tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38185312011-07-07T16:37:50.798-05:00Tom GeddieTom Geddie is a poet, music journalist, essayist, and creative writing teacher with a multi-award winning background in corporate and not-for-profit communiction. He lives in Van Zandt County in northeast Texas. Email Tom at geddiependrift@aol.com.Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comBlogger941100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-18214188618394027572010-01-26T13:55:00.001-06:002010-01-26T13:57:21.634-06:00Dreaming With BeautyThe first morning of the zero years began, for me, driving back to Dallas from San Antonio where I spent New Year’s Eve 1999 at the funky old Cibolo Creek Country Club listening to the music and some of the hopes of Terri Hendrix, Ray Wylie Hubbard, Lloyd Maines, and friends. A bagpiper in full regalia took the stage to summon the decade with his squalling, somehow still Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-77911823679037703022010-01-26T13:52:00.000-06:002010-01-26T13:55:24.151-06:00Hudnall Planetarium, Tyler Texas21 November 2009I’ve beento Venusand to MarsI knowseveral of the starsI’ve beeneast of Jupiter,and I’ve seen Fateon two fists,I count the people I hatethe spoon feeds methe moon touches methe loon sings for me –its song all night longwilling souls to the heavensReality intrudes. Venus is a small town south of Dallas. Mars was an even smaller town between Ben Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-72948593904608109032009-09-03T22:13:00.000-05:002009-09-03T22:15:27.264-05:00Human progress remains a struggle despite our tired, stumbling trot along the rutted road just out of reach of the torchbearers who would bludgeon us, would pull us to the ground and drag us backward in the darkness.We are still on the early edge of human possibilities, like we are still in the Big Bang.The September issue of Scientific American deals with origins of all sorts, telling us that Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-69510166729386366522009-08-06T21:36:00.000-05:002009-08-06T21:38:03.043-05:00CONTENT WARNING: If you are easily offended by political or cultural opinions other than your own, please do not read this eletter.I Will Worry, I Suppose, But I Will Not Hate Nor Will I FearAugust 2009 email newsletter, Vol. 2, #006I will not live in a shroud of fear. I will not wander in a cold night fog of rumors. I will live with some sort of hope. And trust.Today, I photographed the dried Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-44402775035216930032009-07-05T14:05:00.001-05:002009-07-05T14:07:19.984-05:00Patience, Rhetoric, and Common RealitiesJuly 2009 email newsletter, Vol. 2, #005The night fell like freedom on the oppression of the day’s heat. After spending much of the day shooting photographs at an Independence Day celebration in tiny Ben Wheeler, Texas, I got home and finished reading a novel, Gregory Maguire’s “Son of a Witch,” that is the sequel to his “Wicked,” the real story of the Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-28895408950315777372009-06-03T20:03:00.001-05:002009-06-03T20:04:49.021-05:00An Unfortunate MythContemplate the unfortunate myth of common knowledge in a world that may, indeed, too often seem culturally vapid but is not as common as we too often believe it to be.Sandra Day O’Connor, surely a wise old woman, once said, and is recently and often quoted as saying, that a wise old man and a wise old woman would come up with the same solution. That simplistic statement, Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-70268084944197719132009-05-28T19:48:00.002-05:002009-05-28T19:50:29.982-05:00What We Do To Each Other And OurselvesConsider, for a moment, what we do to each other. And to ourselves. Consider what we could do for each other. And for ourselves. For several days, I planned to write about mentoring but the thoughts never came together well enough. Never felt more than ordinary. We (all of us) have the opportunity, though, to share. That’s a better word than mentor, I believeTomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-10543487112387331682009-05-28T19:44:00.004-05:002009-05-28T19:48:12.105-05:00Souls, the Edge of Madness, and WritingI dialed a phone number last week and, when a lady answered, said, “I’m looking for Mercy.” A week ago, I sent a Facebook message that began, “Thank You, Jesus.” Both statements, if I had a sense of humor anymore, would have seriously tickled me. I did, in fact, laugh, alone at home, several times about each statement because both were just Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-55096384636729491062009-05-28T19:44:00.001-05:002009-05-28T19:44:44.290-05:00the bluster of winter windthe blusterof winter windbefore the edge of springbarely stirs the surfaceof stagnant green waterthick with the sludge of clichéd excuseswhere evil comes from(“Some said the original evil was the vacuum caused by the Fairy Queen Lurline leaving us alone here,” from Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, by Gregory Maguire)belief, like brittle leavesTomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-54524195106833806222009-05-28T19:41:00.001-05:002009-05-28T19:42:44.772-05:00Joy in Tonight’s SunsetI see joy in tonight’s sunset, which looks like fire low and long across the horizon after an odd day of human contact. It’s time for a sleepless night or for dreams. Nearby, the Neches, which bubbles up out of earth a mile or two from here, barely flows. Some people call it the last wild river in Texas; it moves slowly through trees and tangled brush where the snakes lie. Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-47078620769512867492009-05-28T19:39:00.001-05:002009-05-28T19:41:23.747-05:00Diamonds and DistanceThe bell tolls for joy. Once, twice, three times. More. Slow peals that resonate over and over as we pause in our daily routines to listen. To realize. There are many kinds of joy. One of the greatest joys should be, but never is, a simple one: finding someone to talk comfortably with. It’s rare. Not daily chatter, but trusts shared with enough ease to walk in shadows as wellTomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-29025126466461749092009-05-28T19:36:00.001-05:002009-05-28T19:38:59.212-05:00THREE DREAMS IN MY NEW HOMEThe magic castle morphed. Instead of living in what looked like a 30-footlong, 240-square-foot trailer as I thought I did for the past four years, I now live in a simple-seeming, 500-square-foot house that’s just big enough for my needs.There’s hot water for showers and dishes. There’s a washer and a dryer for clothes. There’s a fairly big, covered front porch with two Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-62440972308447570932009-05-28T19:32:00.001-05:002009-05-28T19:36:26.246-05:00HOW TO EXPLAIN AMERICAHow would I explain today’s America and the world to a bright, doubly sheltered young woman? She’s 19, with a shy smile and a sly sense of humor. With her fairly long, fairly angular body she evokes, just a bit, a Calder mobile only prettier and infinitely more interesting. She seems to be a really fine, conscientious person, but doubly sheltered: raised in Northeast Texas, Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-21408980405111256802008-10-02T13:15:00.002-05:002008-10-02T13:18:02.253-05:00Angels of Life & Death & Lunch & DinnerIt is cool enough this morning that I put on a long-sleeved T-shirt and a dark plaid flannel shirt over that. Some of the flowers I recently planted near the edge of the forest bloom red and yellow; no doubt they will grow strong to add even more quiet joy next year.I am restless. I seek to define the single or primary unifying idea for these little essays (Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-70174417033525034042008-08-31T15:11:00.001-05:002008-08-31T15:13:55.638-05:00Covenants and FlowersMid-morning on a late-summer day. Not too hot yet. Before lunch, I walk down to the former brier patch to admire my earlier 10 days of work swinging a machete and collecting and burning the tangled cortex of stems and thorns to make a shaded clearing at the forest’s edge. I feel good about the clearing, and I don’t really mind the tiny shoots of new briers already popping up;Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-11633111386038500632008-08-04T15:56:00.002-05:002008-08-04T15:58:45.600-05:00Battling the Brier PatchA purging, of sorts. Or perhaps just a simple cleansing. Or an even simpler effort to sweat and build physical muscle while I let my mind wander. During the past week or so, I spent about 10 late-July, early-August afternoon hours swinging a long-handled weed chopper and a machete along the edge of the magical ancient forest, then collecting and burning the tangled cortex Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-12111538859666098312008-07-03T15:00:00.000-05:002008-07-03T15:01:39.991-05:00Ten Thoughts Original and NotJuly 2008 email newsletter, No. 0511. In a yoga studio, two women sit on mats and look at the burly, scarred, tattooed, bald man in prison stripes. Sitting on an adjacent mat, he has a mean, sullen look on his face. One of the women turns to the other and whispers, “He teaches pre-meditation.” That’s from the Mother Goose & Grimm comic strip.2. Empty premises. The Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-23592162522240000762008-06-02T18:27:00.000-05:002008-06-02T18:28:56.874-05:00Bluebirds, Snakes, and WondersOne late afternoon in May, I watched two tiny bluebirds defend their nests (and lives) from a four-foot-long rat snake, repeatedly swooping down and pecking at the black serpent and flying away before it could react. When, finally, I stepped in with a long-handled shovel, I sided with the songbirds.--------------------I love that girl.(couple of lines of electric Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-64859785562916619222008-05-01T12:04:00.001-05:002008-05-01T12:12:01.948-05:00Age & Dreams & MusicWhat a pleasant surprise it is every couple of years or so to open a package from a music publicist, and to find a new Adam Carroll CD inside. I knew Adam had been working on a CD, but its unexpected arrival brightened my day because I like him, I like his music, and I like reminders of young people becoming adults despite, or perhaps because of, the weight of that awful Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-84043404552387430512008-03-30T12:26:00.000-05:002008-03-30T12:27:00.127-05:00A few steam of consciousness ramblings, hot air rising in the dampness under an overcast sky in this dreary part of East Texas. . .Another birthday. Who would have thought it?I very much miss touching my muses, who I seldom if ever see in the flesh. I very much miss wandering through their minds and souls. A couple of weeks ago as I watched a music legend perform the same show I’d seen Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-87781567634942288492008-03-02T19:31:00.000-06:002008-03-02T19:32:14.202-06:00Of Coyotes & Dogs, Teachers & Students, Youth & AgeSince the dam broke on New Year’s Day, the lake near where I find myself staying has mostly turned to mud, and is turning to dirt. Last night, twice, with their prey dwindling, I heard the coyotes closer to the house than ever before, yipping and yapping and baying in the dark. In the yard at the edge of the woods, the two sweet dogs, Ginger and Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-33205585110885789732008-02-02T21:15:00.000-06:002008-02-02T21:20:40.720-06:00DRIVING MYSELF CRAZY AND OTHER NOTESMy car was in the shop for much of January. Driving to the recycling center on a very cold morning on 28 December, the heater hose blew. Heat damaged the engine, which the mechanic farmed out to a subcontractor to fix. Day after day, the subcontractor promised to fix it the next day; eventually, when the engine finally was fixed, the mechanic fired the Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-27041213461011656962008-01-01T09:01:00.000-06:002008-01-01T09:03:39.942-06:00My hands are rough, now, calloused from clearing brush, brambles, and thorny young trees along a road toward the future, however distant that place may be. Small punctures and scrapes dot the backs of my hands like bloody freckles, and a raw, red scratch along the inside of my left arm is nearly three inches long. When I flex my forearms, I see the muscles. Not huge muscles like a weightlifter’s,Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-19687801759321676622007-12-11T21:37:00.000-06:002007-12-11T21:39:33.942-06:00COME WITH MEAt 5:30 p.m., a wet fog already settled on the land. The sky was gone; trees in pastures began to seem skeletal. Everything but the two-lane blacktop was gray as I listened to a Norah Jones CD.She sang “The water pulls so strong / no one is around / and the moon is looking down.”She sang, “Rosie, come with me / close your eyes and dream.”I saw a darker gray shape in the ditch, and it Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-83513376838236039832007-12-03T08:25:00.000-06:002007-12-03T08:28:49.050-06:00WHAT ARE FRIENDSHIPS FOR?December 2007 email newsletter, No. 044My dad thought he heard music, from time to time, coming from far away. He is deaf enough that, even with his hearing aid, we sometimes have to say things twice or three times for him to understand. He’s been a country musician since fairly early childhood, so that’s a double shame. Even a damn shame.The music he heard was, indeed, Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-58327721927026522922007-11-03T15:44:00.000-05:002007-11-03T15:53:41.012-05:00PROVIDENCE AND THE BUDDHANovember 2007 email newsletter, No. 043In October, someone called me a "Buddha-like figure in East Texas." And an eight-year-old girl asked me to read her short story, and a 10-year-old girl recited a poem to me and told me the things she can't do. I told her I liked the poem, and that she shouldn't say she can't do this or can't do that, but that she should say, "I want Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-56180074832679231242007-10-02T18:28:00.000-05:002007-10-02T18:31:57.113-05:00WHAT ROILS AROUND US SOMETIMES UNNOTICEDOctober 2007 email newsletter, No. 042What roils around us sometimes unnoticed as we go about our daily lives, we sometimes notice if we are lucky. I went to photograph a country fair about 30 miles to the northeast in Jessica Alba. Well, the tiny town is named Alba, but I can’t help thinking of the hot, young “Dark Angel” actress who has emerged into Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-48611233861120199272007-09-01T18:34:00.000-05:002007-09-01T18:39:54.749-05:00BANNED AND CHALLENGED BOOKS THREATEN OUR FREEDOMA while back, The Tonight Show featured a guest showing off dangerous animals. The last one he brought onto the stage and let out of its box was a cottonmouth snake, which struck nastily at everything that moved. Seeing the cottonmouth on national TV got to me just a little because they also exist down around the lake near the place I stay.The Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-37544856802449760972007-08-02T13:24:00.000-05:002007-08-02T13:26:04.163-05:00CHASING DREAMS ON THE WAY TO THE CROSSROADSThree thoughts, taken to some sort of conclusion:1. I have yet to write the great world novel. Not the great American novel, but one that all of the world’s people read and love and, more important, think about and are moved to all sorts of rational actions. I have written a lot of poetry in recent years. A couple of weeks ago, I taught a “Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-79832192282648534692007-07-03T09:16:00.000-05:002007-07-03T09:18:50.435-05:00STAGES: PAST, PRESENT, FUTURE; ADAPTATIONNearly every evening forever, it seems, thunder comes from the east as the sun sets. The thunder comes closer and closer and, after dark, rain falls. If it doesn’t rain during the evening, it rains during the day. Dealing with the leak in my dining room window has become a sort of game, an engineering project with tinfoil and tape to channel rainwater intoTomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-62606984461924005712007-06-02T20:54:00.000-05:002007-06-02T20:59:21.299-05:00Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-91255075046927206592007-06-02T20:36:00.000-05:002007-06-02T20:41:43.499-05:00AWAKE AT 4 A.M., LISTENING TO MUSICWide awake at 4 a.m. Touch the music like a lover, slowly moving your hands. Feel the eager, clinging, hot-blooded, wandering embrace that the music returns in the pre-dawn chill of the spring morning with countless starry points above in the dark, thick night.Soon, the beginnings of another East Texas symphony will come from the silence that lasted two or threeTomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-8283541159052845012007-05-01T12:16:00.000-05:002007-05-01T12:20:41.397-05:00STYX, THE SKY, AND THE GODDESSThe welcome scent of honeysuckle came to me one recent late afternoon as I sat on the front step petting Ginger and an unusually subdued Jazz. Earlier in the day, I discovered that I live about 40 miles from Styx, which is the boundary between Earth and the Underworld.It's also the leftovers of a small community near the south central border of Kaufman County.Last Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-86404268430151407592007-03-27T14:46:00.000-05:002007-03-27T14:49:47.513-05:00FIVE POEMSSince April is National Poetry Month, here are five poems from my in-progress chapbook, Babylon in Flight.BABYLONI feelthe tides within mepull toward mysteries.I seeangels drownin the river as they flockto drink from holy grails,taste the metal on their lipsamidst the rustle of wings.I hearcircus soundsjust over the razor edgeof the distant horizon,sunset a long, low orange.I seeghosts Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-62082563753528598142007-03-02T08:36:00.000-06:002007-03-02T08:42:11.728-06:00SANITY, STONES OF MEMORIES,Molly Ivins once said on National Public Radio that she believed more Americans think Elvis is alive than understand the theory of relativity. It didn't bother her. "It's fun to live in a country with some peculiar people," she said. "How boring it would be if everybody was quite sane."I believe I understand -- but haven't articulated -- why New Orleans still matters inTomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-19122641972059162322007-01-31T15:39:00.000-06:002007-01-31T15:46:02.345-06:00LOVE AND MASKS AND GHOSTSFor about five minutes early on the afternoon of Jan. 10, I suddenly felt the best I've felt in years -- unexpected and almost euphoric. Now that I've got that out of the way, I want to write a few words about love and masks.Last year, I spent my birthday with the works of some writers I like. This year, when it comes around at the end of March, I'm going to spend it withTomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-28276023744172844572006-12-31T16:01:00.000-06:002006-12-31T16:04:07.412-06:00FROM “BABYLON,” A WORK IN PROGRESSI feelthe tides within mepull toward the mysteries.I seeangels drownin the river as they flockto drink from the Holy Grail,taste the metal on their lipsamidst the rustle of wings.I hearcircus soundsjust over the razor edgeof the distant horizon,sunset a long, low orange.I seeghosts dance aloneon their own tombstones,crumbled in the weeds.I seecivilization’s Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1164899236850289232006-11-30T09:04:00.000-06:002006-12-31T16:07:22.197-06:00FLASHLIGHTSThe little girl just sat down and whimpered.One of the best groups of acoustic singer-songwriters to ever gather in Van Zandt County, I have no doubt, was in the greenhouse at Rancho Frijole just outside Wills Point. Jay Johnson. Michael O’Neal. Annie Benjamin. Several more. It was really a fine show although I didn’t stay until the end.Because it was cool outside, and was going to be Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1162408502214826072006-11-01T13:12:00.000-06:002006-11-01T13:15:02.236-06:00LIFE & MUSESNo. 030Driving home in the rain from making a (too-small) deposit at the bank one morning, I saw a young woman standing on the side of a farm-to-market road, soaked in the cold fall rain.She held a shoulder bag and a bright-orange teddy bear.I stopped to see if she needed help, which she, of course, did. I gave her a ride to the home of a couple of her friends. The shoulder bag held Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1159802671313212502006-10-02T10:22:00.000-05:002006-10-02T10:24:31.316-05:00WOMAN IN A SIMPLE COTTON DRESSGeese fly low over the magic castle, silent from that short distance, going west a day ahead of the storm. The sign on a church billboard claims, "The fear of God is the beginning of true worship."Out of the fall forest filled with trees soon to show their gray, a woman walks, bare toes pushing puddles of brown leaves unexpected. She has come from the river that Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1157688018718290682006-09-07T22:54:00.000-05:002006-09-09T16:39:32.803-05:00TWELVE OF MY LIVESKatrina: one-year anniversary: is it evidence of the death of magic?* * *On the other hand, I've got a ghost under the magic castle where I live. I photographed a very unusual moth, and the ghost's head showed up clearly in the photo. If you want to see it, let me know; it may take a few minutes to download.* * *For $1 from the shelves of sales items at the big Half Price Books Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1154376449096031782006-07-31T15:05:00.000-05:002006-07-31T15:07:29.106-05:00ALL THAT CHATTERS IS NOT COLDAugust 2006 email newsletterNo. 027A duet of wind and rain plays on the dark stage of an empty theater except for one man on the back row, slumped, fingers steepled as his mind wanders Earth. Red exit signs reflect.Seasonal prism songs: winter walks like a hungry panther; spring flowers; summer settles like a weight; fall will dance. Lives simmer in trivia, boil in Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1151801778604764612006-07-01T19:52:00.000-05:002006-07-01T19:56:18.616-05:00OH, LORD, BUBBAIn a small, struggling, East Texas town, a woman walks out of the grocery store carrying her young son, and feels the late-morning heat."Oh, Lord, Bubba," she says.I hear so much -- probably much more than she intended -- in those three words.The next morning, I wake, for me, very early. It's 5:30. I can't sleep. I find Kristy Kruger's CD with the kazoo on it, and listen to the Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1149284523139664142006-06-02T16:39:00.000-05:002006-06-02T16:42:03.156-05:00NOTES FROM ONE OF THE ZERO YEARSAs many as eight or 10 or 12 bats spent an evening outside my door a while back, feasting on insects that swarmed around the safety light atop a pole high above my magic castle. Bats. The only mammals that actually fly. In some cultures, bats are considered to be physical manifestations of the soul. In others, vampires, shapeshifters, ghosts, death, and tricksters.Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1146540025764848512006-05-01T22:17:00.000-05:002006-05-01T22:20:25.776-05:00THE CREATIVITY PRAYER(with respectful acknowledgement to Reinhold Niebuhr)Muse, grant me the creativityTo see the things I cannot see,The willingness to touch what's in front of me,And the hunger to embrace it all.Facing darkness one day at a time;Accepting the future as a pathway to peace;Taking, as the Muse does, this world's joysAs they are, not as I would have them be;Trusting that the Muse Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1144117797582280132006-04-03T21:27:00.000-05:002006-04-03T21:29:57.596-05:00Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1144093811141494742006-04-03T14:43:00.000-05:002006-04-03T14:50:11.156-05:00BLESSED BY KNOWING YOUI spent the most interesting part of my sixtieth birthday in search of signs of intelligent life in the universe in a small house deep in an old first-growth forest cool on the side of a mountain, listening to the crackle of words burning. The room where we sat was too warm, lit by candles, filled with old, stuffed sofas and chairs, and heavy rugs.Someone in another room Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1141959721058372362006-03-09T20:56:00.000-06:002006-03-09T21:03:23.520-06:00PORTRAIT ON AN EDGE OF A FORESTI stand at an edge of a forest and see hundreds of shades of gray to white in the bare winter trees, and I see several shades of dull copper and brown in the thick piles of fallen leaves, and I see the pale, thin, almost non-existent shades of blues in the high sky, rimming almost white where I can see the horizon.A gentle wind begins to sound through the bare limbsTomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1138568705944931562006-01-29T14:59:00.000-06:002006-01-29T15:05:05.963-06:00HAPPINESS . . .BARK INTO THE DARKNESSWith the prolonged dryness here, the lake is low. A beaver has dammed the throat of the Neches a couple or hundred yards or so to the north. The water on one side of the creek -- the side of the springs where the river begins -- is high enough; on the lake side, it is shallow and nearly still. Deer and smaller animals are hungry, and sometimes wander into Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1136130335570661912006-01-01T09:36:00.000-06:002006-01-01T09:45:35.583-06:00INSPIRATIONOne cold night in December, I sat on a stage in a small community theater in East Texas and read some of my poetry and prose to a shivering crowd. I used a microphone and a small, 1970s-era amp to help my voice carry to the back of what once was a church sanctuary, built 115 years ago.Still fighting a cold, my props were a bottle of water, which I never drank from, and a bottle of Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1133717294711712032005-12-04T11:20:00.000-06:002005-12-04T11:28:14.723-06:00ART, ENLIGHTENMENT, AND ELITISMDecember 2005 email newsletterNo. 019ONE-MAN SHOW DEC. 8, VAN ZANDT COMMUNITY THEATREI’ll read from my prose & poetry beginning at 7:30 p.m. on Thursday night, Dec. 8, at the Van Zandt Community Theatre at 416 W. Third in Wills Point, about 50 miles east of Dallas. It would be nice, if the moon and stars line up right, for a few of you to attend. I will read about Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1131117064334149262005-11-04T09:01:00.000-06:002005-11-04T09:11:04.346-06:00PLATO’S CAVE & THE HUMAN CONDITION; GHOST STORIESNovember 2005 email newsletterNo. 018PLATO’S CAVE & THE HUMAN CONDITIONIf it's true, as I believe, that questions make us dance and that answers make us sit still, then let's hurry over to that honky-tonk to chat with the waitress who, if she were any younger or any older, if her silver eye shadow were any heavier, if her yellow tank top were any Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1128280550888288402005-10-02T14:13:00.000-05:002005-10-02T14:15:50.896-05:00MUSES, AMUSES, BEMUSESA Single Gift for My Six Muses, Given Many Timesfor my muse for beauty and intelligencefor my muse for listening and longingfor my muse for passion and perseverancefor my muse for art and conscious livingfor my muse for distance and compassionfor my muse for enigma and growthfor what each teaches mefor what, together, they teach meI know each so intimately, and not at allI Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1128280326780553762005-10-02T14:07:00.000-05:002005-10-02T14:12:06.790-05:00DARKNESS, VOICES, THUNDER, RAIN, REALITYSeptember 05 email newsletterNo. 016 I stood on the stage one Saturday night at Poor David’s Pub to read my poetry. The opportunity was a gift to me from Tiffany Shea; she said her invitation to open for her was a gift for herself.I stood on the stage, alone, in front of a hundred or more of her friends, family, and fans, rushing through about 15 minutes ofTomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1122859541462214402005-07-31T20:20:00.000-05:002005-07-31T20:25:41.470-05:00POETIC TRUTHSAugust 05 email newsletterNo. 015This will be a simple newsletter. Five recent poems that I want to share and that you must read, and a commercial that you can skip.IN PRAISE OF LOVELINESSLovelinesswho, whenshe talks,talks in jazzlike Mingusleading a band,like Milesbirthing cool . . .like revelationserupting intothe 21st centurywith respectfor what was . . .Lovelinessmoves in jazz,Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1119991152689163812005-06-28T15:28:00.000-05:002005-06-28T15:39:12.696-05:00INFLUENCE, INNOCENCE, AND SILENCEJuly 05 email newsletterNo. 014The most influential man I ever met - or at least the one who’s had the most impact on our world - died during June. He was 81, and ill. When I met him, and talked for a few minutes, he was sitting in a corner of a waiting room one Christmas morning at Love Field, chain-smoking what I remember as unfiltered cigarettes, waiting, like Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1117409373372421872005-05-29T18:25:00.000-05:002005-05-29T18:29:33.376-05:00Recently, I photographed a high school band practice. One of the musicians was a quiet-looking, proper-looking young woman who seemed as if she, all her life, has done what she was told. (That may or may not, of course, be true.) She played trumpet. My mind wandered from the trumpet into jazz and into the biblical end-of-time stories. This poem came from those wanderings, first the jazz, then theTomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1117380021778495012005-05-29T10:10:00.000-05:002005-05-29T10:41:22.236-05:00JOY IN THE WIND AND THE RAIN:Songs, Salt, Dragonflies, Roads, and WaterJune 05 email newsletterNo. 013My straight-backed grandfather - the man who married a Pearl and then a Rose, the man who farmed for all of his 94 years - recorded a Sacred Harp song, "Sweet Rivers of Redeeming Love," in his purposeful, steady baritone sometime around 1960. He sang:Sweet rivers of redeeming loveLie just before Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1114826954024874962005-04-29T20:53:00.000-05:002005-04-29T21:09:14.033-05:00POETRY TO THE PEOPLENATIONAL POETRY MONTH TOUR 2005May 05 email newsletterVol. 2, No. 5Richland College renewed my "10 Elements of Creative Expression" class for a summer session and two fall sessions. Also for the fall semester, Trinity Valley Community College in Athens scheduled two sessions of "10 Elements of Creative Expression" and two sessions of a new class, "Low-Key Public Speaking." I Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1112383896443022912005-04-01T13:27:00.000-06:002005-04-01T13:31:36.446-06:00WAKING UP IN AMERICAApr 05 email newsletterVol. 2, No. 4I sat on the steps of the small place where I stay, enjoying my second listen to a new jazz CD, Lost and Found, by Judith Owen. Nearby, birds sang in the trees and flew above thick underbrush along a rusty fence as the spring day turned warm under nearly cloudless sky. The dog lay in the sun, wanting to lick my face. Wash my soul in these Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1109536117265873142005-02-27T14:25:00.000-06:002005-02-27T14:28:37.266-06:00OF ALIENS AND ANGELSOne day, the dog howled. The sound was more moan than howl, high and thin and short, certainly longer than a bark, maybe a few seconds. I looked out the window and saw her on the chain, where she is put when she gets caught going into the street. The chain is on a long line that stretches between the porch and a willow tree, so that she can move back and forth and so there is Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1107192406406196152005-01-31T11:21:00.000-06:002005-01-31T11:26:46.406-06:00EAST TEXAS ATTACKS; I STRIKE BACK
Feb 05 email newsletter
Vol. 2, No. 2
I walked across the yard one day a couple of weeks ago, head down, reading the liner notes to one of the new CDs that came in the mail, minding my own business, when a tree attacked me. Reached out and poked me in the corner of the right eye. Didn’t even scratch or bruise the skin; just went right into that tiny opening Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1104693719550706182005-01-02T13:18:00.000-06:002005-01-02T19:04:46.956-06:00FAVORITE SONGS OF 2004
Jan 05 email newsletter
Vol. 2, No. 1
At 1:20 p.m. today, persistent rain from the grey, overcast sky turned to sleet. It’s about 26 degrees outside, expected to fall to 21 or so by 5 p.m. before, I guess, kinda settling in cold for the night.
It’s fitting weather for one of the last days of 2004, a somber year for the world and for me personally -- a year where, or whenTomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1102213716779164682004-12-04T20:23:00.000-06:002004-12-04T20:39:38.833-06:00The 100 Essential Texas-related CDs
of the 20th Century
(One listener’s subjective opinion)
By Tom Geddie,
reprinted with permission from Buddy magazine
What are the 100 best Texas-related CDs to take into the 21st century? Sure, your guess is as good as mine, but it’s my job to populate that list here. Any list like this probably says more about who’s compiling it than it does about the stateTomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1102028683582502462004-12-02T17:00:00.000-06:002004-12-02T17:04:43.583-06:00BEGINNINGS
Dec 04 email newsletter
Vol. 1, No. 7
Less than a mile from where I find myself, between my new home and the cemetery where all of my grandparents are buried, the Neches River begins its 416-mile history. The Neches comes up from deep in the ground to wander through Guthrie's pastures of plenty, through loblolly, post oak, dogwood, pecan, and more -- nurturing all of its life like a Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1099795355918433202004-11-06T20:37:00.000-06:002004-11-06T20:42:35.916-06:00SIGHT, VISION, AND MUSES
Nov 04 email newsletter
Vol. 1, No. 6
A musician, Jenni Mansfield Peal, told me she helps blind people see. Jenni works in the vision education field, which is learning that people with cortical visual impairment -- "damage to the occipital lobes caused by some insult, such as encephalitis, tumor, or injury resulting in blindness," she said -- can retrain their vision Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1099794666858199572004-11-06T20:26:00.000-06:002004-11-06T20:31:06.856-06:00STATE OF MIND AS KINGDOM
Oct 04 email newsletter
Vol. 1, No. 5
CHANGE
So, now I live in a magical castle on the edge of a deep, ancient forest at the foot of a mythic mountain overlooking an endless sea on the other side. Some people think it’s just a 30-foot travel trailer, but it’s got a queen(-sized bed).
My kingdom is this little space on some land that’s been in the family for a long timeTomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1094695695648250012004-09-08T21:04:00.000-05:002004-09-08T21:18:01.723-05:00Sep 04 email newsletter
Vol. 1, No. 4
WHAT TO DO ON SUNDAY IN DALLAS
Whether to idle the day away, brooding, or to do something "useful" . . . as if there’s much difference between those two choices . . .
TIME
Went to a party a week ago, leaned in the corner and watched people drink and talk and dance and make and listen to music. During the evening, just about everybody I wanted to talk withTomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1091650046246883912004-08-04T15:02:00.000-05:002004-08-04T15:07:26.246-05:00Aug 04 email newsletter
Vol. 1, No. 3
CALL . . .
I may have found my legacy. One morning in mid-July, I sat with 15-20 kids ages 7-12 at a KinderCare in Arlington. Together, we made up the story of Yasmine, Keke, and Kerrington who were 20 years old and flying to California to get away from their parents. A twister threw their plane way off course, and it crashed on Jurassic Park where T-Rex Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1089124076655149942004-07-06T09:24:00.000-05:002004-07-06T09:27:56.656-05:00Jul 04 email newsletter
Vol. 1, No. 2
FROM THE DOCTRINE OF MISTAKEN AFFINITY . . .
Humid air wets with rain, slow and persistent as the temperature cools into the evening. Jazz (Miles Davis’ “Gondwana”?) soft while your scent clings. I am more than ever me. I am not your expectation. I am, more than me, ever. I am not your expectation. I am more. I am me.
REUNIONS
So many cops and lawyers and Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1086790245898524802004-06-09T09:09:00.000-05:002004-06-09T09:16:28.800-05:00Jun 04 email newsletter
Vol. 1, No. 1
1. Two electric guitars duel like a pair of scorpions on a desert floor, with a sax soaring above like a breeze. The bass is, perhaps, sorta like distant thunder. Drums play some sort of primal role. It’s the Jay Johnson Band on Tuesday night in a sports bar, The End Zone, in unlikely Plano. It’s a 35-minute version of "Perfect Villain," and it is good. It Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1086790006850991762004-06-09T09:01:00.000-05:002004-06-09T09:22:15.983-05:00JUNE CD REVIEWS: Terri Hendrix, Brian Burns, James Hand, Ed Burleson, Aaron Watson
Terri Hendrix
The Art of Removing Wallpaper
Wilory Records
Tapping ever deeper into the vein of angst, Terri Hendrix finds another fine CD. Adding small bits of gospel, bluegrass, and pop -- and even a bit of rap -- to her wide, folk-based repertoire, Hendrix shares songs that are, at the same time, universal and Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-1086789345864045062004-06-09T08:45:00.000-05:002004-06-09T09:25:31.836-05:00PROFESSIONAL PROFILE
I am a poet who lives in Dallas, Texas, and writes about American roots music. I lead creativity workshops and speak on creativity, working with adults and with children. I produced a compilation CD, Moments of Grace, that succeeded both critically and financially for a non-profit organization.
As a business communicator, I have won 100 awards for results-oriented work, Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-863967662002-12-22T09:02:00.000-06:002002-12-22T09:02:46.573-06:00Late, late on a chilly, rainy afternoon one Christmas a couple of years ago, I found myself driving south on lower Greenville Avenue in Dallas. The street was slick from a slow, steady rain that was as much hanging in the air as it was falling.
It was dark early. The headlights and streetlights and the occasional lights from stores blended with the wet chill to create faint, nearly surreal glowsTomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-856829812002-12-08T10:47:00.000-06:002002-12-08T10:49:09.000-06:00Absinthe
makes the heart
grow fondue.
Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-855120652002-12-04T19:26:00.000-06:002002-12-04T19:26:09.220-06:00LOSS AND RENEWAL
The great songwriter Billy Joe Shaver stood on a stage a few years ago, hesitating. He looked a little lost, and started - and then stopped - the show-opening opening chords on his guitar. He stood, still, on the stage. With the audience watching, his teenage son, Eddy, quietly wrapped his arms around Billy Joe from behind, and pushed his father’s hands through the first motionsTomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-854591742002-12-03T20:36:00.000-06:002002-12-03T20:36:45.946-06:00OPENING A BOX OF
hugging G’s hollow skin
(cold)
the person she is, is missing
inside parchment skin
once illuminated from the inside
(rational insticts,
strong order)
she paints flat angels crying
in her cold apartment
she once fell asleep
in a bottle of absinthe
(symmetry leads
to limitation(s)
physicists in cold labs
slow light to 38 mph;
atoms lose themselves)
time as wind
blowing dreamsTomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-854110562002-12-02T21:04:00.000-06:002002-12-02T21:04:19.580-06:00COMING TO TERMS WITH A MUSE
Today, I keep distracting myself. Reading a few pages of Tolkien’s “The Lord of the Rings,” because it makes me feel clean. Straightening up the home office, throwing out some meaningless dust. Listening to a little bit of this CD and a little bit of that one. Just letting my mind wander.
I imagine that time isn't a river. Instead, each of us is a river, and what Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-853323502002-12-01T09:23:00.000-06:002002-12-01T09:23:40.503-06:00FAMILY
a photograph of a cactus,
a tall, majestic, trident-like symbol
of life in the desert, backlit by sun,
competing with lesser plants
for the same light and moisture
I long for poets’ rants, sharp raised voices rolling heavily off the tongue against one another that I may ignore in some kind of cluttered, arty scene where our families choose us . . .
. . . rants from people who visit Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-848971592002-11-21T18:48:00.000-06:002002-11-21T18:48:33.896-06:00THE WAITRESS WHO SERVES TIME
the waitress who serves time in an all-nite diner where we see our reflections in the windows, and seconds are on the house . . .
minutes lovingly baked into pies . . . hours served in a hot and steamy stew . . . years in yummy sandwiches until the diner runs out of bread . . . (time can smell like a very old house with cookies baking in the oven, and then eating Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-847937152002-11-19T20:49:00.000-06:002002-11-19T20:49:31.160-06:00I REALLY CAN’T STAY; BUT, BABY, IT’S OLD OUTSIDE
(with apologies to Fran Loessor)
. . . loud music at the Inn of the Earth . . . a young woman moves to drumbeat . . . a man watches . . . ritual flirting . . . odor of past nights’ drinks on the sticky floor . . . Age and Youth whisper meaningless phrases, hands touching ears . . . “I really can’t stay,” he says . . . she says, “But, baby, it’s Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-846736442002-11-17T15:31:00.000-06:002002-11-17T15:32:08.000-06:00
MOVEMENT, WITH ALFALFA & COWBOY BOOTS
the sandpaper shuffle of dancers going in circles . . . the sound of an obscure honky-tonk singer who ought to be famous . . . old men dancing with as many young women as they can one last time . . . what the young women want . . . the nature of relationships, played out with alcohol and expectations . . . the cavernous, low-ceiling dancehall illuminated byTomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-844327472002-11-12T14:17:00.000-06:002002-11-12T14:17:38.660-06:00THE CANDLE'S LIGHT
What a great and flawed novel is “The Once and Future King,” written more than 60 years ago by T.H. White.
On Sunday, at the Open Doors benefit at Adair’s in Dallas, I heard music from Davin James, Macon Greyson, Jay Johnson, Tommy Alverson, Bodie Powell, Terry Rasor, Scott Fant, and Kim Edward. I talked with so many people that I became hoarse.
I played shuffleboard with a Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-843168472002-11-10T09:20:00.000-06:002002-11-10T09:20:51.460-06:00
LAUGH HAIKU
a warm laugh erupts
on a cold, cold winter night
like a candle's light
Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-842794782002-11-09T10:11:00.000-06:002002-11-09T10:11:33.626-06:00
UNCLE SAM’S BURLESQUE & OTHER TRAGEDIES
G had too much whimsey thrust upon her unwillingly, and she went mad from time to time.
The last time I saw her, she was sitting on a Haight Street sidewalk near Ashbury. It was barely midmorning, and remnants of the ’60s hung on as wisps (sometimes more, sometimes even less) of fog that would burn away in the sunlight, but settle in again most sea-damp Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-841822912002-11-07T12:20:00.000-06:002002-11-07T12:20:23.090-06:00
MEMORY
Poet’s time is wind through a barren landscape.
Poet’s time is circular during a linear journey.
Poet’s time is moments during a non-linear destination.
Poet’s time is an empty dancehall below a dazzling disco ball . . . poet’s time is instruments and mic stands patient on the stage . . . the only sound the rhythm of four ceiling fans . . . the excited whispers of air that will, in a Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-837375632002-10-29T16:19:00.000-06:002002-10-29T16:19:51.496-06:00
TO SEE PERFECT STILLNESS IN SOIL & SOUL
blond dust, maybe
16 or 17 years old, blew into
New Orleans
on the wind of her own sorrow,
a piece of a smile
at one end of her mouth
eyes look for, I suppose, survival
I almost touch her to soothe
the wind pushes her around
during early daylight hours and
again as the sun begins to slip away
after dusk, the dust is very still
sometime in the night
Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-836970632002-10-28T21:23:00.000-06:002002-10-28T21:23:31.850-06:00
LOVE IN A HYPODERMIC NEEDLE
love in a hypodermic needle
sold by a desperate pusher, bought by a desperate
you eat an orange, juice dripping;
wiping it,
my fingers touch your bottom lip,
feel the air of your sudden breath
my fingers stick to you,
then my tongue to your taste
like the reflection of neon
on an empty parking lot
after rain
without reflection, the lot is grey,
the sky is dark,Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-835949422002-10-27T09:38:00.000-06:002002-10-27T09:38:56.720-06:00
THE TWO OF US COME UPON A STATUE OF LIMITATIONS
The two of us come upon a statue of limitations along the side of the road, discussing buried pleasures with the grim weeper softly enough to wake the dread. So softly, silently, that we can’t hear them as we walk by, shivering, the smell of regret heavy in the air.
“We have seen bitter days,” one says. “We’ve seen the stuff that screams are madeTomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-835556742002-10-26T10:18:00.000-05:002002-10-26T10:18:56.126-05:00
VASTNESS IN DARKNESS
on the highway at 3 a.m. . . . wet pavement, tires a little slippery in the drizzle . . . an intense sense of smallness within something vast . . . perhaps the beginning of a thought . . . lightning almost floats in the air, along the synapses on the horizon . . .
I am tired . . .the radio plays loud rock n roll . . . helps me stay awake . . . my mind wanders . . . the Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-832651972002-10-20T16:50:00.000-05:002002-10-20T16:50:33.740-05:00
IN THOUGHT
when the universe exploded,
time felt useless and lonely, and remained
like a sadness forever
expressed in the silence
between two clean, high piano notes
in a star-lit desert night
Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-831252092002-10-17T12:08:00.000-05:002002-10-17T12:08:25.546-05:00
FLIGHT
awake early again
after a contemplative night
weariness and perseverance
under the dark, dark sky
finally turning gray for dawn
two flee old behaviors, habits,
worn boots beginning to fail
on the long, long road
wrapped together in a blanket,
they face mountains far to the west
where gods whisper the sky
full of laughing white clouds
that strut in a new breeze
(on the eastern horizonTomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-829896382002-10-14T19:58:00.000-05:002002-10-14T19:58:20.140-05:00
HIGH ON THE MOUNTAIN
oh, joy,
high on the mountain
close to the clouds
primary colors whirl
to the fiddle’s sound,
to the mandolin
oh, joy, we dance
in the feel of fresh air
oh, joy, we feel
muscles move to the music,
oh, joy, we feel
oh, joy, we rest,
sweat drying at twilight
while music echoes
from the far horizons
oh, joy, we breathe deep,
oh, joy, we feel
Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3818531.post-829228762002-10-13T10:47:00.000-05:002002-10-13T10:47:53.110-05:00
I AM NOT A PILGRIM
I am not a pilgrim.
I am the stillness in the morning dew,
waiting for the sun to set me free.
I am the silence between the music’s notes,
waiting for the night to let me be.
I am the presence between my heartbeats,
waiting for my love to come to me.
I am not a pilgrim.
I walk with the wind at my back
on dusty trails through neglected landscapes.
I am the stillness in the Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608972675229926465noreply@blogger.com