Started biking - slowly but surely

A few weeks ago my right knee swelled up with a big knot on the lower inside of the knee cap. As it happened I was planning to get my bike out and start ridding for exercise. The knee thing drug on and I went to the doctors and between my two options started an inflammatory medication.  The other option was a cortisone shot which might have brought me swifter relief but since I'm a type two diabetic, my experience with any steroid is that it bumps my blood sugar numbers pretty high for a significant number of days.

But all this (the knee problem) seems past.  At least enough so that I got out by bike and aired up the tires and rode around a little (not to overdo it) and my plan is to ride some most nights after work for a while till I can build up my endurance.

Just so that I'm able to get a poetry connection in here, long time readers may recall that I won my bike a few years back in a contest to write environmental haiku's.

Opening Up~

And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
 ~ Anais Nin

It seems to me that Nin's words above,  like so many of her bits of wisdom are in fact powerful maxiums we can all lean on in life. Everyone... but they seem so relevent to the writer's life - a life that often challenges one to risk opening the blossoms that reveal

Do you recall a time when your writing risked blossoming?

Confession Tuesday

Dear Reader: 

It's been almost a week since my non-confession confession and here I am heading to the confessional for a look back.

I confess that the week in view was a largely exasperating one. At work, at home, and at all points between. I think both mentally and physically I've let myself get deflated. I feel like one of those moon walk things kinds bounce on at outdoor events that are filled with air only the party is over and the air released and I'm just a jumble of plastic on the ground.

It seems like almost every night for the past week we've drug in late.  I got home later tonight because I needed to go to the store to replenish the Wells' Mother's cubbard.  I'm home now  and my poor wife has still not returned from work. I don't have room to complain - it's a problem that we have encountered together... still it is getting old.

Last night I confess that I came home, and did not write. I went straight to bed and when my wife came in, we watched The Closer and I  think another show and then I was out like a light. I don't like feeling like this, the wanr slick feeling. Quite frankly I feel like my body, mind and soul are all on auto pilot and I have no control.

~0~

I confess that one of the things that always brightens my day is opening the mail box and finding poetry. Yesterday I received a poetry book that I had pre-ordered a couple months back. I confess that I'm not the most patient person when it comes to waiting for any book... poetry are other. But when they do come, there is a satisfaction that's like a double layer German Chocolate Cake with traditional icing... the coconut and  Carmel stuff.  Of course the Poetry has no calories and won't raise my blood sugar ;)

So yesterday, I was happy when my copy of Amy Leigh Davis' book The Alter Ego of the Universe arrived. I think I carried it to the bedroom with all the excitement of a kid at Christmas, read two poems and fell asleep after texting Amy. Like I said before the energy just wasn't there!

So far, I'm hanging in there better tonight.  I will probably only journal tonight and read a few poems... not creative writing tonight... It's late as it is.

Till next week....

Grasshoppers

The grasshoppers have a routine

twitch and eat     twitch and eat

but we let then—

they invade our browning turf

scavenge-scoop our dying years

but we let them—

tobacco juices rolling off

their little faces

they rub their front legs—

back and forth

back and forth

I expect the friction

will smoke and blaze

anytime now

they are small

but all about ruin

Magpie Tales 77: Poem - Intimacy on the Porch

The intimacy of a front porch

on the summer night

was like no other place. 

The tongue and grove floor

was hushed as that they stood

still beside one another. 

Out in the yard fireflies

brought the starred heavens

to their level— 

all calm except

butterflies in their bellies

as each searched for words 

that can set this night apart

from so many other

date nights.

She searched the porch floor

for the right things to say

his eye traced smooth white legs 

subconsciously until stunned

by their own silence

their eyes meet— 

words no longer matter.

2011 © Michael A. Wells

Magpie Tales 77

Picture credit: Summer Evening, Edward Hopper, 1947

Bad Poet

Yep, I missed Confession Tuesday. After work I went to a poetry meeting and it was late when I arrived home. I'm later getting in tonight for a different reason. Perhaps special dispensation would be in order since I was out doing poetry things.

Magpie Tales 76: Poem - It just stopped blowing

like dead in the middle

of a gust that was whipping along

the plains and kites dived,

birds were puzzled,

cumulus nimbus stalled. 

The heat that summer day

grew stale—   idle.

Grandpa said that was kind of

the beginning of the end. 

Folks didn’t know what to make of it

still don’t.  The sun just hangs there—

nights don’t much cool off either. 

Grandpa tacked the wind mill blades

on the shed. Said there was no use

for it except ornamentation, and life was

mostly bland these days.

2011© Michael A. Wells

Magpie Tales 76