Interruption

at the mug steam table

words reveal the scratching rain 

an order laid in worn rhythm

by a heavy cramping pen

summer pages curling humid

steady yellow lamp glass humming haze 

all combined and singing quiet 

through the punctuated morning

which then through the pale blue window 

bursts by light and in midair disrobes

as though i needed a reminder

Astroscribe

my head won't rest 

on these venturing pillows

and my bed always boosts me

to the orbiting desk

propelled by the whir

of my cycling journal

observed by the lamplight

dustmotes arabesque

in my extravehicular hoodie 

i write

far too long 

into the night

and when morning brings 

the only starlight

i'm already burnt out 

but alright

Taking The Weekend and "The Artist's Way"

Hi Everybody,

I took the weekend off to work on a painting and to clear my head. It's been nice not feeling compelled to post a poem or a piece of writing every single night. I think I might consider taking weekends off moving forward.

The Artist's Way is a book by Julia Cameron that outlines a 12-week course for "blocked" artists, but it's useful for other things as well. I started the course (on my own) at the beginning of November and finished this past week, and I have a lot of thoughts I'll share here this coming week. While working through the book/course I wrote a lot in a notebook I kept specifically for something Julia Cameron calls "morning pages". For the last three months I've been getting up around 5am and writing. I've never written so much so consistently in my life, and while I can't say it's been life-changing, it's definitely affected changes in me mostly for the better.

So there's a kind of review of The Artist's Way, some art, and a bunch more poems coming up this week. I hope you find something to enjoy in all of it.

Be good to each other.

~Bacchus

Summer Rings

June nights to September afternoons

the leaves swaying clapping celebrating

a high cool breeze in the golden light

pour the wine and yes add ice if you wish

there is no judgment here of what

you bring to your lips mildly smiling

in that mesmeric way that leaves me staring

until compelled to kiss the cold corner of your mouth

tasting the mix of you and fermented grapes

the clink of the ice in the glass touching the table

where the beads of sweat form a ring unseen

as our attention takes us elsewhere

sometimes into the following dawn

Living Lie

when i see you facing truth

but hoping it’s a lie

i’m reminded of myself in shame

and wonder why we fear

that which should assure us

in favor of convenience

creatures fearful and temporary

too aware of our time

cloaked as it is in dreams

I Hope Love Echoes

when i’m down in the dirt

and don’t know a thing 

birds still will feed on the seed

in the green grass above me

and in the cosmos collapse

and rebound and expanse

in our duplicate world

will you love me

our lives are so small

i hope that you will

it’s all the purpose i see

that can fill me

among this throng

dandruff of a dead star

awash in gravitational waves

rippling over and over again

Against Me

adorn my lap with fiery red petals

emeralds amethysts precious metals

wreath my ears with exaltations

and assurances of devotion

in silence my insecurities make 

such ridiculous material demands

guards at the fragile fog gates of self

that i fan away in absurd anguish

i practice instead bowing to your truth

familiarizing your natural mysteries

the art of your linguistic essence

and emerge calm and whole in love

Roadside Rest Stop

shaking in the moonlit cold

again i’m a child in a woolen hat

the clouds are coming quickly 

the dark woods an anxious mirror

i imagine your flashlight an old lantern

swaying as you approach 

footsteps between the trees

crunching leaves and snow

small branches smack you cursing

passing headlights reveal 

a bleeding scratch on your cheek

i wipe with my thumb and kiss it

the car is warm and quiet

with your frigid hand 

on my leg as i steer

through a snowflake starfield home

When Beauty Dies

beauty reaches its greatest height

just before fading to darkness

savor that which you admire sighing day and night

shafts of setting sunlight make its ending gold

yes wisher grief is fearsome but never corrupting

raise no armies of heroes in fruitless defense

time sickens and winds everything down

let all that is lovely die peacefully and well 

make your words of remembrance shine like gems

sunlit droplets of rain on autumn flowers

Be With Those Who Like It Bright

light shines through the wicker

cast shadows flit and flicker

and hearing not to hide it so

i prop one side to let it show

you hiss out a shuddered breath

and it gutters through my prayer

as though my doubt upon your gasp

produced a draft of air

Mortal Clock

observed change

we call time

we call time out

to change between resets

adults watch whole cycles

come round again

standing beside nostalgia

reading patterns

guessing at trends

youth enclosed

eternities of time

in mere moments

the distance from death

less a ticking clock than

an infinite expanse

the terminal breath

a joke unless borne

by witness

Camping On The Breach

the dreamer must die 

or the dream must die 

but neither may die

the dream undying

the dreamer undead

neither can live

encamped

on the tenuous border

outside and within the rule

smoke over the chasm

my bloody fingers feed

a small fire pops alive

brush paper and canvas

there the dream undying

the dreamer dreaming

Breaking Camp

ragged weary soldiers wake

frost on the grass

fog in the forest

puffs of effort

wordless mouths

boots in the wet

making mud

an old tin kettle sits

in the last embers

Taking Some Time Away

 Hi All,

I'm going to step away from publishing here daily for a little while - maybe about a week or so - to get my head together. That's not to say that I won't post at all, but just that I'm going to ease up for a bit.

Today, depression hit me pretty hard. Hard enough that I started questioning why I was bothering to make art at all, and when it gets that deep, it's very bad.

So, I'll see you all on the other side.

Be good to each other.

~Bacchus

Alarms

Ever before a night owl – but as a dad, no longer able to sustain the night – I remade my circadian clock for poetry and art. I craved the quiet dark of morning and found the smallest nook of predawn. But in a house of teachers and school age children, even morning silence is brief, and frequently broken by alarms. An escalating synthesizer followed by a sleep-filled exasperated sigh, and the clatter of a hand finding a phone in the dark to press snooze. The staccato squawk of a clock radio and clack of another hand slapping it off. Alarms to wake, to wake again, to wake again and shower, to move from the steam filled bathroom to dress, to the kitchen for tea or coffee, or to leave in time to stop for the same. When the last alarm has ended, the last independent individual gone, and the house again settles; when there is only the sound of a pen on paper and the smell of the cup of coffee going cold, our youngest child calls out for his mom.

A Memory 1995

humid air and steady morning rain

that summer my parents

smoking in the quiet gloom

one yellow lamp reveals the haze

their silence punctuated by clicks

and the heavy humming computer

cards moving from pile to pile

rows in numbered order

my bedroom blue paint on flakeboard walls

hand-me-down desk beneath the pale window

pen scratching notebook pages

tea steam rising from the blue glass mug

the cassette plays again through headphones

a friend’s effort not quite worn through

a reminder of what words and music

and rhythm might do

humid air and steady morning rain

that summer my parents

smoking in the quiet gloom

one yellow lamp reveals the haze

A Poet's First Memory

ascending alphabet block steps

a raggedy Bert and a Play Doh Ernie 

all falling apart

under big colorful tree lights 

burning bulbs the shape of eggs

and my big brother nine years older

left trapped in the trailer in charge

said no he wouldn’t play with me

because i was too little and it was too boring

but i watched as he sat at the table

staring up through the trailer skylight

at the day after Christmas overcast sky

and my vision blurred and i hid my tears

i understood even then that would never change

and i mashed up the companion he’d made me

leaving the boring one alone

sitting atop that pile of letters

Summer Light and Winter Wine

it’s light in the house in summer

laundry breeze-blown on the lines

the light of winter low and cold

a snow hill’s harsh incline

the word summer is a lantern

a vegetable on the vine

winter’s word is hanging dead

but the sweeter grapes for wine