Saturday, February 21, 2015


This is the first night I can remember there being a cloudless sky, everything baby blue except where the early twilight kisses the tips of cedar and evergreen trees, looking almost white around the outlines.  My dog is curled up asleep on the floor left of my foot, next to a Syracuse cap I sometimes wear when the sun streams through the tops of my windows, almost blinding me.

In a room only a few feet away someone is cooking dinner.  I can hear the clanking sounds and smell the scent of jasmine rice, and something like chicken has seeped beneath the door slit.

I'm one of the few who still buys cd’s.  I’m a relic, I know.  One of the new cd's that came in the mail had a stapled lyric sheet in it but even wearing readers I still couldn’t make out the faint, tiny print.  I really am a relic.
Sometimes I’m sad and I know why, and sometimes I’m sad and don’t know why.  The latter is always worst.

In case you were wondering, I’m not sad now, just in a wistful, contemplative mood, trying to land on something that will be the genesis of a poem or story.  Used to be I could never turn it off: everything—a line in a film or sentence in a book or lyric from a song, even a certain sound—would trigger a story.  Now I worry I might not ever have anything meaningful to write about again.

One of the first poems I ever wrote--for, and about a girlfriend--was this:

Lady By The Sea

Beauty had never done as much,
nor the sea in all its wonder,
but you,
walking barefoot and free

(Disclosure: I never witnessed her walking barefoot on the beach.)

I discovered she that was using birth control.  This was on our second date, so I realized she wasn’t necessary taking precautions for me and so I wrote this:

The Pill

Take a pill
and swallow it first,
then some water to quench your thirst.
Hop in bed,
your pleasure be.
No need to worry,
she’s pregnant-free.

(This one was meant as a bitter stab, but simply came out sounding juvenile.)

I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.

Sometimes a blog--for me anyway--is a lot like a diary.  At least it is tonight.

The sky had turned a deeper shade of blue, hinging on purple.

I’m going to go read now, hoping that will spur some inspiration.

I hope your Saturday night is one of the best of your life.

Another look at the sky and it has turned obsidian.

Sweet dreams.

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