Confession Tuesday - Dead Poet Edition

Dear Reader:

It has been three weeks since my last confession. I have nothing to say for myself.  Three weeks!

Off to the confession box...

I confess that  last week I was communing with Robert Frost.   Being  honest I would not have gone looking for Frost among the dead poets. He came to me.  I would have chosen a Sexton, Berryman, Plath, Lowell or perhaps O'Hara. But no, I was visited by Frost and one never puts off a gift dead poet.

Maybe Frost is what I needed. By the end of the week I was feeling I had been in the presence of maturity; as well as balance and patience.

This past weekend I made realistic plans for the week ahead and I realistic is the optimum word. I can make a great to do list and it will often be so overwhelming that it can doom me from the start. This I believe is a habit  from my 8 to  5 job because there I have so many tasks that are almost all in crisis mode. This is not the kind of  habit that translates well to the art world. At least no for me.

I'm trying to focus on more exercise these days as well. I hit the tread mill before I came to do my confession. When I parked the car in the garage tonight I looked at my bike and thought maybe before the week is out if the weather doesn't turn bad again maybe.

I confess I'm sporting a bit of a head ache tonight and have been visited by one several times lately.

It was nice to see two of my newer poems published already. That happened this week in  the Spring issue of the Boston Literary Magazine. I always get a rush each time this happens. Is it wrong to feel good about seeing your work out in the world?

If it's any consolation I get more quickly brought back down to earth wrestling with a manuscript that  needs to come together sooner then later. I confess that  I'm relatively certain that a manuscript is not to be rushed, but I need to bring this one to some conclusion.

I confess I can smell the green grass of the ball diamond. I'm so ready for baseball.

Have a great Week!