I’m the kind of person who would rather know than wonder — to find out. As I’ve often said, “You won’t know if you don’t go.” That being said I always have more enthusiasm when signing up for writing conferences, workshops and classes than I do in the day(s) leading up to them. Stubbornly I drag myself to them with a new notebook, caffeine, open ears and soak up. You see I have a battery that for years I wasn’t aware of and for it I need to keep going…
Yesterday I was reminded that “You don’t know what you don’t know”, “You’ll absorb things will come back to you when you need them”, “Have fun and be honest”, “Retain subsidiary rights”, “Eighty percent of published material doesn’t earn out”, “In poetry the writer gets to chose the right margin
(aka. The Line)”
and possibly most important, “Don’t be afraid to fail.”
Staring into the future as if to see something misunderstood, possibly hope – probably not. The resting baby on her shoulder waits, her two boys still wait.
“Nothing changes through the one-way window. Growing stubble, anchored tight crows feet guarding steel blue eyes, his sun baked skin doesn’t even sweat” was scribbled on the old police report, now exposed for granddaughters not met to read.
The assumed word Monster now appears on his face above Husband, Dad and Grandpa.
I always learn something when I cross my favorite bridge, this time it was for a “Faces” writing workshop taught by Matt Love September 16th 2017.
Tired eyes awaken anyway to stare
through coffee steam Blended lines
turned by the sun overlap as if stickers on an edgy club wall
Torn stubs fall
from an overbooked calendar pausing
to be glanced at like posters once stapled to a pole
Sore feet crush grass burnt brown and bleached
Fresh wrinkles appear like scars
on a machine built for speed— traded for a moment
waiting to be reflected on and laced into history
Energy spent, bartered and consumed
in the season of the sun Leave one Summer’d
Some holidays feel like tombstones on the calendar
These days smell like dusty dishes, broken flowers and tired pictures
Flashbacks seem bright – some not
Numbers that don’t count
Food not cooked
Time for a New Tradition