The trees and hills are at that awkward point
of winter, snow on the ground but nowhere else,
a bald guy with new implants too spread-out
to be attractive. I can’t wait until it all melts.
I had a dream once of climbing a hill like that.
I stubbed my toe, looked down to see bright pink
instead of white—blood mixed with snow—I think
that’s why hills look like heads to me still. What
dream book should I consult for giant head
with tender scalp and kicked-up bleeding crown?
I was part of a dream journaling experiment back then
and had a wicked crush on the therapist who led
the group. He had snake dreams. We all said
a snake means sex. He said no, not always. It doesn’t.
At 22, I was a nearly-manic mix of depressed
and horny and drank too much one time and tried to find
his house. I knew it was by a lake. If I found
his house, he didn’t answer the door. Which is good.
That night felt like a dream, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t.
Posted in Anxiety/Depression/Yuck, Carbondale, Dream Songs, Drinking, Poetry, Poetry journal, Searching, Southern Illinois, Uncategorized
Tagged dream, dream journal, dream song, Dream Songs, dreams, fat sonnet, poetry, sonnet
I almost never want to leave the street
where my dream is taking place, but things
move fast so I can’t linger. The other night
I was in Butte (I think) and everything
was Irish, St. Patrick this and Brigid that,
mint green signs and throbbing drums and drunk guys
and a sense that things were turning dangerous
and I was walking, not driving, down a very narrow street.
That’s it. That was the end. I wasn’t afraid.
A man I know who lost a tooth in Butte
(for real) has cancer. I dreamed about him last night.
A gallery show, collages of himself, most naked,
which he called “The Ravager_________.” Next to the cheese tray,
he was selling tiny brown cloverleafs he’d crocheted.
Posted in Bloem or Pog, Car Sonnets, Color of the Month, Creativity, Dream Songs, Mindful Driving, Montana, Places, Poetry, Poetry journal, Uncategorized
Tagged Butte, dreams, dreamscape, poems, poetry, sonnet, sonnets
My family said I’d lost about two months
when I called to say I’d popped back up in time.
They were, in my opinion, a little too calm
about my reappearance. In their defense,
they’d gotten several calls from other mes
from other times. I hadn’t made it home
to them on any of those other times.
I set out, offering up a tiny “please.”
I can’t stop seeing my original descent,
a fall, as from a plane, no chute, convinced
I was about to die. Somehow I didn’t.
Wind held me up. Or magnets. Or just friction.
In any case, the grass I landed on
was softer than I can describe. Softer than
My cat, Callie, wondering if I’m going to kick her off the back porch, out of the dirty clothes. Not yet.
I love sleeping. I love dreaming. I love my dreamscapes. I love writing sonnets. I love Berryman’s dream songs. So–let’s see how many of these I can write? And how long will it take Callie to sleep so I can take a second picture, illustrating sleep?
Posted in Dream Songs, Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged dream, dream song, Dream Songs, dreams, dreamsongs, poem, poetry, sleep, sonnet
What if the Little Drummer Boy grew up
to be Big Drummer Man, a butcher perhaps,
with skins aplenty to manhandle across the tops
of barrels and pots and one precious little cup
that someone drank some special wine out of,
(Jesus maybe, yes, that’s who it was),
so that all along the Via Dolorosa,
every single, sorrowful step, there rose a
tattoo (the skin kind is the second definition,
thank you very much), a pummeled out
percussion code, spelling with every beat
not “inadequacy,” but “indignation,
causing Mary to nod to the beat and from
up high the grown-up baby smiled at him?
I know the little drummer boy did his thing in Bethlehem, not Jerusalem, but hear me out–any kid who plays a drum for a baby isn’t going to just GO AWAY, especially not after mother and child both encouraged him. I figure he stuck around and made a nuisance of himself, kept in touch, essentially stalked the holy family, drumming the whole time, and I picture them feeling about him the way I feel about the song–partly charmed, partly annoyed.
Not happy yet with the title. I considered these:
OK WHAT WISE GUY PUT A CROWN OF THORNS IN THE MANGER
WE CAN’T HELP SEEING A CROWN OF THORNS IN THE MANGER
ON THE HEAD OF THE BABY IN THE MANGER LIES A CROWN OF THORNS
HEY DRUMMER BOY I CAN SEE YOUR HOUSE FROM HERE
CHRISTMAS IS SALT, EASTER IS PEPPER
New snow and hoar frost and every cliché
about crystals and diamonds and stars—
my commute the other morning was bright
while my mood was altogether grim, standard
mid-semester stew of “I am so far behind”
with big chunks of “I live in squalor” and
an extra soupçon of regret. Remonstrance
aplenty as I set out for work and yet
those damn sparkles everywhere,
especially on the red blackberry canes,
and I won’t say the grimness diminished,
but I played like each spot of silver
shining in the morning sun was one more thing
I needed to do that wasn’t yet done
and honestly I’ve never felt more alive.
The snow, thankfully, is mostly gone. But the bottles in my garden are glowing.
Posted in Anxiety/Depression/Yuck, Authenticity, Burnout, Car Sonnets, Mindful Driving, mindfulness, Poetry, Poetry journal, Searching, Spring Green, Uncategorized
Tagged commuting, poetry, snow, to do list
Attention, please–both from and to the very best
of audiences any company could ever hope
to play to, so we hear–that cellophane
you’re crinkling deci-bells itself far, far beyond
your little ears–and also, when the music starts,
post-intermission but before the actors
reappear, that’s not your cue to talk
a little louder–no, it means shut up.
What’s more–I could go on. I won’t. It’s just–
we’re so lucky that it feels routine.
Each night they crank up the volcano, test
the atom bomb, make love from paper, walk
a cobweb tightrope, grow trees from lowly beans….
We’re privy to it all, all summer, face to face.
There is more than routine magic in this place.
American Players Theatre on a moony night.
This is the last weekend for up-the-hill shows at American Players Theatre and for most of the shows in the Touchstone Theater. A Doll’s House, Part 2 begins later this month and runs through the middle of November–I’m super excited to see it.
It was a fantastic season and I’m so happy it’s not quite done.
The first bit of that very nonce-y sonnet up there–that’s me being crabby. I’m more and more comfortable being crabby. And then the sestet–that’s me being appreciative. Which I’m also more and more comfortable being.
So lucky to live down the road from this routinely magical spot.
Posted in American Players Theatre, Authenticity, Bloem or Pog, Hot Take Poem, On Wisconsin, Poetry, Poetry journal, Spring Green, Uncategorized
Tagged American Players Theatre, poetry, sonnet