Under The Jacaranda Tree
Here is Where I Put Stuff To Share
Death Teaches Us to Live, Now.
The PHs, EEs and Their World
Vocabulary Quiz

I have a confession to make. I am most familiar with poetry in the form of musical lyrics. As far back as I remember, I have been writing poetry as it seemed to be the way my mind could unburden the mysteries of my life and my struggle to understand me. I used it to explain me to me. That doesn't mean that I ever really connected too much with anyone else's poetry. With a couple of exceptions, I never read poetry unless it was absolutely unavoidable like, "The Village Smithy" by Longfellow which was a memorization assignment in Jr High. If I heard poetry it was by accident. The work of Robert Frost was often quoted by Kennedy. Along with most other Americans in 1961, I watched when the 85 year old Frost recited "The Gift Outright" from memory because the words to the poem that had actualy written for the inauguration were unreadable in the cold winter's glare. Or more recently, when Maya Angelou read, "On the Pulse of the Morning" for President Clinton's innaguration.  This last year,  I discovered quite accidentally, that I am in love with the work of Sarah Kay. If you haven't seen her performance on TED, please use this link.

I find a reason to tell someone one about Sarah and listen again to her 2011 TED talk from time to time. Every time I watch I feel re-inspired. My definition of good poetry is something that inspires us. Sarah gives good poetry.

Recently, I was watching a movie and was reminded of a poem that I never really thought of as a poem. I learned it as pretty young boy and have carried it with me all my life without actually thinking about it specifically or directly butl letting it guide me. Please click here and take a moment to really hear the profound words of Tecumseh, the great Shawnee Chief.

So my poetry begins with an image in my head - a word or two but associated to something deeper in the shadows of my mind? soul? psyche? I don't know but I feel it there like an itch that must be scratched. When I write those few words in my image the others follow at different speeds. All of these randomized wordy images invade me from time to time. I enjoy ignoring the rules, any sense of dignity and letting these words find their own connections. Doing it here is easier that really publishing the poetry.  Putting them here also has the added advantage of potentially be more fulfilling and humiliating than they would be left on my computer for my heirs and forensics experts to find at the scene of the crime..

Well here goes: 

Jacaranda  Colors  Early Morning 
Firelight  Holding You Kiss Dream Love  
Leave Me My Tongue Lovely Women Walking 
Cheap Ass Scotch Not All Songs Molten Regret
Old Jude's Face Painting In My Sleep The Chipmunks Murder 
Try Not To Be Timid Walking Girl Big Red and Shiney 
Choices Invaded Morning or Night 
Step Closer to the Fire A New Friend's Wedding Old Dog Down 
The Us I Want Hard To See Tomorrow Life is but a day 
Tomorrows In Yesterday Synchronized Breathing  Skivvies
 Dinner Party for One Tuesday 
Walking Girl Redeaux Dancing on the Phone TMIRE 
The Only Way  A Hard Rain Memory Southern California Rain 

New poems this week:

My Child

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