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?