Hey Dad.... let's go for a walk?

The humidity is pretty overwhelming here today. Barry and I went for a walk a while ago and I was jealous of the people at the Disk Golf course playing. I've never seen so many in spite of the fact that it's I'm a killer day to go walking up some of those greens. Still, I haven't played for a while and I had been thinking about it several weeks ago so of course it brings it back to the forefront of my mind. 

I've been doing some office work I brought home and was ready to take a break and write some, but the idea of some exercise won over. I do need to write after while.

Kudos to Kelli Agodon for yet another award for her book Letters from The Emily Dickinson Room. I knew when I read this book that it was no ordinary book of poetry.

This is just a quickie - I've got to pick up my wife. I have several other things to blog about today but they will have to wait till later.

My Facebook Poet's Page

This week I set up a separate Facebook Writer's page. I say separate because it differs from regular Facebook format because it is intended for individuals who are especially interested in poetry in general and what I'm up to . Announcements about readings, newly published items, recommendations of other poets and books I think are worthy of mention.  If this sounds like information you'd like me to share with you then by visiting the page and clicking on the LIKE button you will there be kept abreast of  my world of poetry.  You must have a Facebook account to do this.  You can make this poet a happy poet by going here and clicking on the "like" this page button. 

Thanks in advance!

Confession Tuesday - Saint Monica of the Console Edition

It's that time again. Yes, it's been a week since my last confession. A week in which I laughed at Father's lame jokes during Mass, cleaned the dog-do off my wife's tennis shoes and swore life was too short to let other people's crap bring me down, and then I promptly let it. Now for the record, the crap I'm referring to was not what I scraped off my wife's shoes. Now to the confessional....



Dear Reader:

I confess that I'm worn slick by the drama of others. I've looked for ways to shake the negative drama dust off me but it seems to blow back with the wind. It gets all over other people, even people in our household, people you love just carry in (not wanting too) it just comes in on their shoes, in their hair, on their shoulders like it were dandruff. There is no shampoo for it, and this stuff ain't magic glitter!



And who swiped my creativity? I confess I've gone through a week of such lousy writing that this morning I wanted to post lost posters on poles asking if anyone has seen my missing creativity. I confess that I suspect a linkage between the drama dust and the absence of my creativity. It may also have been responsible for burnt corn dogs and the shocking escalation in grocery prices at Hy-Vee.



None of these things I've confessed are personal failings mind you, but I have another confession. The confession of a sneaky poet, a conniving poet, but a well meaning poet just the same. There is no one in my family who shares my appreciation or love of poetry. I'm not sure any of them suffer from metrophobia, that's quite severe, but they are clearly lacking the poetry DNA in their blood.



So this morning as we were driving into the city for work I carried out to the car my copy of Saint Monica (chapbook by Mary Biddinger) and strategically placed it on the faux turtle shell console between my place on the driver’s side and the passenger seat that would soon be occupied by my wife. I've done this before... a sneaky way of putting poetry out there within her reach. This time, I stopped at Quick Trip for my 52oz Diet Coke (what else?) and upon returning to the car, she was caught! Red handed! There she was reading, Saint Monica! She had finished one poem.... Saint Monica's Sweet Sixteen. I'm not sure but she may be scared.



Tomorrow is our 37^th wedding anniversary. I confess I’d like a do over. The deal is I want all the same players for the repeat 37 years. Same awesome woman… the same children.  I just want to relive those years again with them!



That’s it for today. Until next week, shake off all the negative dust!

Fathers

"It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters

 who I remember he was."   — Anne Sexton

Confession Tuesday - Where is my book edition?

It's been one crazy fantasy baseball week since my last confession. My team worked it's was to 4th place briefly and tumbled back to 8th place out of 12 teams.

Dear Reader-

Patience is not one of  my strong points. Oh I can be patient about some things... actually many things, but never when I've ordered a book.

It's one of the reasons I often order from Amazon. They tend to get be relatively quick to ship. I guess I  had a soft spot and ordered direct from a publisher recently.  I thought hey, let's support the small publisher.  I confess I am however sitting here tonight thinking, where's my book!  And yes, I did check my mail box first thing.  Ok, I admit I was wanting my book a hour after ordering. I know I'm unrealistic. It's a sickness I have when I want a book.  I won't even suggest that I'll try to be more patient in the future. I swear on a stack of poetry books I cannot lie.

~0~

As you can see from the intro to this post my fantasy league baseball team has been on roller coaster ride. It's a new week and my team goes head to head against another team.  I'm reminding myself the academic lesson of baseball managing in real life and fantasy league. The season is too long to get hung up on highs and lows. Things change. I confess I've been repeating this over and over all weekend.

~0~

I saw a poem on a poetry site recently that I had written several years ago, I confess that while I recognized the title and my name appeared attributed to it but it read better then I remembered it.  I actually had to go back and find a copy of it I had save just to make sure it wasn't another Michael Wells that had authored it.  Boy do I feel silly.

~0~

I confess that I'm all confessed out.  Thanks for stopping by - See you next week!  Be safe & have a good week!

Poetry Helps Us Connect

[I received this as an e-mail today - passing along]

by Michelle Obama, U.S. First Lady

When I was young, I was a passionate creative writer and sort of a poet. That's how I would release myself. Whenever I was struggling in school, or didn't want to go outside and deal with the nonsense of the neighborhood, I would write and write and write and write. I think it was my writing that sort of prepared me for so much of what I've had to do in my life as an adult.

Robert Frost once wrote, "A poem begins as a lump in the throat." In writing poetry, you all put words into that kind of emotion. You give voice to your hopes, your dreams, your worries and your fears. And when you do that, when you share yourself that way, and make yourself vulnerable like that, you're taking a risk. And that's brave.       Read more

Let me recommend a blog...

If you have a spare moment this weekend and you have not already seen this blog, I recommend it.  For several weeks now I've been reading Writing with Celia.  Her Friday post was really a good reminder of things I should know and need to keep reminding myself.  The post Poetry Revision 101, Lesson Four: Do I Sound Fat in This Poem?  As the title implies she has been doing a series of these poetry revision posts.


On another note... weather turned out fine for last reading last night in Excelsior Springs.