Driving to New Hope
Today, I am pleased to present two poems that appeared in Catalpa, a magazine published by graduate students at the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga. They will also appear in my forthcoming book which will launch on November 1, thanks to Walnut Street Publishing. I also have storytelling events forthcoming at Audubon Acres on August 3, September 20, and October 19. Watch my Substack publication and the website of the Chattanooga Audubon Society for details. I am planning two poetry workshops this fall. Details will be forthcoming here.
Late August Collage
Begin with the yellow flowers of a Jerusalem artichoke. Make strands of its essence. They are warp and woof, a framework for your tapestry.
Weave in the golden brown of coreopsis and the pink of coneflower. Add the red fireweed, and you have made a start. Weave in the rich brown feather of a wren dropped near her empty nest.
Eggshells make a nice touch if you can find them.
Hang your tapestry from a hickory branch. Let it ripen with the nuts.
When the time is right, add lichen: the kind known as “old man's beard,” the ephemeral green vessels called “pixie cups,” the red-topped “British soldiers.”
Let it bake in the August sun and steep in the lightning of sudden storms. It will hide its eyes from the pounding rain and soften in the nurturing mists.
Now your tapestry is ready to receive the gentle songs of chickadees and nuthatches. Let the pileated woodpecker drop chips from his drill as he feeds on carpenter ants. A few will stick.
Seek the help of a spider. Her silk will bind the work together. Hang your tapestry on your wall if you must. When spiderlings hatch from its threads, you will understand that it belongs in the woods. This change will happen at the time of day when the buzzing of cicadas gives way to the trills of katydids.
Hang it on your porch. Let the light from Altair and Deneb illuminate its recesses. It will waffle in the breeze of early morning as bats retire to take their daytime rest.
Ask yourself, have I woven this tapestry, or has it woven me?
Driving to New Hope I sense the day is wasted when I haven’t seen the dawn. One morning I left early; and drove the mountain road, with a blue-black sky above, as trees blocked light from left and right. With no view of the sky or sun, I thought of sunrise and beginnings. I turned the curve before the descent to the valley below. I greeted a sky as red as the belly of a rainbow trout, edged by the dark ridge below. The red sky above gave way to blue.
The title poem appeared in my substack before, but I include it here with an illustration.
It's Just a Phase Henceforth, the full moons shall be the extrovert's moons. They are dedicated to performance poetry. The new moons shall be the introvert's moons. They are dedicated to memoirs and essays. The first Quarter moons shall be the fiction writers' moons. The last Quarter moons shall be the nonfiction writers’ moons. Waxing moons shall be the poets' moons. Waning moons shall be the publishers' moons. Crescent moons shall be the niche market moons, the brightest spot in a writer's life. Eclipsed moons shall be the empath moons, reminding authors to have empathy for their characters.