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October 29, 2016

Stained glass in Trinity Episcopal Church, Tilton, NH
The whisper of you
Is in everything
I do. How can the world

Continue when your shadow
Has left the side of walls?
My hand lays cold

Without the grip of yours.
Grabbed in the violence
Of night terrors,

When you visit,
Quiet, but behind
The veil of the other side.

Bump in the night.
They say it is how
It happens.

I sink to the wooden floor
Of the vestibule in grief,
Gripping for you in angst.

I have never known
Pain as this. Even
The window casing

Crashing down and blackening
My fingernails
Cannot compare.

Yet, I cower in the dark,
Under the blankets, and knowing.
You will visit again.

This is Poem #188 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I challenged myself to spend a year in which I’d wake most mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee. By the end of the year,  I had written 241 poems.  Here, I have published second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state. 

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June 4, 2016

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Piled high, your writing overflows

From paper bags. You never

Know who may want to read

You when you are gone. 


Books line walls and windows

Let in sunlight in the afternoon-

Too hot to type then,

And solve plot problems,


Or souls. But, Saturday night,

Tap tap tap and

The whizz and whirl

As keys pound

Out a procrastinated sermon,

And the mimeograph machine

Squirts purple ink

Onto the Sunday 

Bulletin. Words


From a mount more

Authentic than these sterile,

Modern desks. 


This is Poem #88 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

This particular poem is part of a series inspired by my visit to The International Cryptozoology Museum in Portland, Maine. Some days I’d just point to a location on the museum map, and write from there.


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