Tag Archives: poetry

Autumn Approaches

This is the time of year when the trees begin to look tired. They grow weary of holding their brave, green face. What was bright and lush in the spring is faded and washed by the end of August. They are simply done. They are ready to let go.

The leaves may yellow, but they are not fearful — not of the impending chill or their imminent descent to the earth. Soon, they turn red, a parting gift to us, flaming out as they detach and drift slowly to the ground.

They abandon the branches to face winter alone, to cope with their sudden exposure and bear the weight of snow. The leaves will nestle into the earth, becoming untethered from the backbone of xylem and phloem and liberated from the guise of cuticle, seeking safe harbor in the roots that once nourished them to life. They will come to return the favor.

In the spring, the leaves will be back, speckling the branches with a spry, verdant charm we will have almost forgotten over the ardor of winter. All will be awakened, and all will be new.

Photo by clearlyambiguous / Flickr Creative Commons


The Lament of Punxsutawney Phil

In a past life, I was a poet. And at one point, I wrote a terza rima about Groundhog’s Day. Enjoy.

The Lament of Punxsutawney Phil

I will not be your sundial this year.
I hear you clamor
across TV truck wires in the square,

waiting, but still I must put a damper
on your gathering.
See, I know I am just a paramour,

an annual fling. So cease bothering
me in my warm hole
with your boorish, portentous nattering;

I know the truth. I am not the first fool
you’ve tricked to go
into this prognosticative cesspool,

to be exalted on the Today Show
and kissed by Katie,
to be targeted, marketed, and sold

like a Tickle Me Elmer Fudd. Maybe
it would suffice to
confess: I’m afraid — of light, of Katie,

even of myself. (If only you knew —
my Peter Pan fights
with my shadow are quite angry to-dos.

I do not want to squint in the bright light
to see that sad thing.
I live in the dark for a reason.) Might

I read a note from Phil the First, whose things
still litter this den?
“A word to the next: You’d best see nothing.”

I know now what he meant; despite your yen
for this burly shrew,
my shadow’s the last thing you want seen then,

lest I be the scapegoat, the damned hog who
summoned another
cockeyed winter. So, when you give that cue,

my dark reflection will hide from cold earth
and still colder air.
And also, my name isn’t Phil; it’s Earl.

The Poet That Was

My poetry collection

Originally uploaded by radiofreegeorgy

Nowadays, my writing is focused on mainly journalistic endeavors — freelance newspaper articles, coverage of the university I work for, personal essay projects and of course this blog. I am pretty happy on this track and looking forward to further success along it. But if you asked 18-year-old me if she would like to be in this spot, she would likely recoil and shake her head. “Nuh-uh, no way.” Because, in my heart, I was a poet.

I have always been a writer. Whether it was short stories, essays for school, taglines and puns on the fly or for a project, you name it. I could write it all, and well. Since middle school, though, my energies had been focused on poetry. That could, of course, have had something to do with being a hyperemotive teenager. But there was more to it than that. For me, poetry wasn’t just a medium; it was a language, a fundamental way of understanding and translating the world around me.

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