#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream

Golden Beach

i.

A frowsy blaze of forsythia

scrawled alephs of aflame,

hint of a hatchway torched open,

a fiery blink each spring

once stone is rolled

from the entrance to

winter’s tomb. . .

Excerpt from “Meditations on Yellow,” Steven Riel

Steven Riel reading at Lily Poetry Salon

It was still dark when I woke and so I opened my computer and fussed with my newsletter essay, polishing, and then hit send.( If you aren’t on my monthly newsletter mailing list, you can read today’s newsletter essay here.) I took a pre-walk soon after. Since I planned to walk at 8:30 with a friend, I decided to go out alone first with Charlie and Suzi into the fresh morning to take my pictures. Most of the time, it’s useless for me to take good photos with anyone walking with me. I feel rushed and unable to be in the focused, internal place of deep observation and appreciation and curiosity that I can easily drop into when I am alone in a landscape. The trees are still talking – shouting even, they are glorious in the morning light on the river’s edge. I walk to the railroad tracks, a bit beyond, I climb the steep hill and then return, just in time to meet my friend, and begin a much longer walk, and then we are lost in conversation of close friendship, talking over all the intimacies our hearts have been holding onto since we last saw each other. Inside, I had a productive day in the quiet house. Tonight, I had the pleasure of going to the Lily Poetry Salon in Needham, curated by my Monday night workshop friend, Eileen Cleary, to hear my friend Steven Riel read his poems in the warm circle of our host’s inviting living room, with poets from in and around Boston – funny, smart, thoughtful, beautifully crafted poems. I miss writing with Steven; he used to be in the Monday night workshop, and we’d ride home together late at night after the workshop, downloading, venting, supporting, inspiring each other. After he read, we went around the circle, each reading one of our own. I hadn’t realized we’d have this chance, and brought nothing. But I found copies of two recent poems I’d submitted on my phone. One safe one. One risky one. As my turn approached, I had to make the choice.I chose the risky one. Why not? It’s called “rain to not run out.” It begins like this. . .

From dry dreams

July dawns

parched stems

of my sentences

branches of moonless

fraught-blossomed, sun

seared in this wither

of menopause. . .