Lifeblood by Rote

1.

Three blue-distant hummocks mark southeast
If you stand atop the neighborhood
Imagining a compass rose
Limned in ink against the sky.

Hung below their bellies is a dark,
Horned buttress, clearer in its nearness.
The closer hill looks clean against
The wildness of its far-off brother,

Hunkered like a preacher with
A prophet weeping at his back.

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In Your Eyes

Photo by John Palmer Gregg

I have searched for poetry in every corner of the light.
I have searched it out in the shadows of evening
and in the silver reflections of moonlight.
I have orchestrated and waited for its’ arrival
Often sitting for hours, by candlelight,
Waiting for poetry to grace me with its’ voice.

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Knox Writes

Photo from Pixabay

The preferred meeting space for our writer’s group was not available last Saturday night, so we moved Knox Writes to Panera in Fountain City. I texted Adam when I found out about the change of venue on Thursday. “Are you actually going to darken the door of a Panera?” I teased him. “What’s happening with the world?”

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Too Ill to Title

Picture by Leonid Mamchenkov, Creative Commons License

Lord, I’ve been in 100% cotton pajama

Pants and shoddy emotions for three days.

My temperature sky-rocketed. My bed-sheets

Soaked salty around my lower-back and

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Peace

Like a river rushing furiously forth
Chasing the scarlet leaf that has just turned loose from its love
I chase you, my love.

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The Subtle Extravagance of Nature

I was woefully unprepared to become a father. The youngest of four boys, nurturing didn’t come natural to me. My daughter’s entrance into the world five years ago was dramatic and powerfully enduring. She was a fussy baby. My wife and I were always jealous of parents who could leave their child in the car seat for hours on end. Our nightly routine included three hours of bouncing and singing in a tireless rotation until the crescendo of crying finally dropped off and we all fell in the bed exhausted.  Everyday we’d try new methods of soothing our little one, but nothing seemed to work consistently. As I became less embarrassed about my lack of parenting skills and my daughter’s screaming, I began to strap her in the baby carrier and stroll to a park in the neighborhood, baby sirens blaring. It was then that I noticed a pattern. Almost always, soon after we stepped outside, the crying would stop.

She was mesmerized.

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