The Writing Beetle.

  Not even snowflakes in a snow globe fall so slowly upwards  when turned on its side.  Spiraling Prismatically  Upwards  Undersides of wings remain outstretched The seagulls glide the currents of the ocean breeze Holding steady positions as they glide  On unseen currents  Like a mobile for a child  Like a miniature milky way  Swirling up on currents unseen.  Running beneath the towering galaxy of birds The wind smooths out the sea,  Like a baker rolling out dough,  The excess of his loaf pushing up the shore.  Boats far enough out to look like  Children’s toys scattered Left behind after a long bath  In dropped anchor awe Of the Spanish coastline  Where the sun reaches long Spilling like melted butter From the baker's brush.  Eventually the breeze peeters out,  And the birds settle upon the ocean. “One more dance,” I whisper to the birds.  Willing them off their aquatic laurels  But then...

  (why do) I hate watching other people on their phones.  Their scrolling, swiping, chuckling,  Over a small screen angers me.  I’m annoyed by their engagement In ways that I’m not annoyed by   A stranger reading a book at the cafe,  Someone strolling with headphones,  Watching someone's face light up when they  Answer the phone and hear  A friends voice,  The smile on someone's face when they open the kitchen oven,  And the scent of their baked good wafts through the room.  Other people sit around,  Scrolling through glimpses into  Other people’s lives,  Sometimes laughing to the point of tears,  Over other people’s performances,  And curated lives.  Asking me to come “look at this” Spamming me with links  Like inside joke love bombs  Of the sweetest intent,  To indicate to me,  That they saw something  I too would laugh at And what a special thing it is To know what ...

  I was walking in the field,  Head down into the wind,  Hands driving deep into my coat pockets,  Beginning to walk up the hill,   Back home,  The constant January wind tiring me,  When I heard overhead,  The familiar squawk of geese,  Like the bridge of a song  I’ve heard endlessly  The seasonal passage of birds,  But then, the honks  Became a cacophony,  Peering up, from under my hat,  I saw the two distinct Vs heading north Collapse,  Melting into a momentary puddle of birds,  Before finding formation again,   A single bird taking the point dragging the lines back to formation  leading the flocks south,  Away from the incoming storm,  Away from the northern cold  Barrelling through the field. But why were they flying North in the first place?  Where are they going now?  How does that internal clarion call of nature work?  Harkening you to faroff plac...

People waiting on a crowded subway platform,  The train approaching,  To go cups and small bouquets of flowers Huddle in crossed arms Lined up at the platform edge,  The after lunch rush,  The approaching car thundering into place,  Demanding a pause in its audience’s lunch catch up In the moments of pause -  The doors open -  She says -  “I thought of you”   You pause -  [Mind the gap] “In pottery class,” she says-  “My teacher, She reminded me of you” [Mind the gap]  “Oh?”  Next stop.  “Yeah, she just had something about her.”  I smile to myself.  It’s the most delightful feeling  To know  You’ve been thought of. 

  There she is -  The girl that didn’t jump  On the passing opportunity  As it swung by  Amidst the cliche music  Her cinematic  Blossoming  Never happened.  Is she still the “before” then?  If there’s still no “after”?  Where’s the alchemy of change?  And why do we only care about caterpillars because of butterflies?  What if there’s no transformation?  What if I'm always stuck?  Then?  There? 

A poetry prompt to use these words in a short poem: whisper, mirror, flame, secret, sky:    Your eyes, my secret sky. My thunderous heartbeat, a stampede of desire.  Your smile mirrors mine,  cracking wide like a lightning strike,  cheeks erupting in flame. 

  A kind man died recently. He was a dad, an athlete, a colleague, a farmer, a student of life. He was a friend that I hadn't spoken to in years. He knew his time was soon and he somehow had the capacity in his heart to reach out and let friends throughout his forty years of life know. Maybe to offer us a chance to say something, because in his final message to me, he communicated his deep peace with his timeline. A peace that rattled me, because I hate the randomness of cancer, the cruelty of a father missing his children's lives. The sudden reconnection and passing of this friend barely a week later rattled me in a way I wasn't expecting. We hadn't talked in years. And frankly, I hadn't thought to reach out. Maybe it was how peaceful he was in his final message to me, a peace I still ponder. It led me to consider the idea of closure. This is a poem in the works on closure, because goodness I hope we never settle on a final thought on a life, on a friend on a memor...

  did you know the bird would build its nest  on the wreath of our front door  again and again  each spring? deciding each march  that the circle of bent wood and fake yellow flowers  hanging  against the bright red of our front door   would be the place  she would continue to call home  and raise her young from tiny eggs. tempting us to crane our necks  and bend our ears towards the  carefully closed door listening  for tiny bird song each morning  listening  for  life  on the  other   side  of our own.  - Katie Riedel  A poem inspired during Bets' writing circle <3

  did you know that you'd sit  spiraling  over the past like an ice fisherman  perched atop a bucket overlooking a small hole  you carved into the ice  peering into what's turned to ice to see what life  might still exist beneath.  no fishing pole insight.  you'd hate for the world  to know you're still here  curious what you might catch  looking back, looking down.  except, when they say, look within,  they don't specify, always, do they?  sometimes within can mean without to a mind not ready to move on.  maybe the lake never thaws.  maybe the ice always stays.  maybe you learn to accept  when you're searching for something to quench the longing  of how things used to be, when you ask for water, sometimes you get ice.  and you laugh,  when they say,  be like water.  because you know what they mean,  be fluid, keep moving,  but did you know,  sometimes,...

 Large lightning bugs sit suspended Mid quiet crack of illumination  Shining out over empty white lines.  People sit cocooned in metal  Faces turned down Necks craning over  The pooling blue light  In their lap.  Looking for something inside of themselves reflected back. Motors idle  Like minds.  The only sign of life - Tap -tap - tap - tap Next - next - next - next  Like an irregular heartbeat  On a cardiac arrest patient  Brief moments of life pass every few seconds between taps  None worthy of more attention, not even their own.  This. This is the great withdrawal.  Playing out in cars, on ships, at desks, on couches, in airplanes. The only light (taking life)  Is the square (endless night) When will The great squares of lightning come down upon our common chest  To shock our eyes open  To force us to look up At the light of the moon  And gasp  BREATHE  BREATHE BREATHE 

My tongue disappears  Falling back  Down my throat Into the void  Of my center My eyes vacant  As my mouth remains mute.  My eyes close as I lean back  Into the water.  Gurgling sounds of “Why don’t you like to talk about yourself?’ Wobble above me The warped sound of  Hearing voices from under water  As my mind retreats to a full  Underwater dissociation  How quickly from just grabbing coffee,  To falling down my  Throat To lying on my back  Under the water  Of all the things I’ve left Unspoken  When the question  Is   … me  Not reborn,  No Lazarus here,  No magical magnetic intervention of the spirit,  But still I  Rise out of the water  To walk over to the archeological  Dig site  Of my past  Looking for evidence  Of a life lived  But there’s nothing there  Just a half written tombstone  Crumbling in the dust A life unfinished...