ARRIVAL:  on quitting facebook, part III

ARRIVAL:  on quitting facebook, part III

The Muses come in silence.

You must sit still and wait.

For a long time, you must sit.

They come in your grief

when the world is cracking open,

when you wake in the moonlight

and your heart is afraid.

They come in your solitude

when all your doors are closed

and even the cats are asleep.

After a long time they come,

and make music from the tears.




Stop being superstitious. You do not

need a special pen or a blue notebook.

You do not need a tidy study with

a writing desk, or a corner table

in a dark café. You do not need to

drink anything but water, and any

cup will do. You do not need stars aligned,

flights of birds, a yellow candle, a white stone.

You do not need melancholy or fear.

You do not need to be in love or war.

You do not need an oracle or a muse.

All you need is a word, and another word.



You have to do something besides it.

Reading resembles it too much except

for books about the Civil War or bird-

watching. Birdwatching is good, except for

seagulls, who steal words. Robbery is okay,

but do you really need more things? Taking

care of things, in moderation, can be

helpful, except for electronic things

that claw out your eyeballs. Nobody wants

to read any poetry about that.



Silence is essential but not absolute.

Breezes are allowed, a bit of birdsong,

some water sounds—no seagulls or faucets.

The undertow of café chatter is fine,

but not the shrill of phone chat. Purring cats,

yes. Barking dogs, no. If your husband is

drilling or sawing in the next room no

matter how much you want a new tub surround,

you might as well give up.

April Prompts: Number 24

April Prompts #24

David’s #3:  Explain how you got here




Some of us came from the Red Sea

and some from the steppes.

We lighted fires wherever we went.

I remember the Zagros Mountains,

the shores of the Black Sea,

the dark caves in the high hills.


Sometimes we walked by walls of ice,

sometimes we slept in trees.

We were hungry,  and hunted.

We were frightened at night.

We were frightened of anything

we did not comprehend.


We made patterns on the ground.

We made pictures in the stars.

We made pictures on the stones.

We told stories to make us brave.

We sang to make us braver.

Our children are full of our songs.


I’ve found the ultimate source for Found Poems.


Kari #2:  found words


~Found in the Reviews section of ARTnews, February, 2014

A meditation on the nature of time,

morphing gradually from one mode

to another without giving up its own past.

The way time can never be absolute,

ordering the mundane details of existence.

A new spiritual age is on the horizon

using a variety of intermingled tongues,

seven pedestrians with peculiar gaits,

human beings resting atop ethereal pods

that resemble clouds or stylized islands.

The figure eight on its side is the symbol

for infinity, resounding with existential

wisdom and enduring hope. Celebratory,

yet born of a certain solemnity.  Curious,

but nevertheless arresting.

A fixation with axolotls and subsequent

metamorphosis:  uncanny and matter-of-fact,

premeditated and spontaneous.

A sense of déjà vu, largely sardonic.

Mouths took over entire heads.

The beyond is a titillating, prurient

world of masks, the unlikely oddly askew.

Race, culture, the unreliability of signs

can downshift into impiety like

an extra-large, cold-weather onesie.

(This could go on infinitely.)

Learning to draw

Learning to draw

I notice that nothing

is what I think:

the cat an oval with fuzzy

edges, dog tail a beret

perched on her head.

The book is narrow

as its spine. Trees

get small, the road

vanishes. Shadows

blend with teacups,

leaves twist their points

at me, every nose

is striped with white,

city roofs stack

and shade. Nothing

squares. Windows

are the darkest parts.



February 10, 2015




Plaster People

Wipe Feet!

Do not go in Gallery!!

Clean up downstairs

and exit Out Back

sign in the hallway outside sculpture studio, Castleton State College


Among the paintings,

installations of true Art

the Plaster People blunder,

powdery tracks wrecking

the good carpet,

powdery fingerprints

defacing all that is

canonical and clear.


One can’t have them

scattering their dust,

clouds and billows,

the stuff of stars.


The Plaster People in their

poofy hordes trample

up from the foundations.

They have buried

every civilization in turn.

Oh, look on their creative

struction, and despair!


A friend who teaches at Castleton hung this sign up in the Arts Center there.