Reading, Writing, & Arithmetic Club

Starbucks buzzes loud, In coffee cups, flowers bloom— Secret gardens hide.

Here's something from a famous playwright and poet: "Heaven finds means to kill your joys with love".  What do you make of that?

 Don't Ask Estimated loving memories come hard on the heels of blindness and Rococo furniture. Wait, I have more to say, but where is Leonard Cohen when I need him? Probably in Mexico with Lefty and What's-His- Name riding bareback with sunburns on 50% of his body and saddle burns on most of the rest. Seems like he was a heavy guy even though he had two children by one different woman. That's what she wrote this morning on a postcard from snowy Nevada with a picture of a red sky, along with goodbye, while I was flying paper airplanes of 50 peso bills in the cantinas of love where the sun never sets on the card table with several mangoes and an onion. What is wrong with him?, she asked someone I don't know. He's an incurable dreamer with a sunny prognosis and a death sentence, the only true answer. I've been from Guadalajara to Merida, Sisal to Progreso, baked by the sun everywhere in Mexico. When I was able to open my eyes the dermatologist stalking me said I wa

You used to laugh  with abandon With me Around me  Throw your head back Mouth open Hazel green eyes  closed I don’t experience  that Anymore I have to believe You still do But I am no longer In the privileged circle The pictures I have Of your laugh Of your beautiful Beautiful smile Hurt me MVP

 

 Naïveté Your writing naive poetry, she said, I think, or maybe you're naive to think you're writing poetry at all, or you're naive to think that what you write is poetry. What poetry is, you're not writing I think she critiqued finally. Precious little encouragement there except she did use the word poetry. But of course poetry cannot be naive naive poetry is the mother of all oxymorons just ask whoever said that poetry is the metaphoric spark one step ahead of any decoding mechanism. Writing poetry then is discovering metaphors that can't be decoded? Metaphorically speaking Navajo? Whatever the hell it is, it awakens me to scribble fragmented strings of letters born of turbulent convoluted dreams that in the light of day may be Navajo but may not be naive.

 

New PC. Need Vista? Oh-kaaaay. Windows 10?  Maybe you’d be interested in Windows 7, Oh- Windows Express Gawd, that was a mess. Maybe you’d be interested in an 8 track while you’re at it. And make sure this model has a drive for a floppy disk. I know you still have a drawer full. The sales clerk nobly doing a verbal dance trying to not use the word “obsolete” like I did.  Me? I’ll be where you told me to go. “Somewhere where they have flowers.” Well, no.  Best Buy doesn’t have flowers.  Text me when your done.  I’ll be at Starbucks.  MVP

I sat on the bank of the Middle Fork,   My line cast in the shimmering pool,  Like hopes thrown casually into the future.  I thought about how truth, slippery and elusive,  Was a lot like the trout I never caught.  I could bait my whole life with what I thought was honesty, Only to reel in the most unexpected things— Old boots, tangled sticks, climate change denialism, or sometimes,  Just the sun glinting off the water, mocking my expectations.  "Truth is stranger than fishin'," I said aloud,  Watching a dragonfly skip across the ripples,  Its wings touching lightly on the surface,  As if testing the reality of water itself,  Daring to dance on the face of the deep.

 They're here, and because it's National Poetry Month...... Gangster Hummingbirds I came home with a hummingbird feeder from the hardware store this Easter Sunday filled it with-faux nectar sugar water and hung it out at 6:50 PM at 7:08 I welcomed my first visitor a drab Anna's hummingbird tiny, wet, disheveled in the gloaming looking like a homeless child at bedtime gladly accepting the sweet liquid alms then a swaying perch in the maple tree sitting for a full ten minutes or more shaking off the rain and waiting.  For what? Pondering this wonderful mystery of hummingbirds filled my heart with delight. Monday the little orphan Anna's was gone the hummingbird mafia had arrived. Two gangster Rufus hummingbirds appeared in shining camel coats and scarlet scarves. Thought I saw polished shoes and toothpicks too as they drove the little Anna's away. Seems that when it comes to orphans everywhere Mother Nature is a cold-hearted bitch giving no protection to those in need

Did you know that it's National Poetry Month?  Just sayin' guys.

 She Might Smile but expectations are nothing more than fantasies with pretend outcomes and certain disappointment how many tagged along I can't know each a ragtag string of events how many trailing joy how many dragging sorrow perhaps she knows now she can expect to be things she couldn't be with me even happy for a while

 I have already read this book, however, I am excited to share it - "Educated" by Tara Westover (2018): A memoir detailing Westover's experience growing up in a survivalist Mormon family and her eventual pursuit of higher education, showcasing themes of self-discovery and breaking free from societal constraints. Or - a book that has sparked my interest but I have not read, and cannot vouch for, "Trout Fishing in America" by Richard Brautigan: A surreal and poetic novel that defies traditional narrative structure, offering a series of vignettes exploring the absurdity of modern life and the search for authenticity. Does one tickle the fancy more than the other for any of you? 

Chains of routine bind, Dreams of wild, open skies call, Soul yearns to break free.

River winds its course, Life's push and pull shape its path, Flowing to the sea.

 I don't know when the group will be gathering to discuss the latest read, but I didn't want to miss this boat, this time. I did my bestest to not include any spoilers, too, for those who have not finished . . although I suspect I am the last. "Go as a River" resonated deeply with me on many levels. From the very beginning, I found myself completely engaged in the story, drawn into the lives of the characters and the challenges they faced. The author's portrayal of family dynamics, particularly those navigating the delicate balance between independence and interdependence, felt authentic. As well as the story of struggle, survival and resilience.  One aspect I appreciated was how the book didn't shy away from the complexities of relationships. It showcased the highs and lows, the joys and sorrows, all with a sense of honesty that I found refreshing. The good, the bad and the ugly. "Go as a River" reminded me of the importance of resilience and adapta

Like a precious stone that is cut to reflect the most light, I believe each person has as many facets. I focused on the facet of my soul, for the most part.  This list could go on and on - as I explore other facets.  Nevertheless, there is a part of me that is less interested in a self-evaluation and more interested in how I am perceived by others.  Do others perceive me as kind?  LOL, I forgot to add the word "Direct" because I know my directness has been interpreted to be mean-spirited.  Is my gullibility, or dyslexia perceived as stupidness? Is my self-confidence perceived as pretentiousness?  Is my even-keel self perceived as heartless-ness? There are as many descriptions of me as there are people who have encountered me.  Every person out there has a word cloud for every person their mind has perceived, even in the periphery. It is endless.    

 I'm reading Brian Eno's diary, which is just a day by day journal of one year in his life. In it somewhere he lists his idea of some of the things he is, in the form of I am... and then each of the things he considers himself to be are either a or an.  So "I am creative" wouldn't work, but "I am a music producer" would.  I quickly closed the book before I read his list and began writing my own, which I may or may not share here.  But I wanted you guys to think about creating your own list and think about sharing it here.  Maybe I'm an optimist to think you might be interested in doing so, but really it might be fun. There might even be some overlap! And don't worry, it seems only two other people would be reading your list.

Old man in the dark, Rain whispers of lost loves past, Tears blend with the storm.

  You all make this world more fun!

Watch out, it's after midnight, the bottle's empty I've killed it, every drop.  But I've got a couple of thoughts left. Decisions, Decisions Someone's god appeared and said  you've been a bad boy  I tried to tell the truth when I could precisely, said the little god as for punishment you have two choices we tie you on an ant hill or tie you in front of the big screen TV at Les Schwab's with non-stop Fox News day after day mmmm.......... give me the ants I said with great relief. lol!

Dear Witty Wordsmiths and Literary Lumineers, Greetings from the abyss of my literary confusion! As I sit here, surrounded by the remnants of my deciphering of the latest mushroom manifesto, I find myself in a state of profound bewilderment. Alas, I must confess that I missed our last gathering where, rumor has it, fungi took center stage in our cerebral circus. As I reflect on the pages of the elusive mushroom tome, I am struck with the realization that I am now adrift in a sea of unread books, desperately in need of a literary lifeboat. It appears that my compass is malfunctioning, and I've been left to navigate the treacherous waters of the unknown without a single clue. A tragic tale, indeed! Now, my dear Bookish Bohemians, I implore your benevolent souls to extend a literary lifeline. What are we reading next? I fear I've become the unwitting protagonist in my very own novel of confusion, and I'm in dire need of a plot twist to set me back on course. In conclusion, my

 Lance and Michelle have mentioned ghosts in this blog.  Here's a ghost story, sort of. Orono Maple There's a maple in the backyard in Orono where my 7-year-old sometimes sits, head down hugging her knees, raining bitter tears on gnarled roots. In the spring I drilled a hole in the trunk of that old tree even went to the trouble to say I was sorry but I didn't stop the bleeding, instead I rejoiced in the slowly filling buckets of clear sweet sparkling sap born of rain and tears boiled on the wood stove to a frothing golden syrup the whole house warmed and sweetened. The tree didn't seem to be unhappy then but it's summer now and I'm not so sure as rain hisses through the big green leaves near the open window where I sleep. Is this a warning or just a haunting refrain meant for sleeping ghosts in the old house? Flailing branches pound on the screen, are they lashing out at me in anger? Could be, still I love that ancient maple in Maine watered by my young daughte

I'm not sure what this is. It started as a dream, I think. I wrote some words down about the feeling I had, about the character that appeared. I thought it might be a song, but no. It's just this: She wakes up at three AM, and blinks to clear her head There is no sound, the house is still and dark Silent, decisive foot steps - in seconds she's at the door Grabs her keys, her bag, doesn't bother to make the bed She hesitates on the back porch and looks out at the night Though shaking, she knows, she must, she has to go Lets the door close behind her, then she gets into her car And in a moment, the road ahead is an unknown life When there's nothing left to do, and no one left to blame Hard times are harder, when ya gotta make a change When there's just the sound of blue, you move to a whole new game. 'Cause no one ever remains the same. As she drives she thinks the way it was, for years she just made do Empty men, empty jobs, endless bottles of booze Can't