"Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake." - Wallace Stevens

Can it be this simple? I can hear you say, "No way!" I get it.

I've been considering the amount of time we spend on conflict and misunderstandings. It seems right to count the hours spinning inside our minds when we examine it this way, then that. We try to frame the words another way, decipher facial expressions, or dissect an email or text. What do they mean by that? How would I have said it? How should I respond? It's exhausting.

As I was pondering this I came upon the words of Wallace Stevens. It is easy to imagine the connections between our emotions and nature. Studies have shown that nature photographs conjure strong emotional responses. As well, think of the last time you experienced a strong feeling while you were in a "natural" setting. For me, the sound of geese flying above provokes a strong sense of joy. Can you think of your own example?

I wonder if a deliberate action to sort out the truth in something personal (work, relationship, goals, etc.) would seem less tedious if I did it in a natural setting. I thought back to the times the beach or forest was the specific destination for my poetry writing. There is a spot at the Columbia River that I drive to when I'm upset or confused. Perhaps Stevens knew something when he chose the word, truth. When something is upsetting or confusing it is usually because I have masked the truth.

It takes clarity to see the truth. It takes more clarity to understand what you see. Was Stevens leading us around the lake as a metaphor for the process? Was he envisioning the open air, wide expanse, and soothing sounds of water as a way to break down complexities? Was he telling us that without distractions we can find what we seek?

As any poet will tell you, lines that mean one thing to the writer may resonate differently with the reader. Mr. Stevens wrote a line that connected the significance of truth with a natural setting. This makes complete sense to me. The next time I'm seeking the truth it would be wise for me to get out of my usual setting and into a natural setting. It's a good thing I live in the beautiful Pacific NW where a drive in any direction will take me there.

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Screen Play

I can write about
anything but you

It’s always too early
or too late to incarcerate
my senses
uncoil thoughts into words
drawn from the infinite vat
of language

Can I forgive the
melodrama before you?
I lived around the
corner from despair

This time, despair is the
invisible man and you are
Bogie, Tracy, or James Dean
and I write about them
until I can write about you

Of Crows and Things

From this vantage point it is easy to watch three crows drink from the birdbath. They are huge and shiny. In between sips they chatter - back and forth - cawing loud and louder.

I want to join the conversation. Listen to them brag about the last worm or the cracker I set out this morning. I want to shout with them; tell them about the things I've found. The broken compass inside an old shoe at the thrift shop, a red plastic barrette I wore in 4th grade, love letters from my first crush, and five nickels as I prepared the soil for roses.

I imagine crow's don't make lists. In fact, I think they're only concern is the last find. There is no way I could live like that. I'm too connected to those little things that remind me of someone close, a great trip, an unpredicted event, or a walk that began innocently and ended with a pocket full of rocks.

Some people are collectors of things. Some, collectors of people. Everyone is talking about simplicity, clearing out the stuff, minimizing. This is supposed to clear your mind and release potential for new endeavors. I understand the logic in this and must admit, I do feel renewed when I clean out the closet or garage. Yet, my collection of precious finds gives me renewed energy. At any moment I can pick up a paper fortune from Chinese take out, a rock from the Sierra's, or a lucky penny found on my street. I can remember the moment and the reason I kept that treasure.

Still, those crows seem so free and unencumbered. I'd love to talk with them, just once, about the greatest thing they ever found. Now, wouldn't that be a moment? Perhaps they'd let me take a feather home.

As The Grass Grows....

we sit
sip dew from honeysuckle
reminisce
stare into the distance
beyond the weeds
and fire-bright lilies
you stretch
I yawn
toes touch before
eyes meet

The Short Reprieve

the moments stretch
time extends like
capsules filled with
liquid tenderness, open
to rain upon them

they are unable to sleep
without touch
reaching in the
night and
morning

in passion there is no
before, no after
just a roiling sea
to carry them on waves up
the crest
then down,
land softly on the sand
to rest
briefly
in each other’s arms

*************************
It's spring although you wouldn't know it by the storm that blew through yesterday. Still, I am hopeful. Slivers of sunshine, new growth out back, the lilacs that have come and gone - each a reminder - pay attention they say.

Soon, I will sit still, let the sun warm me and write of all that is good.

Constantly Reflecting

I like the idea of combining natural images with human behavior. Humans are perplexing creatures prone to getting in their own way. Many of my poems offer a social commentary and certainly, some are autobiographical. I believe this one is a little of both. Hope you enjoy!

Redemption

the day her wings were clipped
balance evaporated
like dew on citrus
the waltz, impossible

when her wings were clipped
clouds enveloped the groves
encapsulated their oranges
hardening juice to wax

with clipped wings
she fell prey to raptors
hair wound by long talons
brittle skin at edges

clipped wings
sold at market
for soups and potions
remind her of fairy tales
a cottage of ginger
viewed upside down

her wings were clipped
on a full moon
watched with yellow eyes
tendrils for arms
sand for feet

shoulders once bare
sprout wisdom
grow plumes between blades
feathers along spine

she feels the weight of mistakes
unable to fly home