What?!?! Have I totally lost the plot, you're thinking, right? One might well wonder lately if we've all lost the plot. Tempestuous times. Wacky ways; weird days. Too much vitriolic verbosity. Too little tolerance. Too little curiosity... Beware the tox- ic rumor mill, which sits unground, on dusty sill. The lines above come from a reflection on toxicity and tolerance and combinatorial ...
Midlife Poems
Wonder
Do you ever stop to wonder why the green ink spilling from your fountain pen in paisleys and undulating hills doesn't seep through the paper like water following hidden seams in the earth, seeping into the streams and rivers then emptying into the ocean? Some questions breed questions, not answers. Or at least that's been my experience. It likely explains my perennially perplexed ...
Carpe Mediae Aetatis
Carpe mediae aetatis? What?!?! Think, "carpe diem". Now think, "midlife". Put it together, and the closest literal translation I've come up with is "carpe mediae aetatis". I like this better... Carpe midlife! It has a nice ring to it, don't you think? Carpe midlife. Carpe mediae aetatis. Carpe Diem + Midlife = Carpe Midlife I'm pretty sure my middle school Latin (and even the able wizardry ...
Caveat
Sometimes the only way to figure out what something is is by affirming what it is not. Not the most elegant process, but it gets the job done. Usually. (Source: Pocket Rocket | Midlife Inside Out) Four and a half years ago I posted an excerpt from a draft poem I was then calling "This is Not". No pimped out pocket rocket. No selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, erectile dysfunction ...
Publication Time
My weird-wacky-wonderful manuscript is no longer a manuscript. A far-flung and diverse mix of beta testers have generously offered me "barometer reads", and I’ve wrapped up revisions. A deft designer has alchemized the bits and pieces into a tidy book. And shortly the whole adventure will be pressed into paper. It's publication time. At last it's time to send this wayward child out into the ...
Freestyle
When song turned to dance thirty years ago my rustic, unplugged, and MTV-free childhood rendered me self-conscious, tense, and generally joyless. This is a self effacing glimpse into a self effacing riff on whistling and dancing. The poem is still rough, but it's coming closer to a reflection on letting go and loosening up. A lyric look at wooing whimsy. The snapshot above is totally ...