YOGA FOR WRITERS
Wonder, Transformation, Miracle
June 19, 2019
Where the Light Enters You
February 6, 2019
January 13, 2019
What Gets in the Way
October 16, 2018
September 25, 2018
August 4, 2018
An Open Letter to My Son’s Friends at the Prom After-Party Weekend
May 14, 2018
The Future Drinks Coconut Cream Iced Coffee
April 24, 2018
May the Force Be With You
December 31, 2017
November 14, 2017
21 Days of Yoga
May 17, 2016
August 22, 2016
The Heart of Good-bye
I used to live, more than sussed out
life, sucked at its marrow, nursed it, vampired
its succulence, in a mute city,
a place where my words puckered the last
taste of lime, flavor of Luca’s wine. Sounds
from my mouth were foundries
of rusted iron,
cables of copper, stripped for meth.
But I heaved and hefted them aloft, hot
air balloons battling gravity
Four million btu’s of gases ascending
over fields of rapeseed, burrowing ferrets.
I coiled them in a labyrinth, a ropewalk,
so meta—I the walker, I the mason who laid the path,
my gait a trail of heel-toe-limp, heel-toe-limp,
one way in, one way out,
one way back again to center.
Slow and conscientiously I collected language
like a wind collects leaves in a corner.
They swirled in an unruly dance
that colored my tongue,
consonants and che bella’s in a tarantella
Lenka danced with me on Wednesdays,
Nan in the courtyard and the kitchen.
Matilde la maestra, Zuzka and Lucka
and Chiara and Camilla, my muses and my students.
And Lee wrote and Lee read and Brenda cooked and
Belinda sang and Belinda played and Belinda prayed
and we all flew away.
Oh, what poetry had finally begun to flow.
Oh, what sorrow followed.
And what is sorrow but the handprint of a wave,
the make of a ghost,
the mark of what we knew before we lost it?
Stars flying into the sunrise
like dross, ripples on the pond
after the fish has kissed the water,
ripples on the tongue
after the pilgrim has tasted bread.
Here, now, I will teach my feet to two-step.
I will teach my throat to thirst again,
not for Gill’s tea or Jiři’s cappucino,
but for raindrops, for the buttery sound of y’all,
for Sandburg’s synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.
At the bakery down the road from Connemara,
Dad and I ate summer scones
with apricots and cream. I uttered prayers
to the skies I’m under, I cheered the baseball boys,
I dove in like I’d never left the water.
But, the ocean knows when a body leaves,
what a body surrenders to the shore,
how a body loses a little bit of buoyancy
every time a body waves goodbye.
Beloit Poetry Journal
Czech language and culture
Give and Receive
Life of Pi
New Stage Theater
Now I Don't
Now I See
When Grace Walks in the Door
Write from Your Center
Yoga for Creative Writers
save the ta-tas