Kenneth Godoy sits with me and a few others around a small table every Friday, discussing the weighty subjects of Migration and Diaspora. He also happens to be one of my favorite poets and photographers. This poem is his. *** Who is responsible for the dead people on the Aegean. The women from Syria and
I clasp the hands of God, Then break away to run shrieking Across the fields of Rusk County. He catches me easily, And we laugh. He holds me tight As I struggle against his arms. Tossing me across his shoulders, We watch the setting sun. “Please, God, could we, If it works with
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I gather glints and sparkles from the crests of waves. Dark waters roil beneath. I photograph trees tall in a forest; The rough bark that scratches my fingers can never be felt. Fish, sparkles, sequins lie splayed across pages Where they dry in the sun. Below, life. *** Since this poem mystified my mom, and
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Words are not objects exactly, but people perhaps. Children, reflections of me. Laugh, skip, sing, jump, joy pour word on word then mist through wild entwining rivers rushing and roaring through acres of time. Words are not objects exactly. Pluck words from the air twirl on a finger, arrange on a page. Hard fast hard
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I think I sensed it before I got out of bed this morning: a certain happiness, a lightness in my spirit like the light peeking through the edges of my closed blind. I got up, opened the blind. The room flooded with white light. Snow on the ground! So that was it. I am always
That Day We Call Thanksgiving Read More »