Ars Poetica is in its ninth year here on the west side of Puget Sound. Poets living in Kitsap, Jefferson, and Mason (that's me) Counties submit up to three poems to a jury of local artists who choose one or more poems to interpret in their chosen medium. 

When complete, the art is displayed in participating galleries, and usually culminates in author-artist events at the galleries, where the poets read their poems standing alongside the artwork inspired by their poems, and the artist speaks about his or her creation, and how the poem inspired it. 

This year, of course, everything is different. The events never took place, and most of the exhibits were cancelled. Thankfully, a number of poems and the accompanying artwork are on display during the month of September at the Poulsbohemian Coffeehouse in Poulsbo, WA. In addition, local artist Bev Hanson has put together a virtual exhibit of the Poulsbohemian exhibit, features statements from both the artists and poets. 

I love the watercolor that accompanies one of my poems:

Outside My Window             
 
Outside my window
in early morning fog
eagle finds a salmon
bleached in decay
washed ashore the day before
lays claim with anchored talons
rips flesh with razored beak
until it sees me looking
out from behind glass
too close for its comfort
flaps its mighty wings
flies out of view
holding fast to the fish
I walk to the kitchen
for breakfast
one life feeds another

Midnight May 31, 2020
 
If a poem could keep
the world from exploding,
other lives from imploding
I’d never put down my pen.
I’d ink blank pages
until fingers cramped, blistered,
and bled, until the marks
of artistic suffering smeared
the alphabet of good intentions.
 
I’d write until compelled
to stop and look upon
the streaked mess
I’d made of creation.
Forced to cease
my frenetic struggle
for self-expression
I’d rub a tired hand
across my neck
and just breathe in and out
because I can
live in the present moment.
 
I’d see tears of privilege
smear my careful pages
forming corona bursts
that spread like wildfire
consuming poetic constructs.
 
Ink seeping into blood
bleeding into grief that overflows
its banks surging with despair
flooding foundations
that were supposed to protect
our fragility but crumble
under the weight of oppression.
Exposing the rotten materials
upon which we’ve built
systems that promise
to uphold everyone
but never could
support the weight of equality
and that fail all of us now
as illusions of protection
and safety collapse.
 
The walls tumble down
and we are broken, shattered
scattered along the streets
cowering in quarantined homes
victims of an unseen virus,
supremacy, and privilege.
Barely masked vitriol
is such flimsy covering
against what we truly need to face.
 
I should be standing
alongside those destroyed
by the shadow side
we once tried to hide
but are now parading and tweeting.
Our naked underbelly celebrated
our worst selves shined up
our deepest fears inflicted
upon others we dehumanize
in order to keep our motives
unexamined our wounds unhealed.
 
My voice is so easily spoken
my words so easily heard
my views so easily accepted
my pen so easily plied.
But you who’ve been silenced
you who’ve been ignored
you who’ve been shunned--
protest. Riot if you must.
Burn your truth into my skin
and may your cries
haunt me to the grave.

Ars Poetica is in its ninth year here on the west side of Puget Sound. Poets living in Kitsap, Jefferson, and Mason (that's me) Counties submit up to three poems to a jury of local artists who choose one or more poems to interpret in their chosen medium. 

When complete, the art is displayed in participating galleries, and usually culminates in author-artist events at the galleries, where the poets read their poems standing alongside the artwork inspired by their poems, and the artist speaks about his or her creation, and how the poem inspired it. 

This year, of course, everything is different and the displays as well as events have been canceled.
Fortunately members of the Bainbridge Island Photography club have been connecting via email with the poets whose words they interpreted. Here is the beautiful digital photograph created by Chuck Eklund in response to my poem, "Drifting to Sleep."

Drifting to Sleep
We gather behind the curtain of imagination
waiting in the wings as the orchestra
conducts its overture before crimson velvet
All our cares flutter toward the sky
as our dreamtime ballet begins
How quickly the fantastic takes shape
beneath our star-fused eyelids
galaxies glide through our minds
like ballroom dancers spinning
tales across the glittering floor
and the universe bursts into story

Here's what Chuck Eklund has to say about his art:
This photo is set in Lake Brienz, in Switzerland. We hiked around the lake and spent the night in the village of Brienz. Even though it was summer, during the day it rained on the lake and snowed on the mountains. Amazing. The building, mountains, and growth are all around Brienz. The stars were beautiful that night. However, I didn’t have a tripod and could take only a limited exposure with camera balanced on a towel on a wall. No way to get the stars. The stars and Milky Way are from Idaho. I have always regretted not getting the stars in Brienz. Your poem made me think that I would combine the two images.
​
Thank you, Chuck, for making such a beautiful photo. I definitely feel the flight into the dream realm as my eye is drawn to the upper edge of the photo. I'm glad we could share this virtually.

In German, they call today Karfreitag (Sorrowful Friday).
Here's a poem I wrote in response:

​Bowl of Sorrows
 
On Good Friday 2020
 
This morning I place an empty bowl atop my coffee table
a vessel in which to pour our suffering and sorrows --
 
our beloved dead we cannot mourn together
our ill and dying lying in isolation
our elders in lockdown waved to from windows
our incarcerated overcrowded and incited to riot
our perilous pre-existing conditions
our harrowed healthcare providers working in horror
our first responders risking their families

our homeless without a place to call or stay home
our immigrants and refugees who can’t find refuge
our fear of black men wearing masks
our fear of everyone unmasked
everyone who lacks the privilege to shelter in place

the classrooms closed field trips furloughed
the commencement ceremonies unscheduled
the valedictory addresses vanished
the college tours cancelled libraries locked
the athletic seasons suspended

the wedding festivities forgotten
the dissolutions of marriage delayed
the tempers flared the doors slammed
the abuse behind curtains closed ever tighter
the mutual understandings unraveling
the first loves by distance fractured
 
the workplace identity whittled away
the blurred boundaries between work and home
the emptying pantries and pocketbooks
the layoffs and lost jobs
the indecipherable applications for assistance
 
the travel plans terminated border barricaded
the birthday parties banished
the beaches bunkered campgrounds closed
the worship services via wi-fi

the hugs held hostage smiles masked
the stress-snacking and viral insomnia
the gray roots exposed the ends splitting
the things I cannot even think of
 
The heartbreak of being healthy and happy
the shame of sacrificing nothing for my safety
No grief is too insignificant to acknowledge
or too monstrous to mourn
 
When Jesus suffered the unspeakable
he pleaded for our pardon
Before it was finished
he fashioned a family
Together we carry this bowl of sorrows



 
 

​A young woman lit up with new love
the radiant smile of a groom
the inner glow of a pregnant woman
beaming parents, a newborn child
the long-married luminous and dancing under the moon
the light that gentles us from this life into the next.
 
Each brush with love transforms us
if only temporarily and like the sun
it burns so bright we must look indirectly or go blind. 
We can only come so close to the Great Source
before we catch fire from the inside out.
Like Moses our beards shimmer
Like Jesus our garments blaze white.
This is transformation--
shining from the mountaintop
in momentary perfection
dumbfounding those in our presence.
 
As the blush fades we descend from the peaks
to the plains of our existence
uttering our small prophecies.
We are no longer dazzling or set apart
but, oh, we have been changed.

How are you doing these days? I have to admit, I've been struggling. There are moments when I buckle under the weight of the news and the violence pervading our society, when I don't know how to bear our collective anxiety and suffering, as well as my own anxiety and fear. Moments when my prayers, my words, my actions, feel utterly insufficient in the wake of such great injustice.

Earlier this week, In response, I did what I often do. Wrote a poem: 

Feeling Powerless in the Face of Everything
 
Out of nowhere a massive meteor passes
between earth and moon bypassing
all our space aged tracking systems
nearly obliterating the planet and all of us on it
 
Out of nowhere in the course of a week
in three U.S. cities three young white men steeped
in hatred wield automatic weapons and open fire
on festivalgoers, shoppers, friends out for drinks
obliterating dozens of families and futures in mere seconds
 
Out of nowhere officials of our government
raid cities and towns ripping parents from children
creating chaos and inflicting wounds that will never heal
families obliterated under the guise of law and order

Out of nowhere a helicopter thunders overhead
one evening while I wash the dinner dishes
I step outside to see an orange bucket suspended
from the copter dip into the bay yards away
than track its flight toward a plume of wind-whipped smoke
billowing from the steep hillside less than a mile from my home

Out of nowhere a can of Diet Dr. Pepper falls from my hand
hits the floor, punctures the aluminum, and through the tiny hole
a thin virulent stream of brown sprays the wall, the curtains
the cat food in its bowl, the kitchen floor
 
Deadly interstellar debris hurtling through the solar system
assault weapons available more readily than birth control
human dignity destroyed by fear and false power
brush fires caused by human carelessness extinguished
only by herculean human efforts
a leaking carbonated can…
 
It is the soda catastrophe
too infinitesimal on the scales of tragedy to register at all
that I curse, that I attend to
that brings me to my knees, wet rag in hand, head bent in sorrow
trivial minutia over which I feel a modicum of control 
the only disaster in which it seems my response has any impact



I also admit that when I'm feeling fearful, anxious, and my reserves of hope are low, that writing a poem seems like a frivolous and completely insufficient response. I should be protesting and circulating petitions and arguing for my beliefs and demanding change.

I have done all those things before, still felt inadequate, and often more anxious awaiting longed-for results.

What do we do when we feel powerless and want to avoid toxic responses like blaming and demonizing others, self-medicating, or living in denial ? How do we  empathize with the terror and suffering our sisters and brothers are experiencing without being undone by it? How do we keep from succumbing to existential angst?

What gives you hope? Where do you draw your strength? These aren't rhetorical questions. I ask because I'm looking for connection in my wrestling and questioning, and for inspiration—if you have any. Please join me in conversation by leaving a comment here or on Facebook, or sending me a message. We're in this together!

As for me, I'll keep turning to small acts of creativity as an antidote to destruction, to see the beauty that exists along with the violence, remembering to remind myself that every act of intention contributes to the greater good, no matter how small it seems. Writing a poem—even if it's a poem about powerlessness—and taking photos of the beauty around me are what I can muster right now. How about you?