Tag Archives: prose poetry

2026, everyday words, Ohio River Valley Literature, poetry, the no-scape

all our stories, the ones worth memory

I find myself returning to old habits. The mornings blur, punctuated by the necessity to move. Away from the river the itchy foot kicks in and needs moving in spite of the new old man hip that moans when the rain knocks on the wind and the stairs keep going. The feet must keep going. Making sure I am present when I am home and finding ways to stretch this new old man hip out on the road. Must go and make use of the time. I have done the thing that frightened me, which is dig in and be in a single space, though that space turned out to be the land between the bridges, which opened up the river, that great world’s wound. And now, here I am, back on the road, riding different wounds and different currents. But they are not unfamiliar.

moments taken apart and cleaned within a millimeter
the surface must be clean and smooth to reduce friction
examined and repaired, each breath polished to a high shine
equipment checked and double-checked
firebox boots retooled, bring out the road hat
there are currents and islands to be found
mooncasts and sunrises to bask in
the stars make their own map
and tell all our stories, the ones worth memory

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steam water feed pump, winterized.
2026, Day Book, everyday words, Ohio River Valley Literature

Daybook 2026 // Winter 1.6.26

This body wakes me at night, all silence and waiting. 

After going to bed at a reasonable hour (I have been returned to the reasonable hours) not so much for the lack of things to do or the energy, but the absence of  will to go further in the moment. 

This is what a seed feels like, buried deep in cold dirt, right?

Last night I woke up around 2 in the morning, itchy-throated and coughing. These seasonal ills linger longer when the body has fewer requirements on it. This, I tell myself, is what a winterized steam pump feels like; the rusty bits itchy against air and metal and gear memory of energy turned into work. I must talk my brain out of steam engine metaphors. They drive me away from where the currents keep depositing me, demanding I make good. It’s easy to show bravado until it isn’t. Cast out into the world again at 52, a few years younger than when Confucius began his great (and last) 12 year journey.

I make myself get up so’s not to wake her up. Her days are still filled with the world while mine are flooding with words, gray hair, and an insistence that mocks wisdom. Drag, drag, drag the body, leftover from scattered winter sleep with the hope of a seed and faith in the love of her whose sleep I guard leaving the bed.

The morning will not be kind. I will have to choose how kind to be to it.

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2023, Ohio River Valley Literature, Poet's Life, poetry, Prose Poem, the no-scape

Day 24, 2023 (no.1)

When I was 23 and read Auden for the first time, an older poet friend was surprised I liked him. “I think you have to be older to really appreciate him.” I reread “As I Walked Out One Evening” regularly and find different reasons to appreciate him. Before it was his sarcasm, the promise of salmon singing in the street. Now it’s the endurance. I think I might be old enough now to appreciate F. Scott Fitzgerald, the sad determination of boats beating back against the current.

[for George]

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