Category Archives: Poem
The dog catches my eyeand whines his question:“Now, Boss, now?”An idea: the smell of saltopens my mind.I laugh and nod.He stands with a clatterof claws on hardwood,tail high and boisterous, ashe prances around the couch.His eager head presses throughthe red … Continue reading
Consciousness,the universe is–a way to understandand make small enougha vastness into parts.Your mind will nevergrasp the whole, no,that is a feelingfor your soulto warm whencold clasps your heartand galaxies never seenseem almost familiarand close enoughto nod acquaintance.Understanding isaccepting you cannot.
(for William Stafford) Your poems run the gamut;you have blessed us with musicof realization and understanding.Many of those poems were bornon your couch, lying on your back,looking up at your journal.Really? Their birth is asastonishing as their venerable lives.
(Here’s an example of a the beginning of a daily writing session. Initially, I made no edits. But I couldn’t stand it, so now it’strying to become a poem. I’ve changed the original, so my firsteffort has been subverted. Silly … Continue reading
The wind hurls itself across my roof in big waves as I hold my breath. The skylights receive a violent drum solo; I receive the awe. The house bravely waits for the next real world onslaught; my faith is a … Continue reading
The breeze off Arrow lake sways the curtains in my room, robbing the ghosts of places to hide. The fan blurs the ceiling where peeled wallpaper casts vibrating shadows, like insect wings stuck to my leather. The confused air stirs … Continue reading
Thank you for my companions: this journal; this pen; this heart full of my blood; my blood in the hearts of others; my heart in the hearts of others; the quivering guitars; the gift of music holding me fast; this … Continue reading
Here Poemy, here girl, here boy, hweet, hwheet, wheet… c’mon—atta girl, atta boy, c’mon. Bronkbuster’s muse is a dominatrix— demanding, abusive, beautiful, alluring, cruel, and dripping wet—smelling of sea and sagebrush. Mine is on cat’s feet, shifting shapes and sometimes … Continue reading
Reading poems– a bronkbuster, a recovered drunk, a morning iconoclast; all tell me: write something with velocity, not half fast. (Paul Zarzyski: Gordon Stevens; Richard Hugo: Hugo House; William Stafford: American Academy of Poets)