Psst…this is not a poem. This is a mosaic of thoughts designed to make me feel as if I’ve earned creative writing points today, good for cash and prizes. 

The poems I attempted are mostly fragments. A couplet struts around in its ruffled underwear, convinced it’s a full poem. It won’t let me wash its face or put a dress on it. It insists it WILL kiss someone in the town square. 

Gorl, please. I would tell Word Raccoon to go fetch her, but WR is on her side. 

I started out with reading Nine Gates for half an hour. Still good, so good, and I made notes like crazy, but also? Sometimes Hirshfield sprouts a sentence and I can’t help but think either I am not reading carefully, or this sentence is impenetrable. Maybe that’s where the trouble started this morning. (It’s me, not her. I swear.) 

And so much talk of form. Fine for everyone else, admirable, even, but form is not for me. 

Well, stanzas. We need those, right? (But that’s not form. Or is it?)

People at the café are talking too loudly, flinging their hands like conductors.

Speaking of…

Schubert keeps time to my mind at first, until I wonder why I didn’t choose Mozart. 

Mozart, now. Better. Still busy, but better.

I’m trying to write about La Sagrada Familia.
I’m trying to write a poem.
I’m trying to write something.

I’m bouncing between phone calls, texts, and the grocery app where I’m attempting to remember Super Glue. 

I received a business email I’ve been waiting on.
Checked it.
Skimmed it.
Saved it for “later,” whatever that means.

I’ve tried to write four poems today.
One because I was frustrated.
Three because I couldn’t not try.
And still: nothing landed.

I have had paragraphs of conversations in my head with various folks who walked by. I have had actual conversations with patrons, some I know, some I don’t. 

I wish I had the ability to call squirrels to me.
I watch them far too often when I should be writing.

Do you suppose they are hoping I will write about them?

I scare the neighborhood cats away from them like I’m a squirrel bodyguard.

Not on my watch, cats. Not on my watch. 

The only thing about Mozart:
His music can sound melancholy, if you let it.
(Don’t let it.)

I can’t write to the other, fun stuff today. My brain will not stay still as it is. Pop would be disastrous for my writing ambitions. 

The leaves on the Japanese maple tree in front of the cafe are browning in several spots and I’m feeling it. 

Transience. That’s what I was reading about in Nine Gates. 

I don’t believe in the apocalypse, except the soft kind. (My thanks to Emma Swift for the phrase.) 

Calm down, Word Raccoon, they’re only leaves. They’ll come back again.

I haven’t seen the sun yet today.
My brain is solar powered, I swear.

By extension…

Though I’ve been told it looks as if I’m wearing it. (I’m wearing a very bright netted coverup. Because apparently Word Raccoon thought we were going to the beach.)

(She throws color at a gray day.)

And I did see a good facsimile of the sun, if I’m not mistaken. Which is always welcome. More than.  

So many beautiful moments, really.
But I’ve poked a hole in my bag somewhere, 

and they keep slipping through. 

Let’s see if I can sew it up.

There’s always this evening. 

Also, I miss cheese. And butter. My god. 

Be patient, WR. Be patient. 

I think she just needs to be scooped up and rocked and for someone to say, “I know.” 

Near the gym this afternoon, Word Raccoon made a beeline for a glorious pine cone. Now my hands smell like sap and the holidays. 

I’m not complaining.

The pine cone is sitting with me on the porch, and I’m trying not to go back for the rest. 

The white stuff on it is just resin.

Don’t tell me what happens to those that remain behind. I’d rather not know, unless it’s something nice.

It’s later now and LOOK! The sun came out after all! 

I ended up submitting two batches of poems, and I have bookmarked a couple of places to send my collection out to. 

I really want to write my poems on cocktail napkins and slide them down the bar and say HERE, LOL.

WR insisted I record that poem I mentioned yesterday on video, so I did, and it didn’t kill me. 

WR is now flipping through our photo albums, looking at our favorite ones, one of her after-writing pastimes. 

“This is a good one, isn’t it?” 

Well, which one isn’t? 

Word Raccoon finds a photo where one of her bestest squirrels looks soft, relaxed, unguarded. She’s jealous. Of course she is.

What did you expect, WR? Your whole vibe is wired. Chill.

Go to bed, WR. Get some sleep. 

That’s where the dreams are. 

And you know what they say about the sun and tomorrow.

WR just left the porch shaking her head in disgust.

I don’t blame her. I deserved that.

(Shh…we’ve almost forgotten that the “t” word from above, from Nine Gates, spooked us. That’s no small word.)