Sunday, November 15

I spoke with Naomi Ayala over dinner. She shared her history with me, and she probably understood that I needed inspiration, someone else's story of teaching and writing and working, someone who is still taking on big things. I opened up, maybe too quickly, about where I'm at with my writing, and she sensed that I was ready for something.

So I dug in, it seemed like a good place to start, to all the old pieces of paper and notebooks.

I took a class on form and at the time I hated it. But, like most things that require focus, skill and willpower, I appreciate it afterward. Looking back on these poems written in forms I can't even tell that I wrote them, they mostly aren't about me, only words that came out of me.

We stood apart between white lines
and held a rock to see the time
we swam with our clothes on, dripping wet
That's the first time our soggy hair met.

(iambic pentameter)

Memory Ghosts

Somehow it happened that we picked 8 apples
some were for cooking
some were for giving.
Sometimes when you speed you get pulled over
somehow he forgave us, and let us get back on the road.
Some time after I came home to tell my children, that
somehow I saw two ghosts at the end of the hallway, and
somehow I knew they were having a good day,
sometimes you don't need to ask.


1 comment:

Silvia said...

I like these very much.