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
January 2, 2017
Back to Basics
About the same time that the sun was
beginning to stretch its arms under
curtains, thirsty dogs emerging from dry drainage ditches, deer
darting their heads and eyes, alerted to the
early delivery trucks, Emily was up
foraging for a story Coffee
gurgled, a hiss and steam into being,
half metamorphosis , half elixir. Half milk,
so graciously far from its origins,
half cream, that rich flavor in our
imagination, have I
jinxed it? intercessional silence of newly falling snow
kept me awake, incessant drip-drip of snowmelt just outside the window casing
Icicles like scissor hands reach eave to railing.
Evergreens don knitted white winter dresses, skintight and figure flattering
Luminous this winter dawn, this northern
morning patiently awaiting awakening.
Nothing quite like the quiet meditation
of opening a day, unwrapping its
pocket-lining present The pace of our tomorrows is not so petty,
quilted silk though i’d not rectify the bard.
Rub upon one’s fingertips, soothe the worries out, to synthesize
sensations of reawakening from chrysalis of sleep. Emerging into
tawdry tedium: grim ink headlines, diaper changes or dirty dishes—
the moments where we lose sight of all our best intentions,
which were to not lose sight of all our best intentions.
Understand this: such
valor and value in simple stuttered statements, in back-to-basics, ABC’s -
willingness to breathe into the fuck-ups, to start over, start over, start over
X-ing out all the earlier false starts.
You know what? There was no story.
Only coffee, only restarts, a hot shower, an overarching forgiveness
Disappointments leave no scars and point no fingers.
There is no end, for the best we can do is look back and see
how far we’ve come, and how far we have yet to go.
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