A Week or More

So I’ll be on vacation for the next several days. The triple digit Texas heat is a great excuse to get out of town and head to the mountains. My posts over the next several days will either be photos or repeats…but hopefully inspiration will strike. 

Be well and write on. You never know what the next word will uncover.

Photo: Windmill farm in West Texas.


so it is here
strange to look at
to consider
to comprehend
a number
without a signifier
a signified without
a number
between the years
are days minutes seconds
of past
nothing to show for it
a dream
a vision
did it happen
only if remembered
so 34 measurements
are gone
how many more
will tick by
like reflectors
on roadways
by lights




Writing Process

What is your writing process? How do you get from point A to point B to clicking the Publish button on the blog?

Here’s the process that helped me get back into writing poetry more consistently:

Week One: Write a poem every day. It doesn’t matter whether it is thirty lines or three. I just write and see what appears on the paper. No revisions. Once I finish, I don’t look at it again until the following week.

Week Two: Revisit each poem from Week One. I find that looking at a poem with fresh eyes helps me spot a line that I don’t like or find a better way to say what I was thinking. In a sense, I lovingly shred each poem to pieces through revision and rewording. Sometimes it hurts, but it helps me create a better image in a poem.

I continue this process for several weeks, and then look back at what I think is “finished” and revise again if necessary.

How about you?

A Starting Line

I stumbled upon a line in an old journal that has stumped me. I’ve tried working with it and just haven’t found the right words or image. So I’m going to leave it here, a starting line of sorts, for anyone interested in creating something from it. If so, I’d like to see what you make of it. Perhaps the line isn’t mine to finish and instead belongs to one of you.

be gentle to the shadows who bear the weight of all we’ve lost


A bow is drawn slowly across
a single string, and a sound
like vapor stretches through
the air. The heart quickens,

and there is a tightness
in the chest like the skilled
fingers pressing down
just enough to elicit longing

only music can awaken.
Words fade to a whisper,
eyes close, and then the flash
of that day in the woods

when all was motionless
sight and sound until the first
drops of rain began to rattle
against the dry autumn leaves.


From Awaiting the Images