2 pages from Martha Boss' "Building Poems" (1971) , 2013 10:14 AM. I am cooking soup, I am roasting beets, I am attempting to put some words here ,, glancing the howling coyote totem sitting in the firewood basket, perfectly carved, silent, axe-weathered, curved, with sharp teeth-like ridges, an ear pulled back, howling position? Drinking water from the river creek, Crestone Creek, perching along rocks in the waterfall behind our house, close, cohabitating snarls growls yip yips. Songs of survival. Greedy lips snarking,
Our little Artie is having dental surgery to day, there has been some infection in his old teeth, Maylene and I are here at home praying around him, each sitting in our little corners – she on the couch, me finding myself small on a piece of black wheelchair.... the sun is so shining, the sun is so golden today, the quiet is intense... Artie perhaps in a cold chamber, or dreaming this sunny day, a silence of white. Close to god with wet nosed perfection. OH, Noah just called, Artie just had 11 teeth extracted!!
Anyway, even if I was really a writor, one who excelled at scribing a nd revealing truths, telling my own truths or other known disillusionment, other kinds of tails, no recklessness , anything, all of it, forever and forever full f genius,of words to display, intellect , empty full, a cadence that comes from brilliance, Even if. Then every character in my nonovel would be based on my perceptions or on practical data of observation... there is nothing else. Reading history, living thru wars, dying, breathing. All. I have nonovel to write. I have silence yet no quiet,,,,,,
the paintings have changing energies. Here is a new one again, from one of the Howard McCord poetry books.
Our little Artie is having dental surgery to day, there has been some infection in his old teeth, Maylene and I are here at home praying around him, each sitting in our little corners – she on the couch, me finding myself small on a piece of black wheelchair.... the sun is so shining, the sun is so golden today, the quiet is intense... Artie perhaps in a cold chamber, or dreaming this sunny day, a silence of white. Close to god with wet nosed perfection. OH, Noah just called, Artie just had 11 teeth extracted!!
Anyway, even if I was really a writor, one who excelled at scribing a nd revealing truths, telling my own truths or other known disillusionment, other kinds of tails, no recklessness , anything, all of it, forever and forever full f genius,of words to display, intellect , empty full, a cadence that comes from brilliance, Even if. Then every character in my nonovel would be based on my perceptions or on practical data of observation... there is nothing else. Reading history, living thru wars, dying, breathing. All. I have nonovel to write. I have silence yet no quiet,,,,,,
the paintings have changing energies. Here is a new one again, from one of the Howard McCord poetry books.
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