Saturday, March 16, 2019

The Owl Isn't There

Image of the day:  Upon pulling up my blinds in my kitchen window, a barred owl sitting in the Asian Dogwood tree, not five feet away, turned its brown head and looked at me.

This wasn't todays image, though, it was last Saturday, but that was so awesome to see that owl and to just stare at each other for a few minutes.  I called my family over and they got to see it to.  The owl could hear us talking--it turned its head as each of us said something and looked at us.  Now, every morning, I'm disappointed because the owl isn't there.

I have a poem up at Mom Egg Review as part of their Mythology Vox Folio.  I'm super excited--this poem is from a series I wrote in February during a Poem A Day thingy.  I was writing poems with the title "Origin Story."  I'm hopeful that more of them will find their way to being published as well.  And now, I'm gearing up for April's Poem a Day, too.  April being National Poetry Month usually brings a lot of chances to find prompts and groups to write with.

There are so many poetry books that I want to read.  It's funny how sometimes, I can't find anything that interests me, and then suddenly, there are way too many books to possibly read.  Looking forward to Ada Limon's The Carrying, Martha Silano's Gravity Assist, and Jennifer Richter's Threshold, which has been out for awhile, but I haven't got it yet.  Soon.

Fascinating, the Parts of Us

that attain immortality before we do,
as if we'd sculpted ourselves into skyline
against the first gasp of night. I want to steal
the hair of everyone I've ever loved, shave it
right onto the pillow from their unsuspecting sleep
and carry it to the top floor of my obsession.
I have trouble letting go, it's true. In an elevator, I'm
the last to push my floor, and I drink five bottles of water
at a time, scattered all over the house, afraid that if I finish
them, I'll die. Same with books. Lately I've been
reading about President Antonio López de Santa Anna,
who ordered a full military burial for his
amputated leg. He dug it up
to transport from one home to another,
paraded it in an ornate, royal coach.
I dream of sparrows lifting the ten pounds
I lost last spring to the sun, pinking the edges of the city
with what I used to be. Body that I can barely keep up with,
you owe me nothing, not even your parts. Yet, I'm so hungry
for the vanishing lamps of your intelligence
I could eat my own tail,
could pull my own lightning from the sky.

XVI Fall 2018
From Poetry Daily

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