Tag Archives: Poetry

Project 366 – Week 44

302/366
discovered I have
eight unfinished novels, not
“just” five as I’d thought

303/366
being productive
is more satisfying than
procrastination

304/366
down the hall, knocking:
tap-tap, tap-tap. “open the
door, I can hear you.”

305/366
3-something a.m.
more knocking: thud-thump thud-thump
then: “it’s the police.”

306/366
it’s November 1st
on your mark, get set, go! time
to NaNoWriMo!

307/366
you can’t call someone
a “terrible person” for be-
ing disappointed

308/366
argh, fruit flies! …and then
I recall the apricot
eye experiments…

Project 366 – Week 43

295/366
october twenty-
first, not bad. first time this year
I turned on the heat.

296/366
snow dusts the tops of
the mountains, outlining the
evergreens in white

297/366
my feet are frosty
a sign perhaps I should start
wearing socks again

298/366 eeeek!
cat? raccoon? no! skunk!!!
hold very still and try to
look non-threatening

299/366
oh, number 3 bus
drunk guys rambling on & on
always an adventure

300/366
just 3 weeks ago
I was still running in shorts
and now? not so much.

301/366 (overheard, on the bus)
“…I’m younger than my
niece…” “MAMA!” “…faces on TV
were getting smaller…”

whee! I’m in the 300s!

Project 366 – Week 42

288/366
sunday afternoon,
the mall as amusement park
filled with families

289/366
hey, a man calls out
he’s just seen a coyote
running in the rain

290/366
someone underlined
the word ‘glistened,’ wrote in the
margin: shine brightly

291/366
on the left, rubble
and, for a moment, I am
disoriented

292/366
all you will want is
for your satisfactions to
outweigh your regrets

293/366
fingernail of moon
illuminating dark clouds
a Halloween sky

294/366
woken by sudden
pounding rainstorm pummeling
the roof with its fists

Project 366 – Week 41

281/266
it’s thanksgiving eve
tomorrow is thanksgiving
being pedantic

282/266
outside everyone
is acting like it’s summer
on thanksgiving day

283/266
why is the sky brown?
today, a veil of brownish-
gray shrouds the mountains

284/266
on the bright side (heh)
gloomy days are awesome for
productivity

285/266
construction nail gun
goes snap snap snap snap plastic
flaps in the wind snap

286/266
is it too soon to
start complaining about it
being cold & dark?

287/266
the rain stops but the
humidity remains; sweat
seeps from every pore.

Project 366 – Week 40

274/366
still sunny but the
leaves are turning yellow orange
red brown anyway

275/366
and in the midst of
the sawing and hammering,
a house-builder sings

276/366
I guess smokers are
more resistant to the cold
than the rest of us

277/366
waking with windows
closed against chilliness for
the first time since spring

278/366
switching to capris
officially entering
fall running season

279/366
telemarketers,
here’s a pro-tip: do not call
at 3:12 am

280/366
temperature drops
complementary colors
bloom orange against blue

Project 366 – Week 39

267/366
and finally, a
good run. happy feet humming
along the sidewalk

268/366
buttercup squash soup
biscuits shaped like maple leaves
fresh from the oven

269/266
not-so-random thought:
wonder how one goes about
hiring an intern

270/366
how you know it’s fall:
running in the dark again
sunset comes early

271/366
I feel like Martha
Stewart: organization…
it’s (quite) a good thing.

272/366
sultry air slithers
and the sky reluctantly
begins to spit rain

273/366
the bus stops and out
spill a throng of old women
to do week’s shopping

Project 366 – Week 38

260/366
legs are so heavy
each step is like pulling foot
out of a mud bog

261/366
the dissertation
is officially started
let the fun begin

262/366
summer, you fooled me
thought you were drifting away
but you’re hanging on

263/366
“holy shit!” —from a
car’s open window as it
crosses a speed bump

264/366
my new favorite thing:
home fries and fried eggs baked in
a cast-iron pan

265/366
scanning is hella
boring but later will be
appreciated

266/366
first day of autumn
on cue, the sun disappears
a cloud curtain drops

if you have to be sure don’t write

I saw this quoted in an essay I read this weekend and I had to hunt down the poem:

I had hardly begun to read
I asked how can you ever be sure
that what you write is really
any good at all and he said you can’t

you can’t you can never be sure
you die without knowing
whether anything you wrote was any good
if you have to be sure don’t write

W. S. Merwin,
from “Berryman“