In the moment

 8 Threads with suckers– 1. While visiting an aquarium in Seaside, Oregon, I watched the giant Pacific octopus. It appeared to be sleeping. Each exhaled breath from its jet rippled the water.  The sign above the shallow cave read “Please Do Not Touch”. The other habitats encouraged sensory interaction. Children stood on risers near the touch pools, squealing as they poked precious hard-shelled starfish and spinney anemones. No one else was interested in the alien-like cephalopod lurking in the dark. I slowly dipped my hand into the cool, salty water to stroke one of the eight entangled arms. As my fingers touched a slippery tentacle, its suckers latched on. Its body changed color from red to white as it tasted me. I am curious to know how I tasted. 2. It is a misconception that more than one octopus is octopi. Both forms are acceptable and since most people believe the latter is incorrect, telling them the former is false is futile. Since the word was adopted from Greek, ...

 B–  Miss Understood      The Bluetooth Sony speaker, with the rave lights flashing red and amber to the guitar-pumping beat of Joan Jett growling “Bad Reputation” on a Saturday, bounced off the walls well past the time I typically fall asleep binge watching reruns of a sitcom from the 1990s. Inspiration came from short videos of women adding whimsy and color to their own homes so I stood on a stool painting the walls of my laundry room. It’s more of a closet, really, but I never had a separate room or closet for my washer and dryer before I bought my house so I prefer to call it a room. Especially after the makeover I gave it with burgundy colored paint. Yes, burgundy. I had removed all the clutter, rolls of paper towels, poorly folded blankets, bottles of cleaning supplies, rags and more. The space, with its two bifold paneled doors had become a catch all for clutter. Unopened mail, unfinished to-do lists, business cards I never refer to–out of sight, out of ...

Honoring Jan– The Barefoot Girl ( Lyrics to Like a Stone by Audioslave in italics, woven between the lines of an original poem.) Shadows fade as pearls of dew blush . . . and there you led me on unbridled, bareback, and barefoot apple-cheeked and artless ripples dimple the dark glass and water striders breathe their last breaking her reflection with pendulous bare feet and line she casts . . . in dreams until my death chasing mystic water rainbows . . . lost in the pages of a book filled with brittle gray memories bent corners frame her withered apple face . . . reading how we'll die alone a marker saves your last page . . . on I read until the day was gone . . . in regret of all things    Buzzards plunge and pierce . . . the sky was bruised tearing hollow remains . . . the wine was bled . . . on a cobweb afternoon they strip the bones clean, selling the spurned to the highest bidder          essence of stardust of...

 B–Wild-- On the showroom floor of a small motorcycle shop where Main Street transitions into Fairview, a five year old girl was hoisted onto the seat of a Triumph dirt bike. She leaned her body over the gas tank as she had seen her father do. Gripping the handlebars, her hand twisted the right grip to full throttle. …braap…braap…braap… Sprays of spit misted her lips as she raced the stationary motorcycle around an imagined track. A few feet away, ex-racers and hangers-on congregated around the desk of their tobacco-pipe smoking chief. Pipe and cigarette smoke mingled overhead as they drank coffee and bragged of past glories. Their words floated up into the blue haze and beyond, fortifying the rafters of Buzz Chaney’s Triumph motorcycle shop. Alvin “Buzz” Chaney in front of his shop in Boise, Idaho. (c.1950)      My father was one of those ex-racers, the little girl, was me. Most of my days before first grade were spent like this. First, a short stack of hotcakes dri...

“And you may ask yourself, "Well, how did I get here?"                                                       David Byrne, Talking Heads and you may find yourself                seen as a # like gov’ment issued boots or worker B or lined-up “take a # pls” or cast as a tally of a bally-box or a                series of ones no one sees or the # everyone, ‘cept U, sees                Except you, when you see a radically bitchin’ chick whose                tick has tocked and think, no way that's moi!?                what’s yer damage, man? but I ...

 B lyrical   ( da-DUM da- D UM da-DUM d a-DUM da-DUM) I feel that poetry has a bad rep. Unless surrounded by other writers, when I tell people, "I write poetry", I can almost see them cringe! Traditional forms of poetry can be painful to read. Themes of love, longing, and loss can be overly sentimental, antiquated, and even cliche. While there is nothing wrong with tradition or sentimentalism, poetry need not be painful or cringy. Traditional forms aside, we can't all be Shakespeare, master of the Sonnet.  One way to reframe poetry's bad reputation is to view poems like they are song lyrics,. Much like traditional poetry, songs can have an agenda or a underlying message, or they draw out memories, or they simply entertain. The key is, both lyrics and poetry evoke feelings. These are different based on perception, perspective, and what each individual finds relatable. In other words, as art, both are subjective. No Rules I prefer creating poetry using the less confin...