I wrote a poem today, which is noteworthy ('s been awhile), so here it is:
The gulls have retaken the golf course.
Against the fairway—still verdant, just a hint of rust—
they convene, white as doves.
Above them, black geese depart in the distant V.
The gulls bunch together—audience, tribe,
a town meeting, with something to decide.
I started writing poetry when I was 11. These things just surge up from some muse-mediated place, and I transcribe them—that's what it feels like. I decided today that this blog would be a good vehicle for the poetry that languishes unread on my hard drive. Here's hoping it doesn't scare people away [insert nervous laughter...poets are anxious beings.]
This is the year of the slippery catalogs. Somehow, the mailing lists have found us in droves...every day, our mailbox is stuffed fuller than a butterball. I weed out the overly outdoorsy, old-lady, or sporty ones, but somehow I feel compelled to flip through the others, even though I've no intention of purchasing their goods!! I guess I never let go of the years when a magazine felt like an extravagance (I made a cool $8000 a year in my first job). So free reading with colorful pics seems like a good deal, somewhere deep in my psyche. Ultimately, though, reading through them dulls the senses—they make everyday life even more banal, like looking through a window where nothing ever happens.