Back in the Studio/Saddle Again

April 27, 2026
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Globular Vase, Wetware, April 27, 2026

Here are five pounds of clay massaged into form. This time the task I settled on was simple: do a globular, well-made form with ribbing refinement.

When it becomes leather hard I may take a pebble or a spoon and burnish the surface, perhaps in a pattern, perhaps overall. I may do some carving as well. I miss my carving days.

This session has been calming and soul-filling. It has been a superb use of my Day Off 1 of 2. There are many other tempting things to do, some quite unhealthy, and when I do this I don’t do those.

National Poetry Writing Month 2026, day 27: Instructions to the Reader

April 27, 2026
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Instructions to the Reader

1: Prepare Your Mind

Reader, this set of stanzas will do you the most good

If you begin just having had something good

Happen. Kiss and caress a loved one, furry or smooth,

Or have a beloved snack, or remember

And tell yourself

Your favorite

Joke.

..

2: Affirm Your Worth

Read the next, italicized line out loud.

Today I am a powerful force for Good.

And, reader, you are powerful enough

To

Make

That

True!

..

3: Get Your Blood Moving

Your circulatory system saves your life daily.

It delivers oxygen; it feeds the kidneys and liver

So they can do their cleanups; it gives your brain

The lubricant of thought.

In the zone of 60 to 85 percent of your max HR

It does what it does best, and makes you better.

Make your vessels zing!

..

4: Ignite

There is something you know that I don’t,

And that is the Something in your life

That needs to be fixed or initiated or removed.

There is a baby step you can take

That may well act as spark to kindling

And flame up your involvement to make it happen.

TAKE that baby step, my friend!!

..

5: Talk To Me

I am here because I want to be a better poet.

You can help me with your criticism of my poetry

Delivered via comment

And I am eager to hear from you. I may not

Take your advice, but I will learn from it,

And, when I look at your own postings,

I will learn more about who you are.

Hayy Youu (Acrostic)

April 26, 2026
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Hayy Youu

Henrietta had a haystack on which she sat haughty

Alexeev Awestruck aimed a notion nice&naughty–o

Yarrowstalks revealed nothing telling minds nor menu

Yet yesterlings said Yes to yield an alphabetic Gen U

National Poetry Month 2026, day 26: Parsing Ars Poetica

April 26, 2026
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Parsing Ars Poetica

To Rosemarie Dombrowski

Horace

Rhymes with chorus

A crowd

Thinking or singing out loud.

There are ridiculous and sublime

Ways to rhyme,

To codify oceans

Of notions,

Tracts

Of a mix of fancy and facts.

A poem need not rhyme

With every pair of lines

Or even ever

But in order to be a poem it needs to roam

Realms of thought

Skylines of rippling emotions

To yield a encrypted description

Or a wearable narrative

Or a profound or slight insight

That brightens

Or darkens

What has come before.

You want to know more?

Grow some of your own;

That will teach you.

..

Afterword: Rosemarie, first Poetry Laureate of Phoenix, once had a spoken-word event at the now-defunct Urban Beans in which she discussed the Art of Poetry.

National Poetry Writing Month 2026, day 25: Winesap

April 25, 2026
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Winesap

The medicinal nature of the winesap opens

Its little black bag for you when you

The nutrition-vampire bite it

And your jingle-bell cells thrill

To a pactin-peppered fusillade

With a “Thank you!!” that has

No thought but a smile

..

Without a dictionary (though we have many)

We can guess that whoever bred the first

Winesap, getting that nutrition-

And taste-thrill, may have likened the sensation

To a hearty slug of red wine

And the juiciness, perhaps escaping

A mouth’s confines, was simultaneously likened

To an abundance of sap escaping a tree trunk;

And apple names are marketing tools anyhow

(One of the least delicious varieties

Is called Delicious!!)

And Winesap is a fine elemental choice

For this eminently crisp, sweet

Juice-abundant

Organic

Confection.

Wow, wouldn’t it be medicinal and good

To have one

Just this minute?

National Poetry Writing Month 2026, day 24: Quiet Blanket

April 24, 2026
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The quality of Quiet

Increases some places, some nights

And a nearly invisible woman found

That it could be harvested

Without being lessened. Like a seed crystal

Some of the Quiet she took in this night

As she wove her paths through the downtown

Imposed its calm pattern on her psyche

Without her taking it away.

And when, later, the punks itching for action

Saw through her invisibity and descended on her

With their Hey Baby and their Whey Ya Goin Cutie?

She took the blanket of Quiet she had grown

In her perseverant soul

And dropped it over them

And they gently crumpled to the sidewalk

And fell to sleep,

Slight smiles on their faces.

She took a knife from one, guns from two others,

And walked them to the river and dropped them in

After drawing a shallow red line across the throat

Of the knife’s former owner

To give him and his associates

Something to think about.

Then she left to find more quiet

And perhaps more disarmament.

National Poetry Writing Month 2026, day 23: Villa Null

April 23, 2026
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Villa Null

“Those damn realtors would even try to sell you a Port-A-Potty. ‘Look, vaulted ceilings!'” Comedian, 20th Century

The car hit potholes here and there but rolled

Relentlessly beyond the edge of town

And let the landscape crinkle and unfold.

The hacienda in the distance, sold

For “pennies on the dollar,” housed a clown.

Toward that villa our conveyance rolled.

The landscape, now uncrinkled, free of fold,

Made hills on which the villa was one crown.

Since it was Sunday noon, the church bell tolled.

We topped the hill and braked. The clown unrolled

A once-red carpet, mostly gray and brown.

“Come in and welcome. You’ll be fed and skålled.”

The meal was wretched, bread unfree of mold;

The wine came from a box of no renown.

“And now to business. Have you brought the gold?”

“I have a bagful,” said my wife, “But hold

The phone. You have insulted us. I frown.

We came to buy this place, and you make bold

To act as if the deal is done. You’re cold

“Of blood and buff of oon. Annulled

We make of sketchy dealings such as this.

Reality unravels, as does bliss.

“So take your Villa Null, your spider’s kiss

And wrap it in your smile. We’re out of here.”

The clown was unperturbed. “It’s hit or miss

In this profession. How about some beer?”

National Poetry Writing Month 2026, day 22: Younger Self

April 22, 2026
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Right after I pulled on my underwear

And before I pulled on my undershirt

A hand came out of my chest

And another out of my back

..

And when their arms were out past the elbows

The hands grabbed my head and pushed away

And out of me came the me of 1970,

Clad in hip-hugging bell-bottoms

And a “Mr. Muscle” form-fitting T-Shirt

And rubber-soled sandals.

..

The popped-out fifteen-year-old looked at me

And yelled “AAAA!!!” in horrified surprise

“HOLY CRAP, Future Me, you are GROTESQUE!

You are so FAT! And your skin is like crepe paper!”

..

“I am 71 years old, Young Me.

I don’t like the way I look any more than you do.

But you look ridiculous yourself.

Lank, straight hair growing past your shoulders–ugh!

And LOOK at all that acne. You look diseased!”

..

He recoiled. I’d forgotten how self-conscious

And easily bruised he could be. Quickly I said, “Sorry,

Kid. On the plus side, you’re in great physical shape,

And you have your whole life ahead of you.

And that’s why I wished upon a star

That I could have a talk with you.”

..

“Aha,” said the sullen punk.

He stared at me keenly.

“Let me guess.

..

“You’ve been brooding

About all the mistakes you’ve made,

All the head-shakingly stupid choices,

And you want to do a do-over.

You want to tell me not to do those stupid things

And you want to tell me HOW

To not do those stupid things.

..

“Well, forget it. I already know.

Just a few minutes ago, when I co-occupied

Your brain, I got the straight scoop.

Failures galore! What were you THINKING?!

..

“But you do not get a do-over, Old Man.

..

“First let me tell you something you’ve forgotten.

Regrets are nothing new to us. We started regretting

When we were five years old. And we ALWAYS

Tell ourself ‘Never again!’ and we RARELY obey.

..

“Second and foremost, I am not going back

To 1970. I am not FROM 1970. I am from here and now.

I will sink right back into you when we’re done.

I am memory, wished into clarity.

..

“Third and incidentally, suppose

You did get your wish and I did go back?

You, THIS you, would CEASE TO EXIST. Because

Everything you have ever done

..

“Is essential to your existence.

Do you REALLY want your daughter

Never to have been born?”

..

I shuddered, but before I could say “No way”

Young Me stepped back into my flesh,

But before he suffused he said, firmly,

“You still have time to make all

..

“Of your most important dreams

Come true. Build. Become.”

Then he melted back, and old wisdom told me

That that child IS father to the man.

National Poetry Writing Month 2026, day 21: Mr. Late-for-Lunch

April 21, 2026
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My birth name is Gary Wright Bowers

So when we lived on a block where another kid named Gary Turner also lived, my dad called him Gary Wrong Turner (Dad fancied himself a wag)

Family legend has it that my older brother couldn’t pronounce Gary so instead he called me Ghee-Bo (oddly, nowadays that might work the same way Scarlett Johanson is sometimes called Scar-Jo)

My mom called me “GB” all my adult life

Many of my online friends call me Clay because of a name I chose for myself on one of the early social websites (my WordPress blog is called “One with Clay, Image and Text”)

There’s a lady from work from Ethiopia who makes me feel like a multimillionaire because she calls me “Getty”

And Marty K, my friend since 1963, has an odd blend of Tourette’s and glossolalia that has compelled him to call me at least a thousand names in the course of our  62-year friendship, “Bowsie” in the early days, “Zeb” and “Bigby” and “Bongo” and “Nahblotz” more recently

Thanks to him a few of our inner circle of friends call me The Bow (rhymes with How)

And that’s fine, if inconsequential, with me

Even Mr. Late-for-Lunch would be OK–who cares?

As long as the intent is benign,

And no disrespect is intended,

We are good.