November is National Novel Writing Month...

so I am writing poetry. My goal is to simply write poetry--because old habits die hard, I am calling it a 30 day challenge, though my goal is to write every day, perhaps not write 30 poems in 30 days. I have had an incredible long dry spell with my writing for a myriad of reasons/excuses/choices, though primarily because of commitments (other commitments and lack of commitment to writing). I miss the poem but am no longer willing to fore go everything else for the poem. I also realize that I have raised my internal bar and I loathe a large percentage of my first drafts--and that writing a poem I truly feel good about--a fully cooked poem--takes time--and my time is thin. I am not all that into sacrifice---and don't buy into the belief that poets are anymore insightful, sensitive or thinking than the rest of the world. I don't do the tortured/persecuted artist routine very well; I don't have the personality for it. I miss everything else when I write and miss writing when I do everything else. I am re-engineering how I write a poem--my goal for November is to write a bit every day--whether I squeeze 15 minutes or an hour for the words-----30 poems, 15 poems or 5 poems---it just doesn't matter.

November Poem Two


Living Room

Unmarked from my scent; It is free
from clamor, the contents from newly emptied
pockets, and the guilted horse ridden through child dreams.
The palomino died of sleeping sickness, an omen, in retrospect
of rooms that replicate folding back onto themselves, inside
out and backwards. Reversed mirrored images of my parents house,
Left behind…before happily ever…and after once
upon a time. This new room unfettered by oily fingerprints
could be any ones room. No ones room. Blank. I imagine
some one other--cradled in beige's warm haven.
I have banished (temporarily) the clutter
of sentiment, And for now. I inhale quiet,
embrace starkness; my things wrapped in cellophane;
gathering dust in a teak box of ash.