I like to write poetry to squeeze new meanings out of old words that might speak with my voice.
I like to read poetry because much has been said but little said well; still, I am surprised by how much seems to have been well-said.
Every time the sun sets and long blue shadows layer the draws in Powder River Basin, I foolishly believe that it must be the first time anyone has witnessed the event – subjectivism in the extreme. I don’t write about it; I write about the reasons I don’t write about it.
I have a fondness for form, sometimes. I am suspicious of free verse. I am suspicious of the strictures of form, sometimes, and yearn to be unencumbered.
I like syllogisms.
I write every day. This is not self-discipline any more than inordinate thirst unstoppers a flask.
Sonnet for GGM
We were reading about Solitude
of the century variety.
We should have known about decrepitude,
and about time’s impiety.
For in eternity, a hundred years
isn’t longer than a single day,
and almost capacious for our fears.
We were distracted, while he slipped away.
Our solitude has suddenly turned chill.
Still gypsies come to tease our disbelief
and tell us that it’s best to fill
a void with laughter rather than with grief;
harness up the time, both soon and late,
and for a Hundred Years to celebrate.