Here are more poems from Dec. 13. I read a poem by Julie Buffaloe-Yoder and I had to respond. This is the poem I created. Unfortunately I did not note the name of the poem that included the mule and the dusty clay, but if you asked Julie I she might be able to tell you, and even better, if you search her archives looking for it, you will find many delights. She is a magnificent poet.
I swim in shallows,
Know it when I hear from you
The story, the truth
Of the deep of things,
The dusty clay heart of things.
The smell of the dung
Of the mule who kicked
Her face is still strong and good.
And I shrink from it.
This poem happened in the evening several hours later. I don't remember what prompted it at all. I have had to edit just a little. I tried something and at this point am sure it didn't work. I tried originally for a rhyme and it was so out of character with the rest that it only drove home what I know. I don't try for rhyming poetry because I can't rhyme. I don't think right for creating living rhymes, can only make stupid clunky foolish rhymes. In forty years my best rhymes only succeed in making me squirm.
The only thing worse is dialogue. I can't write a fiction to save my life because somewhere along the line I have to use dialogue and my best dialogue makes me nauseous. That's why I absolutely love Gregory MacDonald. McDonald? He wrote the Fletch and Flynn books. He was president of the mystery writer's guild. He got awards. His Fletch was made into a movie. Some of his work is almost 100% dialogue. God.
The words between us
Are so cold they freeze my lips
And drop to the ground.
I can't get it, how you've left.
You say words straight but I can't
Your cold words crash me,
Hurt my ears, freeze them white shut.
They fall off my head.
Why do I say these cold things?
Why do you? What has happened?