Friday Night Jazz

Really fun night out with wife at The Phoenix Jazz Club - with Lonnie McFadden on the horn and Tap Dancing!  Great Anniversary Celebration. As we walked out of the building the weather was surprisingly comfortable.  Bright sliver of a crescent moon hung in the sky. Could not have orchestrated it any better.  


On another front, rejection letter from Indiana Review arrived. Second this week.  Week ago I did have a piece accepted though. According to to my Duotrope Submission Tracker my acceptance ratio is 7.9% which it tells me is above the average rate. There is that to be thankful for. 


Had a breakthrough idea related to manuscript this week and for that I'm pleased. All together it's been a good week. Very busy at the office but I can usually count on that. 

Celebrating 38 Years of Marriage

Before I retire for the night I feel compelled to say a few words about the number thirty-eight. Poets normally deal with words but at the moment it's the number thirty-eight that pretty much sums it up.

It was thirty-eight years ago on the 22nd of June, that my wife Cathy and I were married.  We dated for three years prior so really our lives have been entwined for essentially 4 decades. No one lives 4 decades without trials and tribulations and we have had ours; but I cannot think of having gone through my life without the partner I've been privileged to have by my side.

Through numerous endeavors over these years I have been blessed by her support, her faith in me, and her gentle encouragement at times when I have needed it the most.  I'm not an easy person (I'm a poet for God's sake) at times. She has tolerated the many flavors of idiosyncrasy that I tend to embrace. Overlooking faults and bring out and celebrating the best in me at times when I have trouble seeing the best myself.

~0~

Love you Cath!!  Looking back all these years later I might have done a lot of things with my life different, but not you. I would do this all over. Here's to a long life together!



Living in the Moment

We steal if we touch tomorrow. It is God's.

 ~ Henry Ward Beecher

Confession Tuesday - Bacon Edition

Another week has come and gone.  It's been one week since since my last confession. Let's get started.


Dear Reader:

I confess I love bacon. I mean who doesn't? But tonight I made a run out to get a Bacon Sundae.  I know it wasn't something that I really needed but it did hit the spot. I actually would like to hit it again with another one right now but I will restrain myself and not go out again. I have to say the combination of bacon, caramel, chocolate and vanilla ice cream is Walla!

I confess that I was really tired today at work and every time I turned around someone else was yawning. This only accentuated the draggy feeling. It was kinda weird because I slept really well last night.  Maybe I'd be better off if didn't sleep so well tonight.

If you read yesterday's post you know of my writing related fear that I've been struggling through. I confess that I wished the post has not sparked some discussion but last night I pulled out some old journals of mine and found some earlier stuff that was worth reworking. So this has given me a  momentary relief from stressing.

I confess that I'm glad that some of the shows my wife and I like to watch have started back up.  Rizzoli & Isles, Franklin & Bash and Suits are three of our must see shows. 

I confess it's 11 PM and time for me to hit the sack. Have a great week!

The Fear of Irrelevance

I've realized I have a new fear...   It happens between the pen and the page. It's not really the fear of writing as much as it is the fear that what I write becomes too predictable. Stale I suppose would be another word. 


You see I've reached that point where I realize that even that killer piece I wrote last October that has been published has to stand alone and what I write today and tomorrow has to be fresh and unique. Even if writing in a themed manuscript (especially if) you have to create from a fresh perspective. 


I guess what this really comes down to is the fear that my writing will become irrelevant. We all have to have fresh ideas or at least fresh approaches. It's one thing for a poet to find his or her voice, but that voice must be able to find a range of fresh ideas. 


So in those few moments when you first pick up your pen, what do you do to take your mind to some new direction?  Any tricks that you have to keeping your work fresh? I'd love to hear from others struggling with this and especially those who have fought this demon and are now secure in their writing as the pen and the paper first meet.

Father's Day

I had an opportunity to spend some time over lunch with three of my four children. Only Cathy Ann was not present as she is the only one out side the metropolitan area these days. Additionally my wife, daughter-in-law Claudia and future son-in-law Brandon were along. I just a while ago got off the phone from Cathy Ann and it was good to chat with her if she could not be here in person. 

I've thought about my own father from time to time today. Someone I really didn't know.  Only meeting him as an adult on I believe 4 occasions. He is deceased now.  Still, I think about him and the rest of my paternal side of the family that is principally gone save perhaps some cousins that I really don't know. I don't know any way to explain it other then this void that has plagued my life and I suppose always will.

I looked through a few poems to find one befitting of sharing on Father's Day and I chose the following:

To pull the metal splinter from my palm
my father recited a story in a low voice.
I watched his lovely face and not the blade.
Before the story ended, he’d removed
the iron sliver I thought I’d die from.
I can’t remember the tale,
but hear his voice still, a well
of dark water, a prayer.
And I recall his hands,
two measures of tenderness
he laid against my face

– Li-Young Lee, 'The Gift'

MAG 122 ~ Likeness

Puddle, 1952, M. C. Escher

Likeness

A puddle collective on the ground.

Mirror images mired in detail

reflective of all that's around.

Tracks and footprints form the frame

to cup and stabilize the fallen rain

of splendor in a muddy marsh.

Michael A. Wells


Mag 122