The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 2,500 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 42 trips to carry that many people.
She turns off
movies just before
the last scene, closes
books and shuts off
the light with five pages
left to read. She forgets
the definition of closure—
still talks to exes alive
or dead. Never
celebrates New Year’s Eve
where anyone can see her. Stops
writing a poem without completing
the arc
I dream of sipping espresso
from a tiny ceramic cup
in a hotel bar high
above the streets
and skyway. And I tower
over a city that dreams
bigger than it looks. They call it
Prohibition—it’s not illegal
for an alcoholic
to recover the view.
To blame a rodent
for this disruption, this return
to the primitive,
is what I do
when singed mystery
holds no appeal. What about a snake
or hawk? Could be human
error—and into its portal
the soul just might come into view.
If only I didn’t blink it away.
A transformer explodes, a squirrel
dies, civil twilight crashes
into darkness faster than my fingers
can touch the right digits
for relief. To open this book
of scents written by a left
hand to a stranger is exposure
I might not survive. To hide
the ink stains of impressionistic
thought is to remain in a corner
that might not be found
by a flashlight search and repair.
The left hand competes
with the right
to give you the definitive
signal. Time out. No longer
a snorer. The quieter the room,
the greater the tension
of finger mirroring finger,
thumbs pressed to white.
A violent thought drives
him to grab
the nearest railing
so he won’t spill
himself onto the deck.
The calm water
is a song
he wrote before he knew
how to speak
to women with mouths
like hers. White knuckles
and wet wrists, he remembers
now. Oh, that’s right.
To float is not
always the goal.
Some air bubbles
burst for no reason.
On those nights, I let go
of my need to follow the moon.
I rearrange the furniture
in my head
to clear a path
to that alcove
of possibility. Poetry is
wayfinding
written in Braille
with lemon rind
and a candle burning
at each station.
Everyone has reservations.
A porch no one
can describe wraps
around its house—tightening,
tightening. Hugs
the footprint as a disciple
of home is
where you check in
without a check-out time. Tin
tile ceilings in the two-story
lobby. A triangle
park and a bluff
anchor all activity
in the oceanfront garden. Bonfire
night after night where effigies
of the over-worshipped burn.
What washes ashore below
erases questions and desire
for answers. I could drag
my dinghy across the sand
and know it’s time.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 