poetpotter

  When my friend Valda was doing pottery, describing how to make the work strong, I pondered what she said. I thought of us (writers and poets) like potters, working with our words, massaging where the expression was weak, where the meaning wasn’t as strong, to make it stand on its own, strong and beautiful. Here's the poem that came from it (published by Tower Poetry):   Poet Potter Words are jumbled cells of clay in the potter's open hand They gather with the force of a wheel propelled by the potter's feet   The wheel spins round and round mere clay in the potter's hands mere words in the poet's mind   unfocused the neck wobbles and collapses sinks to the bottom   The potter's focus and mindful maneuvering remodel the clay   Words arrange themselves  into solid bottom, sides and neck, till the finished piece is ready for the fire of the editor's kiln   ©Carolyn R. Wilker   Also contained in Travelling Light , a collection of light-hearted...

 Sadly we did not get to the beach at all this summer. With COVID and the newer variants, it just didn't happen. Still I love being at the beach, not necessarily to sit in the hot sun or swim distances which is harder to do there, and swimming is not one of my stronger skills.  I like to walk on the beach and pay attention to waves and how they creep up or crash in, and how footprints in the sand gradually disappear each time the waves come in.  Here's a poem I wrote years ago after an early morning walk on the beach at Southampton. Beach Walk Take the sandy path along the water's edge at dawn only the cry of soaring gulls and soft lapping of waves washing the golden sand seagulls rest on rock islands in the mist where a finger of land points into the lake see the treasures scattered on the beach a slice of rock remnant of nature's force fragile shells, empty of life and branches, stripped of bark and roughness sit on the rock in the quiet of dawn listen to the music of...

I sat in my car that day waiting for the rain to lighten just a little before rushing into my Toastmasters meeting. Watching people hurry from the building, their umbrellas barely holding up to the downpour, I noticed what a heavy rainfall does and imagined the rest. Some images stay with us a while. Finally, it rains A cloud bursts its liquid load large drops pat a pat on my car roof   splat and slide        down the windshield slope             where dutiful wipers whisk them away                   to bounce off window ledges                         dance on the hood   a car wash without the suds   rain runs …      ...