Sunday, March 20, 2022

 

It’s Sunday night. First day of official Spring. It’s been a busy day, yet I haven’t left my house. Overcast chilly day, but on yesterday’s walk there were daffodil buds. Spent a lovely hour or so today on a zoom session with David Whyte doing one of his Sunday series. If you’re not familiar with his work, check it out. He’s an Anglo-Irish poet whose philosophy is based upon “the controversial nature of reality.” Let your mind wrap around that one for awhile.

Meanwhile, my 94 year old brother is still in hospital with a foot infection and still mysterious other symptoms. My daughter has been with him every day trying to coordinate his care and although he has dementia (like our mother) he recognizes and responds to her. It’s been difficult from my perspective to not be there to help. He is thirteen years older and was my hero as I grew up in a difficult family situation. Yet I feel I cannot put myself into a hospital environment at my definitely “over 65” age due to COVID or I’d be there with him.

On another note: I am so pleased that my new book of poems has just been released. I like the way it turned out. It is available on Amazon and directly through the publisher, Nighthawk Press, Taos, NM. Or directly from me, of course—just request it here, leave your email & I’ll send you the details. I will share with you here, the first poem in the book that overall, is about time, love, loss—usual suspects seen through my eyes and pen. For those those of you who know me, you know I tend to always have some sort of camera in my hands—indeed since 4th grade—with my Brownie Hawkeye. Now it’s mostly my iPhone camera, so handy, and I still love and use my ‘real’ cameras. There are a scattering of photos in the book. Wish I still had that Hawkeye, though. 

Let me hear from you. I want to know you’re out there! Stay well…


My Hands

hold a camera
observe    pull back
lens between me and the world
drama or   drown in a river
of craving or elation 

required & unrequited loves
nearly visible stretch of future
so carelessly consumed

when storms come
I’ll pack my bag    return
when the sun comes out again
wind stops   safety overrated

I want the susurration & power
a force greater than me
a constant rhythm that follows

breath    heartbeat    nights awake
or soothed in a cradle
endlessly rocking
as the old poet said
a long time ago

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