Friday, August 26, 2011

Weekly Worded

















The Writing Coach

    “Nietzsche thought God's boredom after the seventh day of creation would be a great subject to write about.  Give that a try.’”
    “That’s plagiarism.”
    “Nietzsche is dead, he won’t mind.”
    “But the subject is sacrilegious.”
    “God won’t mind.”
    “Why not?”
    “According to Nietzsche, he’s dead too.”
    “Probably bored to death.”
    “There you go, an excellent place to start.”
    “What else is there to say?”
    “What, for instance, did God do to relieve his boredom?”
    “Apparently nothing, if he’s dead.”
    “Okay, forget that I said he’s dead.”
    “You said Nietzsche said he’s dead.”
    “Okay, forget that Nietzsche said he’s dead.”
    “Is Nietzsche really dead?”
    “Good God, yes, not a word since the year 1900.”
    “It could be a case of writer’s block.”
    “Excellent, another subject to break your dry spell.  Try that one.”
    “A writer with writer’s block writing about writer’s block?”
    “What’s wrong with that?”
    “Anything I wrote would be proof that I don’t have writer’s block.”
    “You’re killing me with these excuses.”
    “At least you’re not bored.”

Friday, August 19, 2011

Weekly Worded

















Postscript With Full Moon Rising

In the wet mud
near the mailbox
raccoon tracks,
so precise
I trace the signature
of five splayed toes
as if they were the inked
footprints at the bottom
of my own birth certificate.
We must be kin
nocturnally checking for mail,
dressed in warm fur,
wearing a mask.
Opening latches,
turning knobs,
civilized marauders
taking our time
with strangers.
We are just getting
to know each other.
The frogs, I love them too,
though differently.
At night their croaking
crescendos with the moon
rising, and what I take
from this moment
of crouching over tracks
is a natural curiosity.

Friday, August 12, 2011

Weekly Worded


Painted Desert By Numbers

Before sunrise
it’s thirty-six degrees.

Before sunset
it’s ninety-eight.

Between the two
it’s summer fall winter spring

all in one day,
but who can say which.

Friday, August 5, 2011

Weekly Worded

















Testament of the West

Noah stood on the porch,
watched the bar ditch
fill with water.  Thunderheads
boiled and the rain fell.
The fields around him absorbed
all they could, culverts couldn’t
take any more, but Noah stood
by the house he built, two bedrooms
and two baths.

He installed a basement
sump pump and gutters
along the eaves, but the bar ditch
was an old testament
to poor planning.  He opened
his second beer as the lawn
succumbed to the gush
of muddy water. 
God’s bounty must be endured.