Tag Archives: poem-a-day

I’d Forgotten It’s Because It’s What I’m Supposed To Do: Revolutionary Blogging Free Verse Poem

It’s been so long
since I’ve done
what I should do,
daily,
that I’ve almost forgotten
how;
I’ve almost forgotten
why;
I’ve almost forgotten
who I am.

Because I became
because I did
what I was asked.
Because I struggled
even when the words
weren’t flowing.

Because often
the mere fact of
doing the thing
that you’ve been told to do
is what you need
to discover
and maintain
who you are.

So once again I launch
back into my Obama-era goal:
Write
and blog
a poem
or prose piece
each day.

The words may not be
insightful
or deep
or moving.
Or they might be.

Most importantly,
they will be
and are
who I am
and who I will be,
so as long as I write
and post
and am,
I exist
much more deeply
than I ever did before.

Maybe that’s why I feel
as though I’ve gone
into hiding.

Look out!

RE: Subject: Poetry — Where My Poetry Went: Revolutionary Email Response Haiku

A friend wrote the following email:
“I apologize for intruding in your e-mail/life but I MISS YOUR POETRY SO MUCH! What happened to your one-a-day poem goal? I still check your blog at least once a day. WHEN you post, my heart starts beating & I relish every word! Then there is the day after day after day of….nothing. I hope all is well with you and you are just busy.
~A starving, yearning, craving, longing, ravenous, eager, hopeful, languishing (you get the drift) poetry fan.”

In response, several thoughts came up. This is probably the most correct (and profound):

She asked where and why/
my poems vanished. She never/
grasped her muse power.

Keeping My Goal: Revolutionary Blogging Poem

Hands chilled,
I wait for the sun
to drift past
boats,
ducks,
docks,
riprap rocks,
to warm my keyboard.

As dawn comes
to a near-silent lake
(the 6:01 a.m. to Dallas flys overhead
and the first waterskiers jet out
to meet the waking,
wakeless lake),
I look at site stats.

No one viewed me today.
(She had a busy night.)
I catch up
on poetry written
but not blogged.
Yesterday’s busy sunshine
grew weeds,
lawn,
strawberry plants,
tomatoes to plant,
roses to water,
rhubarb to harvest,
and one,
lone
poem,
published a minute before
midnight.

My one-a-day
goal
remains intact,
not on purpose,
but just
in fact.

My hands remain numb
as I wait for the sun
to come.