was done.

Initially, I had no idea where the piece was going, which is very often the case. I find the greatest joy in these journeys with my muse, and I, too, get to discover things unanticipated along the way.

With that in mind, I give you Tethers:

Tethers
I stole upon a lusty wind
To gain the Summer sky.
A slender tail
Sustained me well
As I began to climb.

Uplifted to fantastic heights
Yet higher still I sought
But, lo, my frame
Could nothing gain
No matter how I fought.

For from below the tether bold,
A simple length of string,
Restrains my urge
And every surge
Else I would wander free.

A snap and I am reeling hard,
Convulsively I spin.
Untethered I
Am wielded by
A juggernaut of wind.

Oh would that I were tethered now,
Complicit with the breeze.
It's where I ought
To be and not
Entangled in these trees.

Image: baileygillespie.com

Knitting and poetry: kindred arts ...

7/27/2019

Occasionally, a friend, an acquaintance, or even a passerby inspires me to compose a new poem. One such friend, named Sandi, is a brilliant fiber artist who designs the yarn that she knits.

She carefully selects the wool she will use, decides which color it should be, patiently dyes the fiber, spins it into yarn, knits it according to whichever pattern she has chosen, and blocks it into shape.

It occurred to me one day, while marveling at her work, that Sandi and I share rather analogous skills. The poetry that I write involves more than merely knitting words together into usable sentences.

Poems require that I select the sound, the texture, and the hue of each individual word, subtly nuancing and otherwise abridging them as needed, and ultimately weaving them all into a specific shape.

Both Sandi and I have developed our skills over several decades. Yet, for all of our diligence to design she and I are often surprised by the finished products of our work. Formula is merely a frame.

Within that rigid frame unanticipated tinges can appear within the form, which usually help to enhance what was intended. Which begs a question: “Is the art itself more competent than the artist?”

In truth, both Sandi and I have found that there is a fluid dialogue between the tools we each apply and the work at hand. We have learned to appreciate this and to allow the art to take part as well.

Image: sheknitsandpurls.wordpress.com

Connective tissues notwithstanding ...

7/13/2019

Since my last blog post, I’ve tried to spare my thumb the irritation that excessive typing brings on, and my ears the noise of this thin, small, plastic thumb brace tap, tap, tapping on the spacebar. Still …

Time to give it another go. This brings to mind the many connective tissues involved in writing verse: meter, rhyme, alliteration, and the many tiny balancing points that must be accounted for in poetry.

If any one of these points is out of round, the entire poem suffers an acute pain which nags until it gets sorted out. Resting the poem awhile, untouched, can sometimes refresh it and help it to mend.

Otherwise, one tends to overwork it, which can break the natural flow of the poem and render it a stiff, obviously forced piece. It has to relax, to breath, and to become pliable enough to work with.

It requires intuitive skill to properly perform surgery on a badly mangled poem. Occasionally I’ve been unable to resuscitate a piece and have had to let if go. Nothing I did could bring it back to life.

Often, certain lines and the intended meaning of such a poem will re-emerge as a totally different piece than was intended, or even regenerate years later into the very form it was meant to be.

Sometimes, merely allowing an adequate and thorough resting period is the best medicine one can apply to a broken poem. So, too, with my healing hand, which is just beginning to ache now.

Until next time ...

Image: ohmyarthritis.com

I am pleased to announce my latest book of poetry: When None Command

4/13/2019

Apologies that it's been so long since my last blog post. The healing process, since my recent Carpal Tunnel and Trigger Thumb surgery, is progressing well. However, I’m still wary of typing for too long at a time.

In the meantime, I’ve composed several new poems and have managed, with the assistance of Emily Thompson, author of the Clockwork Twist adventure series, to produce a new volume of my work, titled When None Command.

It is now available in paperback on amazon.com, which you can quickly go to by clicking here. The Kindle version will soon be available as well. I invite you to take a glimpse of this book via the “Look inside” section of that Amazon page.

I sincerely hope you enjoy When none Command.

Image by Stanley Thompson

Round 3 ... a brief surgical procedure ...

2/21/2019

The entire month of February has been pretty rough in this household. We have been dealing with three unique viruses, one after another. Needless to say, I have not feeling up to writing.

Early tomorrow morning I will be reporting to my surgeon for a much needed Carpal Tunnel and Trigger Finger procedure, which will put my dominant right hand out of action for the next ten days.

I find it curious that all of this is occurring just as I was about to publish a new book of my poetry. In the meantime, I thought I’d leave you with a poem that I recently wrote for my new book. Enjoy!

One Sunny Day

One sunny day we drew our names upon the virgin sand
And wondered when the groping waves might steal them out to sea.
Perhaps a breeze would scatter these soft letters over land
Or rain dilute their form to shallow shapes but barely seen.

We lingered as the sky grew dim and stars began to show
And still our names intact remained as we at last took leave.
That night a fearsome tempest fell and dealt a dire blow
Thus in the early rays of dawn we felt a subtle grief.

So back we sauntered to the beach expecting not to find
That all those elemental forces lashed and beat in vain
For on the sand a glistening band of kelp, a ring most kind,
Had washed ashore in such rapport so that our names remained.

Image: wisegeek.org

The making of an author ...

1/31/2019

Willa Sibert Cather, a Pulitzer Prize winning American author, wrote about frontier life on the Great Plains said, “Most of the basic material a writer works with is acquired before the age of fifteen.”

As I’ve mentioned in at least one previous post, my husband and I homeschooled our only daughter. She was an obvious natural self-starter and by age three her verbal skills were advanced.

We began teaching her through play. We played one sock two sock while I was sorting the laundry, we played pretend from time to time, and we stopped lessons every twenty minutes to play toss.

I read to her every night from our growing library of fairy tales, enacting each character as I read. We took her to the circus and the zoo, and we took her to astronomy events called star parties.

But one of the most important things we did was to teach her critical thinking: helping her to reason out answers to questions that she posed through dialogue. We also gave her some alone time.

We didn’t hover over her, occupying here every waking hour. I believe that it is vital to stir the imagination through stories and play, and then to allow a child's mind to percolate on its own a bit.

She began to make up her own stories very early on, as children tend to do. At one point, I gave her daily writing assignments, which were to be one paragraph in length, on any subject she chose.

At first she balked at this, but then she came up with an imaginary town called Twee, a British term she found for ”overly sweet.” Out of rebellion, she decided to torture the citizens of Twee every day.

She flooded the town of Twee, burned their village to the ground, and so on. No actual Twee were harmed in her writings; they were simply sent running and screaming out of their fanciful town.

These little vignettes of writing allowed her the freedom to express herself. They were to be composed as tiny stories so that I could avoid a page full of red pencil marks; “No, you did that wrong.”

Eventually, she either grew tired of this scheme or she ran out of ideas for menacing the Twee, and we moved on to larger essay assignments. To date, our daughter is writing her seventeen novel.

Her Clockwork Twist adventure series is available on amazon and at http://clockworktwist.com

Image: Emily Thompson

Feed a cold, starve a fever. Really ... ?

1/24/2019

The old wives tale, “feed a cold, starve a fever,” has been traced back to John Withals, lexicographer, and author of A Short Dictionary for Young Beginners, (1574). Modern medical science now says to feed both.

“An old wives' tale is a supposed truth which is actually spurious or a superstition.” Wikipedia. Interestingly, in the 1611 edition of the King James Bible, Paul cautions Timothy to “have nothing to do with wives tales.” 1 Timothy 4:7

According to a January 3, 2014 article in Scientific American, the correct answer is,“feed a cold, feed a fever.” Apparently it has something to do with a rise in body temperature when one ingests food.

As we digest food, our bodies generate heat which, apparently, is helpful in beating the cold and fever inducing bugs. Chicken soup has always been the odds on favorite aid in hydration and sustenance.

I also find that my grandmother’s remedy of adding a teaspoon of honey and a squeeze of lemon to a cup of warm water and sipping it slowly is very beneficial and soothing. Thanks grandma!

I cite this information here because I recently recovered from a cold, which did not facilitate my writing blog posts, and I was curious about this maxim. In essence, that is the reason why I’ve been “away.”

Just sayin’ ...

Image: edibleharmony.com

The peaks and valleys of the heart ...

12/29/2018

As Helen Keller, author, lecturer, and crusader for the handicapped once said, “The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched - they must be felt with the heart.”

In this vein, much of what I do when writing poetry is intangible. This was especially true when I wrote my Airship poem, and I got to spend several wonderful days sailing aboard an ethereal vessel.

Fortunately, I have access to online Role Playing Games, such as Guns of Icarus, and have read all twelve novels of Emily Thompson’s descriptive Steampunk adventure series, titled Clockwork Twist.

However, immersive novels and RPG’s merely hint at the look, feel, aroma, temperature, and the overall ambiance of sailing aboard an airship. Something else is needed to fill in these essential details.

Once my heart and my mind were fully absorbed in this project the airship itself took over. It taught me what I needed to know and how to express those sensations. It evolved into a poetic experience.

While Helen Keller learned to explore, interpret, and make use of the physical world around her, the poet must learn the inverse; how to tap into the world within as if it were, in every sense, tangible.

Now, as my airship glides soundlessly off into an exquisite sunset, I would like to wish you all a very Happy New Year!!! See you next time ...

Image: https://www.healthiply.in

Such is life, sometimes ...

12/21/2018

“Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans.” John Lennon. Such was the case recently when a favorite Steampunk convention ended up being cancelled for financial reasons.

In lieu of our usual convention table for the October event, my daughter and I were recently invited to set up an author table during the Alterna Steam Crawl at Outsider Comics in Seattle, Washington.

My talented daughter, Emily Thompson, author of the Clockwork Twist adventure series, sets an impressive Steampunk setting for our books at these book signing events. And we’ve been busy.

Recently, we were invited to set up our table inside a cozy window space in the Abbracci Coffee Bar in Long Beach, Washington. The gracious owner, Ricky Holmes, is an avid supporter of artists and authors.

In the near future, Ricky will be displaying and selling our books in his cafe. If you happen to venture to Long Beach Washington, stopping in at this wonderful establishment would not be amiss.

Needless to say, we’ve had a lovely but busy time of traveling and book signings lately, and I’ve decided to keep this post on the short side so as to attend to other needs, and to enjoy the holidays.

I wish you a very Happy Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!!!

Until next time ...

Of dreams, goals, and deadlines ...

12/7/2018

Napoleon Hill, motivational author of Think And Grow Rich, has said that, "A dream is a goal with a deadline." I ruminated on this for quite a while, but it felt somewhat inverted, and I happily let it go.

Then I came upon, Harvey MacKay, a businessman who gives career and inspirational advice in his syndicated column said, “A dream is just a dream. A goal is a dream with a plan and a deadline.”

Thank you, Mr MacKay. I can wrap my head around that. There is a sense of the poetic in this latter phrase, which more easily lends itself to meandering round and round among my other thoughts.

That one of my own lines might do as much in the reader’s mind is more of a wish than a goal for me. As many a song writer can attest, one never knows which lyrics will resonate best to a listener.

As a poet, I don’t have set goals in mind. Sure, sometimes I begin a piece with an idea and strong inclinations of how it will progress, until I find it going off on a much better trajectory, and I follow it.

I know of writers who plan out their plots to the nth degree, diagramming and controlling their work all the way to the end of the story, but poetry, my poetry, has to breathe more freely than that.

I rather enjoy fluid dialogues with my muse, and the surprising journeys that we take together; surprising to me, at any rate. The murmurings of my poet mind will simply not abide the leash of a deadline.

Image: careerminer.infomine.com

The three voices of me ...

11/29/2018

A poem has a voice all its own. The very act of writing makes it so. Poems speak from an ethereal realm of muse, words, and ideas, and they resonate on a different frequency than a speaking voice.

Or, so it is for me.

Stephen Edward Ambrose, noted historian and author of more than thirty books, said, “Reading your own poetry forces you to listen.” Alas, reading my poems aloud forces me to listen to my listeners.

I am fortunate to have observers in my sphere who offer their perspectives on my poetry readings and who universally point out that I to speak the words too hurriedly to be properly discerned.

They mention, also, that I need to not only enunciate more clearly but to raise the volume of my voice to be better heard. And so it is that I prefer that they, and others read my poems for themselves.

But then the feedback I receive is rather strange. Many a reader has pointed out specific concepts in my work that I did not compose. Yes, I clearly see their point, and no, I didn't write that.

So, on the one hand, how does the poet perfectly orate the poem faithfully without becoming theatrical about it? And on the other, what am I to make of such varied interpretations of my work?

Firstly, since the voice I hear while writing a poem differs vastly from my normal speaking voice, and drastically so from my recital voice, I should probably consider enrolling in a local speech class.

But, as to the second issue of the reader’s interpretation diverging from my muse’s intentions in a poem, I often find their take on my work amusing, enlightening, and entertaining, and that’s okay.

This issue of reading my work before a live audience has lead me to much head scratching, and to wondering whether these phenomenon are common to poets at large or reserved solely for me.

To misquote Dr. McCoy: “I’m a poet, Jim, not a performer!”

Image: theguardian.com

One man who changed my world ...

11/1/2018

Eugene Wesley Roddenberry, television screenwriter, and producer of the TV series Star Trek, gave us an imaginary blueprint for much of the technology that my generation later brought into being.

Doors that open automatically upon approach, cell phones, food replicators, (3D food printers), the use of voice commands with a computer, (Siri, Google Now), jet- injection hyposprays and more.

Along with all these neat new gizmos, Gene Roddenberry gave 60’s science geeks, like myself, a vision of the future that was innovative, exciting, and set in outer space, and he encouraged us to dream.

I turned my bedroom into a lab; I hung star charts all over my walls, experimented with a Gilbert chemistry set, studied samples with my Lionel microscope, and gazed at the sky through my telescope.

My poetry included an ode about piercing the virgin sky with rockets, and another poem proposing that humans residing on Earth were once escapees from a planet inhabited by deranged humanoids.

The scope of my world, and of my writing, was forever enhanced by Gene Roddenberry, who said, “I hope that I helped to build a fierce pride in what we are and what we can do if we set our minds to it.”

And, this is where I say, “Well done, sir.”

Image: delamagente.wordpress.com

No more bumps in the night ...

10/22/2018

I grew up in a haunted house in a middle class neighborhood. It may have been that the Ouija board I unfortunately played with as a kid that attracted “something,” or maybe the murderer next door.

Something was not quite right with our house. An unaccountable voice calling for “Maria” from our vacant side yard, and a baby crying in the night in our neighbor's home though they had no baby.

It was not until I inherited an old full-length mirror from my grandmother that strange things became obvious soon after it was hung in my bedroom, and were witnessed by many other people.

Years later, my husband and I moved into a converted attic apartment. It wasn’t just the green goo on the floor of our closet that was odd. We experienced many, eerie, unexplainable things there.

Even so, I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t believe that my grandmother came through that mirror to terrorize me every night. I do, however, believe that there are unseen, unknown forces at work.

British actor Timothy Spall, who played Peter Pettigrew in the Harry Potter movies said, “I've never seen a poltergeist, but I do believe there is more than what we see, that there is more than just this.”

Then, during our second overnight stay in the Queen Mary Hotel I discovered something wonderful. I could turn off my sensitivity to the eerie happenings that had plagued me there already.

I’ve written about my many bizarre encounters over the years, which were published in a now defunct British blog, and this is the very last time I plan to write about this subject. It creeps me out.

So, as is my habit this time of year, I deck the house in Autumn hues, burn pumpkin scented candles, and am relish in all of the lovely seasonal aspects of Fall, but not Halloween. It’s my sore spot.

Happy Autumn!

Image: https://www.silversurfers.com

My favorite cozy blanket is ...

10/11/2018

I grew up in a home full of readers. In our “back room” there were shelves and shelves brimming with all sorts of books from floor to ceiling. We never called it The Library. It was the “back room.”

My dad was an avid reader even though he’d left school in the sixth grade. I have no idea where he got all of those books, but I could pick any book anytime to read, and I ingested poetry.

I, too, have a room full of books, all sorts of books. Once or twice my husband has suggested that we might have too many volumes on our many shelves, and I cringed and I was like “no way!”

And then one day it hit me; my favorite cozy blanket is a room full of books. I suppose that they are my security blanket, for without them a room is just a room no matter its use, its size or its decor.

Marcus Tullius Cicero, a Roman statesman, orator, lawyer and philosopher, who lived between 106 BC and 43 BC, had a profound influence on Prose, the Latin language, and later European languages.

It was Cicero who said that, “A room without books is like a body without a soul.” I heartily agree, and I am delighted that such a man as Cicero so eloquently and succinctly spoke my very thoughts.



Image:  https://www.pinterest.com

"Autumn's the mellow Time" ...

9/17/2018

Earthy Autumn is my favorite time of year, when daylight hours begin to wither, the nights grow deeper, the temperatures sink to chilling lows, and I can bathe in the pleasant glow of my fireplace.

Though I am a Summer baby by birth, my muse is better nourished by gloomy skies, the thick aroma of fallen leaves, by comfy oversize sweaters and aromatic tea … by all the elements of Fall.

“Autumn's the mellow time.” So wrote poet, diarist, editor, and scholar, William Allingham, who greatly influenced other poets of his day, including Y.B.Yeats, John Hewitt, and Walter de la Mare.
As all the world lies down to rest, that is when I like it best. When I was a city dweller the signs of Autumn were very evident in sweetly spiced coffee and cocoa, and pumpkin-flavored everything.

Now we live in what I fondly call “the boonies.” All of those urban Autumn treats are attainable, but just a bit farther away. Here, the natural elements of Fall consume my senses and bid me to write.

My muse is ever near
Yet now she whispers in my ear
“Come, let us play with wisps, and dream
Of lovely rhyming schemes.”

And all of this is but to say that I wish you a very Happy Autumn.

Image: wallpapersthebest.blogspot.com

The many works of Anonymous ...

9/14/2018

Perhaps as far back as the onset of human speech pithy phrases have been uttered by ... well, who knows? And so we have, to date, a plethora of works by those known only as Anonymous.

For instance:

“Anonymous is really just a name for someone who had something great to say, but was not famous enough for anyone to remember their real name.” Anonymous

“The difference between genius and stupidity is that genius has its limits.” Anonymous

“Write a wise saying and your name will live forever.” Anonymous

I’ve known some who got a quiet giggle from hearing their own brilliant, uncredited witticism spoken casually by others, but I suspect that most of us wouldn’t mind being credited for an axiom.

Once, while in a creative writing class in college where we shared and discussed our own poetry, and I asked my professor to keep my poems anonymous so I could hear unbiased critiques.

He allowed this to go on for several weeks, but at which point he pointed out how unfair my little experiment was to the other students in that class. I sighed, but acquiesced, because he was right.

The following week he read one of my new poems and then said, “Would the writer like to say a word of two?” Heads spun around, searching, but there were only my fellow students and I present.

Slowly, I began to speak. Suddenly, there were gasps and shocked expressions everywhere. All had assumed that my works were anonymously published, so I’d gotten their honest opinions.

Still, mine had been the only unavowed poems shared that entire term, and it was rather dishonest, but it certainly goes to show that occasionally one can actually benefit from being anonymous.

Image: CU Family Medicine

Navigating the writer's mind ...

9/7/2018

Edgar Lawrence Doctorow, an American professor, editor, and author of the historical fiction novel, Billy Bathgate, said, “Writing is an exploration. You start from nothing and learn as you go.”

I’ve often liken my method of writing to an interactive conversation with my muse. Occasionally, it feels as if I’m merely taking dictation from someone who knows just what to say in a given line.

When I’ve managed to extricate a poem from a corner I’d written it into, I wonder, “Did I come up with that saving word or phrase, or do I credit my muse?” Writing is a curious collaboration, indeed.

Half for fun of writing lies in not knowing exactly where I’m going, even when I begin a piece with a roadmap of an idea only to find that the layout of my intended thoughts diverge along the way.

It can take a great deal of patience, on the part of my muse and myself, to allow a poem to get to where it is intended to go. The alternative to this would be to chisel rhyme out of unwilling stone.

This journey through the landscape of words, ideas, and nuance is akin to my lucid dreams wherein I have a certain measure of control; when I see a nightmare looming I can alter its course.

How does one avert a dream while dreaming? I learned, long ago, to keep my eyes closed as I began to wake up from a bad dream, relax into the lingering sleepiness, and imagine a better ending.

I did this every time I encountered a nightmare, and now it’s second nature to me … most of the time. I do not actually recommend this obscure dream exercise. I only know that it works for me.

And I note it here to make the point that, as with lucid dreaming, writing involves a measure of allowing, of investigation, of discovery, some inspiring surprises, and always a bit of editorial control.

With regards to this blog, and with some of my poetry, I’m in total agreement with E. L. Doctorow … starting with nothing and learning as I go.

Image: learning-mind.com

A longing for melancholy skies ...

8/30/2018

English singer, songwriter, bassist, and actor Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner, known famously as Sting, has said that “Melancholy is no bad thing.” This poet happily agrees with him.

Personally, I liken Melancholy to how one might slowly and quietly allow their body’s muscles, ligaments, and bones to gently melt into a comforting yoga pose; a soft subtle acquiescence of self.

Depression, on the other hand, is a pervasive, glutinous monster. I have personally stared into the rapacious eye of that ever consuming vortex that is depression, and it did own me for a while.

Yet, Melancholy has a soothing aspect to it, much like being emotionally and mentally swaddled in a soft, warm blanket on a chilly, stormy night in a comfy room with a steaming cup of tea.

It is a sweet sort of sadness, really, and it bears me kindly away when dark clouds dim sky, when leaves turn to rusty hues, and the alluring scent of rain begins to permeate the thickening air.

My muse has an appetite for Melancholy, and so I find myself longing for Autumn’s moody elements, and even for the somber depths of Winter. I gladly acquiesce to that which suits her best.

Image: hdwallsource.com

From my side of the mirror ...

8/16/2018

Of late I have been much more involved in poetry and author events of various sorts. And, alas, I feel as if I have been shanghaied by the very thing I’ve been aspiring for; a bit of recognition for my work.

I love engaging with readers in these settings, and elsewhere, and sharing my passion for poetry with them. I no longer view the idea of self-promotion as awkwardly self serving, as I once did.

Indeed, how else would anyone encounter this self-published writer’s work if I didn’t personally present it to them, with my books right there, ready to sign and sell? But can be an exhausting exercise.

American novelist Thomas Eugene "Tom" Robbins, author of Even Cowboys Get The Blues, wrote that “A writer needs a life of introspection.” … which is why agents are hired to do the leg work.

Having no agent, it’s been up to me to establish myself and my work in my current location and, to date, my books are all available in public libraries, local bookstores and a popular coffee shop.

I am presently working to fend off an erroneous assumption that I lack the time and the freedom to gaze inwardly with my muse. I am not, in fact, overtaxed with myriad events, but I feel as if I am.

Hence, I have written no poetry, not even a blog post, for quite a while. Jotting down ideas and phrases continues unabated, but they are disjointed things and refuse to coalesce into anything tangible.

Even so, a second volume of my poetry is ever so slowly taking shape and needs, for the most part, a bit of editing, a new cover design, and such. Hopefully, that it will be done and published soon.

Image: mindauthor.com

No so long ago ...

6/22/2018

Jules Henri Poincare, a French mathematician, theoretical physicist, engineer, and philosopher of science, is noted to have said, "Ideas rose in the clouds; I felt them collide until pairs interlocked, so to speak, making a stable combination." I hear you, sir, as it is to with me.

I used to live in a semi-arid region where it rarely rained between May and November. It was a vapid and dusty existence for this poet who literally feeds on inclement weather. So much so that I was compelled to write my poem, Pluviophile, to express my earnest yearning for the rain.

At long last, unforeseen circumstances conspired together which compelled my family and I to move. In answer to my unspoken prayers we now reside where clouds loom large, overcast skies abound, and where it rains more often than not … and I find myself in a poet’s paradise.

I say “unspoken” because I didn’t realize that I needed this, exactly this, until we got here. We also didn’t know that we would require an all terrain vehicle when we purchased it before leaving those evenly paved city streets behind. But here we are, blessed beyond blessed.

When my husband and I retired we immediately knew that we could no longer afford our beautiful, upscale apartment, or being surrounded by every possible convenience. What could have been a tragic experience became an adventure as we felt ourselves being nudged along.

There is much to be said with going with the flow, which is also what I do when I’m writing. As with Henri Poincare, I have the luxury of allowing thoughts, images, and ideas to flit and swoop loosely under my control as they aviate in the direction of the stormy sky beyond my windows.

And so I present to you my rather desperate longings of not so long ago:

Pluviophile

I pull the curtains back
From windows clear and wide
In earnest, hopeful stance
To search the open sky
For merest wisp of cloud
In arcing ever blue
Until I burst aloud,
”The rain is long past due!”

Where is that swollen scent
When seabirds fill the air
And moisture not yet spent
Is lurking everywhere.
Why do they stay away,
This season’s will defy?
Oh how I miss those days
When all the sky would cry.

Image: Janice T