Category: photography

Shells

Despite getting over this flu’s fever—and managing to stay awake all day!—crazy periods of dizziness keep washing over me like waves. This makes discovering yet another poem almost more problematic than letting a raging fever power Creation’s bark toward shore.

The Final Week of this 100-poem marathon would seem to demand a kick, but marathoners know kicks can’t usually be summoned after all that. Gutting it to the line and over remains a worthy goal. Perhaps a joyous sprint of several paces? It will have to do.

Ocean Isle Beach. November 2007.
every beach day I turned over
rocks, peered into tidal pools,
walked wet sands while my head
defined my body's right angle.
shells, creatures, treasure—call them
by their true name: hopes. I planned
no plans, no marine aquarium, no
extensively labeled collection.
"to espy" my only goal, one not easily
satisfied. three score, more, yet still
my mind scours its sands searching
for treasures. when one's former
brilliance dims, when nothing 
can be espied, nothing plucked
even momentarily, no triumph
exclaimed—this little death brings
disproportionate chill. Would 
to have not known this stage
when audiences depart quietly,
embarrassed for the actor who
cannot seem to remember his lines.

94/100
100 poems in 100 days

Daymare

Does one wonder in hidden moonlight, drowned
by noonday sun, if lunacy seeps even now into
cracks, pores, follicles, corners of eyes? Surely
this maelstromic soup, part mother, part father,
part those who piled invectives during years 
best forgotten, cannot have coalesced entirely
without simmering by some stronger force?

93/100
100 poems in 100 days
[how weird! WordPress refused to add the tag “nurture”…and only that one…]

Moth on mistflower

Yes, I know, I keep going on about mistflowers. They’re just so amazing. They show up for free. They’re native. Pollinators like them. They sow seeds everywhere because the seeds are small, lightweight, carry well in soft breezes. I’ve yet to put together the panel I took, and I’m too tired right now to do more than publish this barely-needed-editing photo I took this morning.

Unidentified moth on a blue mistflower smorgasbord. The moth is about 1.25 inches long. September 2026.

The Brain Returns

After 90 minutes at the computer, first time in days, I ached all over. Anti-inflammatory to the rescue! I realized a short time later that I had been awake the entire afternoon, that I had a small something that could be called appetite, and that I had the energy to go cook a very simple meal (my wife is marching behind me on this Road of Sickness).

Not me. Just the way I felt. April 1973.
What's this?
Is that my brain?
No! Really?
Consciousness, creative thought?
For more than one hour?
Oh, happy day!
Now listen up, Body:
You're lagging behind.
Yes, I actually stayed awake
through this afternoon—good start—
but you've got a long way to go.
I need appetite, normal temps,
and speaking of normal, 
let's start sleeping at regular bedtimes.
I'm tired of getting up at four a.m.
Okay?

90/100
100 poems in 100 days

The Flu

I didn’t think I would be posting a poem today. I woke at 4 a.m. because I turned out the lights to sleep around 7:15 p.m. I’ve been spending much of my time asleep these past three days. When I woke today my temp registered 102.4 in its continual upward climb. For a guy who normally registers 97.8, it was just too high. Couldn’t stay awake, but after another couple hours of sleep, I booked an early appointment at the UNC Urgent Care. In just over an hour I confirmed that I have the flu (A) despite testing negative for it on Thursday morning. Apparently the fever broke because they didn’t even get 100 until I made them do it again: 100.2 degrees Fahrenheit. Forcing myself to eat some toast, I napped yet again, but woke feeling a little more normal. That short period of lucidity produced the poem. Having napped again(!), I now feel I’m slipping downhill, but at least I know there’s nothing for it but to drink ridiculous amounts of water, sleep, and wait it out.

Anise hyssop with what I believe is a hornet. I’m too whacked to look it up. August 2026.
Why is it called
"The Flu"? From where 
did it fly? To where
could it be going? 
Certainly not far. 
Like guests who say, 
"I must be leaving," 
only to do anything but, 
this unwanted visitor
refuses to leave or 
to let us get on with
our lives. Sure, there's
some scientific mumbo-
jumbo about 'influenza'
but if your nickname's 
The Flu that's enough 
certitude for me. Long 
ago I had The Flu. 
One night I thought I might
be dying, so scoured by
its fevers. This time I 
half wished for that kind
of fever to carry me away, 
to wherever it flies. Now
boarding Airline Flu!

88/100
100 poems in 100 days

Fall

Goldenrod. September 2026.
Fall jammed its foot
in our weather's door
today. Summer will
make peace with it
three days from now,
but we'll all be uneasy.
Perhaps Summer might
assert itself? Take over
October's start? Push
those eighties at us?
"Eighty is the new Ninety."
But Fall's persistent.
It knows its time has
come. One, two weeks,
no big deal. It can wait.
Regardless, trees will
shower leaves now, birds
will pack their bags, our
storms will turn cold.
How can sixty-some feel balmy,
nice, when Spring reminds
Winter it's time to leave? How?
Remember that while you're
resurfacing sweaters, wool,
long sleeves, rain gear, while
readying fireplaces, heaters,
thermostat settings, while
finding those recipes for
soup, stew, hearty breads.
While dreaming about when
these temps will be welcome.

85/100
100 poems in 100 days

Boundaries

Nebraska. July 2020.
W   I   D   E      O   P   E   N      S   P   A   C   E   S
pull wandering eyes to possibilities
more expansive, more accepting
of greater distances, as if taking
your car to the next town over
were no different than running
downtown for your errands.

Islands—physical, urban, mental—
inhibit, implode possibilities, put
'too far' signs on near horizons,
as if traveling to city's center 
might entice disastrous demons
to steal rational thought from 
your well-balanced senses.

"Why would you want to see
Pittsburgh?" asked my friend,
lifelong Philadelphian—
"Because I've never seen it,"
my response—"I've never seen
it either!"—he claimed fifty years.

Her father-in-law's village 
nestled near Windermere
in England's Lake District.
He complained he hadn't
seen his best friend in years.
"But why?" she asked, "he
only lives one village
over."—"It's too far."—
"It's only five miles away!"

High school athletes from
Havre, Montana; Colville,
Washington; Priest River,
Idaho; any small, one-school-
fits-all center for everything
educational, all claim one
commonality: their parents
think of distance in units of
time not distance, add one
dose of necessity to the mix,
stir, and pour their lives into
driving, driving, driving—
etching mental maps on 
synapses stretched to "yes"

84/100
100 poems in 100 days

Found poem #2

It’s time to find a poem again! Yay! Today’s paradigm will be…what I found over the past 50 hours.

Rest assured, poor little doggie! When she dresses you in pajamas, she prepares you for all of Life’s ludicrous realities!
pills once taken for entertainment
now do anything but, maintaining 
dubious adherence to general 
opinion. schedules provide 
meaningless information to
entice us with false surety.
familiarity with annoying
situations eases moving
through them, no one's idea
of good design. security doors 
which open for everyone.
here mister tee-ess-eh? will
you pass this through your
magic gate? how does he know
it won't explode? not planning
for Game Day in your bar
most assuredly epitomizes 
poor planning, understaffing,
my lovely barmaid. silent 
Uber drivers receiving their
instructions in Chinese,
afraid to make eye contact.
beautiful golf courses, those
green monuments to money,
grass, dominating nature.
never in one dozen years
has any hotel thermostat
delivered any temperature
near its displayed number.

until you knot your necktie
around your head like poetry's
morning Rambo to avenge this
collection of glib promises,
lame excuses, forms without
function, lies of omission.

"Reality, I'm coming...for...you!"

83/100
100 poems in 100 days

Family

I attended a memorial today for my first cousin, once removed, my mother’s cousin who showed at the funerals of both my parents. How could I not fly across the country to mark his passing?

family asserts, sending roots
which become us, their shoots:

defiant, ambivalent, loving,
we only succeed in proving

our roots run deeper. They belie
that upon which we say we rely.

Rare friend indeed who commands
instant connection, instant demands

upon our heart. Relatives though
take love for granted, seem to know

our innermost secrets, history:
this connection remains our mystery.

82/100
100 poems in 100 days