I have been cleaning my home office ("handle everything once") and came across a bundle of abandoned poems from some years ago. Here's one --


Mornings I woke early,
put on coffee, brushed
my teeth, then sat
down, my hands on the keyboard.
The computer was crammed
behind the living room couch.
If I was lucky, the words
fluttered and sang.
If the words did not come
I worked on an odd paragraph,
hammering it against the rock
of its own meaning until
it burst and released a morsel
of truth. The openings
of chapters became very fine,
then overwrought. The sun rose
and the household (husband
and daughters) slowly awoke.
Now when I look back
over those pages and pages
I finally know that what I was doing
wasn't writing, not
in any mere sense of writing.
I was struggling with the word.
And I still struggle to know it,
the word that was in the beginning,
in the world's morning,
and was good.


  1. I like that - struggling with the word and it was there all the time WAITING for you to re-remember. Funny I was just thinking about your dissertation and what it might be about??

    Thank you for the birthday greeting.

  2. Female Bastards in American Literature. Cool, no?

    I wrote my diss. when Annie and Pearl were toddlers and graduated just before they turned three. It was a very intense time in my life and I remember it so vividly.

    Thank you for asking!


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