30 Poems in 30 Days

Have you ever wanted to try writing poetry? Join in this event writing 30 poems in 30 days and watch your poetry prowess emerge.

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where to from here

poetry as branching out

poetry as centering in

poetry as a practice

poetry as a service

poetry as calling

poetry as community

shared poetry

private poetry

antiquated poetry

cutting edge poetry

poetry of salt shakers

poetry of dragons

poetry of senses

poetry of unconscious

poetry of deer frogs sun tulips night tea lipstick rain sparrow body wisdom tree sky love bridge skin dreams cherries water salt doubt wilderness cupboards ocean spring holes

please, no more poetry

thank you, and good bye!


With many bows to the organizers, for the wise words and the motivation!

May your practice go well.


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When all the wisdoms voices, stopped talking

And I lost all context and meaning for my life,

understanding was a body posture, not a mental activity.–And fear, sadness

they too

paused their incessant cautioning.

not too concerned, with whether something was known

or unknown, feeble or demented.

All universities were forced to close,

as were many religious institutions who placed their emphasis

on scholastic knowledge and debate.

what do we orient to?

now that our books are empty,

too long dependent on others views and thinking–

as if truth can be gotten

then forgotten.

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Vapid. The temperature of the gods.

and I am hungry again, asking for your attention.

but I want freedom,

I want to free others

don’t box me in with your institutions

your forms and rules.

There is no shape for the human being

no color, no voice, no name.

what you see before you appears greatly

organized, planned, and perfectly executed.

perhaps this is true,

but equally so

is one massive disaster,

folding into another.

Hopeless, maybe.

but oh, the possibility

to subtract everything

from itself, and then divide.

innumerable infinity

so sweet,

you’ll have to share.

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met ken on the street tonight
hadn’t seen him all winter
greeted him “hello gardener” and he stopped

came from the coffee shop and was eager to talk
seeds he put in today
perfect moisture of the soil
troubles with the new well

three timesĀ  “see you on Sunday
I’ll let you go to your supper”
three times the conversation continued

last thing he said
wants me to have some clothes of his wife
some with tags still on
said she was shorter than me

guess she was twice my age or more
ken was 92 this march
his eyes are like milky marbles



What a great idea to try limericks! Fun, and not so easy!

there was a young gal on the prairies
who baked herself pie with red cherries
when a pixie flew by
and asked for some pie
she wouldn’t share, not even with fairies

on the desk where I write every night
I had a small trusty light
an unpleasant surprise
was the light bulb’s demise
I can hardly see what I write

a constructionist poet once said:
poems with words are quite dead
I’ll just draw a squiggle
because it makes me giggle
who cares if it cannot be read

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Dear Granddaughter

Here is my pile of letters that you long to read.
You may think I go on somehow in these words
and if you knew them you would finally know me.
But these sheets are just mummies
in their wooden box mausoleum.

As soon as you write my story
it will already be lost
will still be lost
will be lost all over again.
Why should anyone care about my missed chances
my struggles and death?

It is just one story
of thousands of similar stories
that ended in loss
in a way we perceive as unfair
in our narrow view of that theatre
that is the world.

So read if you want.
But if you want to find me
eat bread and drink wine
from the soil where I was last seen
and then make music
and dance.


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