The Huntress

Written 12/2/2018

She blinks casually as if she is solely something to be loved and not feared.
She twists her head around—again, ever-so casually—
Taking in her environment,
Making note of the obstacles and interesting movements around her.
That twinkle in her eye tells me she is alert and waiting,
Ready at exactly the right moment to swiftly swat her paw and snap her jaw,
Claws and teeth extended for the kill.

Thankfully, her prey is an inanimate object;
Otherwise, its heart would be pounding loud enough for her to hear each terrified pulse,
Knowing its life is ending very soon.
In reality it is a set of feathers attached to a string and stick.
The yellow, red, and orange colors glide through the air as I tempt the huntress with its nonchalant, bouncing flight.
I am more than ready to counteract her strike to make the game difficult enough to still be fun.
But I have to say that even in my observation and anticipation
She wins every time, even if it takes an extra pounce or two.

She wiggles her rear and leaps full speed toward the toy birdie,
Chasing after it for a whole second and a half before pretending to devour it,
Using her mouth and all four legs as she lies on her back, fluffy underside facing the ceiling.
Then, as quickly as it happened,
She declares this play session over,
Indicating this to me by aggressively grooming her coat.

Just a moment later,
She looks deep into my soul with that killer twinkle in her eye,
And her gaze softens.
She blinks casually,
Lays her chin down on the soft mattress,
And closes her eyes as she flips her head upside down.

I reach out and lovingly rub her neck, thinking:
Thank goodness I’m not a bird.

[A Poetic Title]

Written 4/16/2012, revised 8/29/2018 

Poetic writing is rhythm.
It is symbolic words and phrases,
A portrayal of what’s inside;
When my innards are metaphorically devised
In an inarticulate mastery of communicating
What it means
To feel, to believe, and to connect deeply with others.
It syntactically rearranges lines and words
To meddle with what feelings are mine,
In a moment.

Poetic writing displays our thoughts
And points of view
Through a picture of the curved “c,” looped “a,” crossed “t”
That appear in “cat.”
Imagery crawling up the pillars of the page and
Intertwining itself in the margins.
Little black words standing next to that bold red line
Between the horizontally-stacked blue
On a loose-leaf sheet of paper.

Poetic writing is an art with a certain rhythmic flow
And a certain structure,
That loans itself to the overall meaning.

Poetic writing is the
Ambiguous,
In-depth,
Endless
Analysis of a piece-by-piece work
That combines its different intentions
Through a network of techniques.

In essence, poetic writing is a way in which emotions are
Translated onto a page

(Rather than just saying it efficiently).

And doesn’t that just reflect the often-ignored-but-intensely-present complexities in a world that could—
If we all worked together—
Be so simple.

A Faded Fear Invading

Written 3/24/2011, revised 8/28/2018

When the fire ignites,
The night illuminates with an enraged body of heat.
And though it’s light like day,
The dark has left its mark.

I wonder to myself:
“Has the dark gone?
Or has the light come?”
Then,
“Has the cold faded?
Or has the warm invaded?”
Maybe it doesn’t really matter.

And then, when the coals are due,
The fire can be made anew,
With bold, thick logs added on later.
Yet, the darkness still surrounds.
The cycle goes round and round.
The fire destroys and annoys,
Painfully piercing the dark’s hold.
Through it all, there is a comfort in the fear.

A Sanity in a World Insane

Written in 2010, published in 2011 (in The Teacher's Selection Anthology of Poetry)

A chord on paper, emotions are heard.
The chime carries out
Through movies, in songs.
The music makes noise, emotions.
A lament of lost love or an exciting love found,
Either politics or just for the sound,
Music plays.
A universal talent, a story unleashed.
For every country, town, or man,
The music plays on.
A horn, a flute, a drum, a chant,
Notes are weaved into rhythms;
Rhythms that set the cold heart running.
Passion in love, in hatred is cunning
To the ear and to the brain.
Every moment, every day.
Guitar strings plucked, piano pedals pressed,
A voice in calm surrender to the waves of the treble clef.
Keys clicking, and slides slurring, valves unendingly stick.
Seventy-six trombones accompanied by the sheet with the bass clef tick,
The music always is playing.
In Morocco, in India, and even Taiwan,
The music plays on.
In a world of robotic thoughts, music composes new ideas, original feelings, and a joy so sweet that even Beethoven must have heard it:
Music: A Sanity in a World Insane.

Introduction to My Poetry Blog

I used to write for fun. My mind ran wild with creative ideas as I scrambled to capture them just right on a piece of paper. Then I would move on from that idea onto another just-as-scrambled thought process. I loved flowery language that was barely too complicated to make sense, though at the time I had a clear idea of what was vaguely meant by writing it down.

I haven't been in that state of mind for a long time. I still have rapid sensations of [something deeply important] that I spend all my time trying to capture, save, and analyze before the next quick idea reaches me. As I develop, though, I move ever so slightly toward wanting to refine and edit around the core values leading me to a particular thought. That's precisely what I decided to do here--take old poems and edit them so they reveal the wisdom I have accrued since the last time I visited that idea. You will see poems with up to a decade of focused research building upon that first thought. Perhaps you will see some new ones too. We'll see how creative I get...

Just remember: I still have decades left to go.