Author: sobrietypoet

Day 47

Just an observation before I settle into a stupid horror movie for my Sunday nightcap (sorry, terrible pun but I’m not editing this). I need to get this out for my own sake because one day I will read this as a sort of vitals check. A “where was I at and what was I…

If…

If you take a picture of the moon you will never be satisfied. If you walk barefoot in the grass your cats will sniff longingly after your toes. If you put your ear up against hundreds of leaves colliding in a breeze you will hear the ocean. If you can’t bring yourself to turn on…

White Orchids

White orchids don’t have Instagram accounts, much less fake ones posed in a pitcher for my cats to chew on. Still, I wondered yesterday if they long to be noticed and find it insufferable to go days at a time without a single soul snapping their picture. If you really think about it, it’s not…

Day 41

I ended the evening with my daughter in the living room. No phones, no television, no music. Just the soft static and sighs of a house settling in for the night with its people. I held the moment with her as long as I could. Laughing like twelve year old girls. Where purity and presence…

Day 40

“…sometimes it is necessary to reteach a thing its loveliness, to put a hand on the brow of the flower and retell it in words and in touch it is lovely…”

Day 39

Saturday with three cats looks like a lot of belly up to the ceiling fan, frequent trips to the feed trough and an irresponsible amount of coffee. The rather large queen in my featured image is my totem for the weekend and certainly day 39. But I’ve been clean long enough now to see the…

Day 38

First night in bed with Cara. My new laptop. Antiope, Diana and Stevie made the short list of names on the drive home from Best Buy, but Cara felt right. I didn’t want her to remind me of anyone else. I needed a new relationship. Even if a computer. Cara means friend. And Anam Cara,…

Origin

Merwin said on the last day of the world he would plant a tree Not for the fruit bearer but for the one that stands in the earth for the first time What for Wisdom’s genesis   Innocence.  Wonder.  Remembrance. That the first and ever ancient spirits are ants and spiders And the land is…

For Edgar Allan Poe

You fancy me mad? DARK H     e     a     v     y Popping open one pale eye into trashed bed sheets Gray,  ghastly eye with film over it Not seeing but feeling wine stains and plastic bottles soiling the carpet Not hearing but feeling the muffled pulse of my own Tell-Tale Heart ushering me into that hideous…