Visitation: Fifth House Lodge
He sees her clearly: a keyboard angel
beside his low bed in the morning;
though not an angel, really, only
errant brushstrokes on a white wall
left there by a haphazard painter.
He gets up, feeds coffee grounds
to the lupine and zinnia. The cat
only watches and sits, the scene
plays out a thousand times in a
minute. The brushstroke angel
has invisible hands, tilts herself
toward her keyboard, toward
another coffeemug morning.
The world is white around him,
sun bathes the wall, the breeze
strokes the cat’s whiskers,
the lupine and zinnia bloom.
It’s always amazing to me how a few days of quiet reflection and/or meditation, combined with plenty of time to write, can increase productivity and (hopefully) improve the work. I read recently that the Fifth House Lodge in Bridgton, ME (where this piece was originally drafted, years ago) is up for sale. I hope that Joan Lee Hunter, who ran the place when I visited, knows what good things she’s done to help writers throughout the years.
Even though she
hardly even knows him
on Valentine’s Day
and his birthday
gives him a Chunky.
>>> I’ll Just Keep Imagining, Thank You.
>>> You think I’m A Dreamer, Right?
>>> It’s True. But I’m Not Alone.
If it’s Saturday, the Sixers are HERE
(Bonus Six, Just because I can: Never Give Up. Never Give Up)
Even the sleep-impaired, sleep-deprived,
incoherent insomniac must comply:
there will be no exceptions made,
no exemptions granted. Even though
the earliest light only magnifies
it is precisely that effect
which is to be recorded.
Even though unable to close an eye or
—even if able, ultimately disinterested in doing so—
it is nonetheless required to at least reorder,
record and report the morning;
forbidden to reject the task,
and strictly forbidden
to surrender to recalcitrance.
A Thirteen-Letter Post Explaining Why I’m Not Doing The T13 This Week:
A Busy Schedule
Another Thirteen-Letter Post, Letting You Know What My Plan Is:
Maybe Next Week
A Thirteen-Letter Post To Advise You That I’ll Enjoy Reading Your Posts And Will Try To Comment, But…
Don’t Count On It
If you’re not too busy, join the fun at the NEW THURSDAY 13
Even the sleep-impaired, sleep-deprived, incoherent insomniac must comply: there will be no exceptions made, no exemptions granted. Even though the earliest light only magnifies the nothingness, it is precisely that effect which is to be recorded. Even though unable to close an eye to it or—even if able, ultimately disinterested in doing so—it is nonetheless required to at least creatively reorder, record and report the morning; forbidden to reject the task, and strictly forbidden to surrender to recalcitrance.
So: Now what, another Nagasaki? Or will it just be blue-as-usual-berry pancakes and a screenful of denial?
He’s sixty-five. His daily commute
is a round-trip drive at fifty
for an hour and a half, the car’s
ancient engine turning over
a quarter million times a day,
more if he’s feeling lonely, swings by
to visit friends at the nursing home.
He tries to do the early morning
mental math, driving alone on the
deserted serpentine route under a
waning moon. Ninety minutes is
plenty of time:
……………………….Twelve years on the
same early road, the planet spinning
five thousand times;
stuck in the sun’s rut, the same
silver moon rising and filling, falling,
unphased, over and over again
fully invisible, new again at last
almost nine hundred times.