April 10th, 2016

Three years ago it was thundering
like today
growling across the
grey, balding dome

We eat Frangelica monkey bread
forks sticky instead of fingers

and find warmth
in an embrace
that opens and closes this story
beside the aching spring clouds

April 9th, 2016

Let this be a lost day

the kind where coffee 

is hot, black, and unlimited

strap on some roller skates

and sweat until we forget words

and the complicated layers

of our misbegotten thirties

April 7th, 2016

This day
We spent in hospital waiting rooms
no longer sterile white, or 90s pastels
but filled with landscape art
with textured seating
and warm wood-grain frames
we waited in the cafeteria
and took breaks
huddled for warmth in the truck bed
Just like the other families
whose names were called alongside

April 6th, 2016

Fingers like trees, with rings

new, green, young in the wind

mirrored on each side

One for a wedding

from a wife 

for a wife

One for the heart

from a red head

We start fresh each year

like bulbs

Recommitting to the bloom

April 8th, 2016

I will lead you through the forest
but we will get lost
because there are few things
I need as intensely
as the pungent smell
of a shedding cedar
to dangle my toes over the shadows
of water striders
cast against the rocky creek bottom
to work my way down root framed stairs
and wind through deer trails
without regard for
time or space or others

April 5th, 2016

It's easy to find poetry
In the pocked Capen bluffs

Or the swarm of carp
Bright beneath the gentle
Lapping waves of a waiting pond

Or the relentless flood
Of an April Missouri

It's an escape that gets me
Through to tomorrow

April 4th, 2016

The crux of aquamarine
And mud is simply the
Place where spring meets
River after an Easter rain
Even the fish shiver in
The biting spring winds

April 3rd, 2016

When I'm gone cold, someday,
Plant me beneath a forest.
Give me this last wish-
To feed the roots, to
Soften the steps of fresh
Fawns, to lay beneath
An ancient canopy's shade.
So i can finally find my way home.

April 2nd, 2016

Sometimes you
Just need to embrace
The metal tree with
Sculpted metal shelf
Mushrooms and soak
In the sun-drenched
West side, lean in to
Hear the wind reverberate
Down the metal trunk.

April 1st, 2016

On an April morning
The chickens puffer out
Like bobble heads with
Scaley legs- the cats curl
Into a sister moon
On the bathroom vent-
And Melissa is smiling
In her sleep, blanket
Pulled up to her chin

a poem and thoughts on another National Poetry Month...

On the Gasconade in March

bring to me
these things
in beauty;

first season’s
rain-paced
current,

crooked bluffs
weeping in
the mist,

an egret
with coal-
tipped wings,

a puddle
of wood
ducklings,

cigar smoke
thick and
low hung,

a standing
salute
from cows,

a canoe
on the
river.


Musings on another National Poetry Month

So it comes, every year. Every year, I'm ecstatic and try to push out all the poems from my body. I have since come to the conclusion that this is too painful and the cost for the amount of wine required is astronomical. Instead of setting unrealistic creating goals, I'm going to reframe this cantankerous beast. What is it about? How does it impact me? Why do I want to take time to revere my favorite of favorites?

It's time to explore not produce; but producing is cool too. Basically, awesome. Ok. So whatever. Something zen, okay? Ok. Roll with it.

Maybe there is nothing profound to say.


General Musings about whatever the fuck

• In the past several months, a few friends and I have started work-shoping together. I think it's just what the doctor ordered. Anyways, more on this later.
• I've been thinking a lot about spoken word. I wrote like a 5 page essay about how much I hate spoken word but I think it's a little too harsh. There is a good chance I won't be sharing it because I think I tend to lean towards critical rather than recognizing the importance of emotional resonance. Listen, there is even some spoken work I like. Not much. It's rare. I did spoken word a few times! It was terrible. Instead of giving you all my long-winded, judgmental rants about the subject, let me leave it at this.
• Oh, I wrote 3/4ths of a villanelle and decided there is a better chance of the world ending due to excessive monkey farts than there is of me finishing it. Sorry, villanelle Masters. It ain't my thing. It's feels like stabbing myself in the eyes with number two pencils. Elizabeth Bishop, I bow to you (always).
• Spring is here, in Missouri. Oh pollen, oh the humanity!