Branching out

The same images keep coming back. The branching of trees, the dendritic flow, the axons of nerves, bronchii. I lost a contact in my eye the other day, and the redness of my own hunting for it was the same branching out, the same flow. And now the sun is rising in front of me as I type, and its rays seem to extend on and on.

When I read poetry, the flatness of mundane experience fades. The beginning and the end separate from each other and find places for themselves. Growth. Like the spring flowers and the new leaves.

I finished putting together the manuscript of my first poetry collection last month. I was motivated to finish it because I had a new idea for a long sequence that I wanted to pursue. So, I’ve put the goddess sequence to rest, though I am still editing it and getting some reviewers comments. The new work is called Savasana Dreams. Here’s a poem I wrote a while ago that has become a jumping-off point for my current writing. Enjoy!

Lying Not So Still

Lying awake

in the morning

waiting for

a decent hour

to get up

and wash

my hair

of the dreams

that poured oil

into it.

I feel drowsy

but restless

as a clacking

ceiling fan

around and around

the same thoughts

same rhythm

but wobbling

with each second

or third rotation.

I know I won’t

go flying off

in some new


while I lie here



in the dark


to the fan

and myself

arguing pointlessly

with myself.

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