It's that time of year, and DC is getting ready to celebrate the arts. I'm thrilled to be joining this event for the fourth go-around, sharing poetry with fellow riders of the streetcar. This is, literally, poetry in motion... or locomotion.
Thank you to the DC Commission on the Arts & Humanities for supporting local artists.
Cumbersome Summer
Japanese maple masquerades
as an ostrich, those leafy plumes
bushing out atop the slender leg
… we did a new planting, digging in
where the grass gave up and died
now the coral bells, astilbes, hostas
rabbits ravage, yet I’m rooting
for this garden to astonish
to come back with a vengeance
the bite taken out of her
to prosper as I hover over
this scrappy patch,
skimpy plumes pining for water,
upturned worm wriggling dirt’s desire,
a tiny Eden in the making
and here are two sling-back chairs,
one for you… be my companion,
like the ostrich too heavy-laden to fly.
~LCMH
Some say you can jinx a project with an announcement before it's a sure thing. I'm going to take a chance and give some credence to the work that's going on behind the scenes, a new book. The photo here hints at the title. Any guesses?
I'll sprinkle some other hints along the way, in future posts... a treasure hunt of sorts, until we're publication ready. This will be a full length collection. Thank you for being present as an imagined reader. You're in this project with me from the get-go.
Such strange synchronicity! Ten years ago, on August 4th,
I experienced sudden loss of hearing––a milestone that coincided with receiving
this issue of The Examined Life on the same date. My poem, “Wild
Goose Chase,” gives an idea of the hunt for treatment and relief for resounding
tinnitus (there isn’t, as yet, a cure). Maybe you, or someone you know, has this condition. Coping is a constant; and, for me, writing has
been revelatory. Sometimes you get knocked sideways to show up in a new way.
My youngest visitor, an aspiring poet...
Welcoming visitors, one and all...
Close of day in the Lost River Valley...
Art in the Valley
Mountains in bloom. Walking past
cow patties into the womb of art.
Into the womb of everything.
Into my senses—I hold this bowl you made
—I look at your face and hold this bowl
you made. Summertime mountains and forest
are holding me in a luscious embrace.
And the dogs understand…
sweltering songs, surrounded by visions
of imagination. The tools are not what they seem.
Ceramic pages—stiff, but not frozen.
We all stare. Awaiting the rain. Waiting.
People wait for trains. There are so many people
passing through who are just on a journey.
Life in the valley provides
people when you want them, solitude
when you need it most. Lush green rolling hills,
the beauty of the hollow. Who knew the music
and the rain both help us grow?
Worries melting away. Say! When will the muse
strike? Brought on by a light breeze…
rain shouldn’t feel so heavy, should it?
Disappointment, discouragement.
The rub. There are too many words, some lost,
some found. Aha! Tools bent to a new purpose.
We all need a poetry moment. Soothing souls.
What if we’re best together?
Brought together in a wooded paradise.
~ voices of poetry table visitors at Art on Cullers Run 2023
(assembled by Charise M. Hoge)
