Month: March 2007

To a fish on her birthday

Can I still believe in love, in spite of you? Was it a Pisces thing, you loving so much? For nineteen years I’ve swum slow circles around your death. I rarely speak or write of it. People tend to turn away, afraid to touch my pain, fearing a touch will make it theirs. Even I feared to swim this way again. On jury duty, two years ago, I was excused because I’d think too muchLearn More

Blogging for the future

With a few clicks I hang words here faster than ink could dry. Quick speech cast on the winds may evaporate to half-forgotten recollection, but this is more permanent. Poured in careless streams with little edit, boldly the slant and kilter of unfiltered thought sinks deep into real time. Collective thoughts carve a virtual Grand Canyon online, with little grounding or meditation in the haste for expression. Elders paused, honed tools, crushed pigment. No deleteLearn More

Morning flight

I watched a mourning dove fly up with such slow beat of wings, it seemed barely enough to make it fly. My heart, a free thing, loose and at odds with itself, longed to fly with it, to be its mate, to nest—to raise young— to free young things in flight in time, to stand at the edge of a nest, full-fledged, and push lovingly from behind. Copyright © 2007 Barbara W. Klaser


A poem is violin song. It asks only that you let it play, even as it sings your life back to you, and rends your heart to hear it and do nothing but listen. Copyright © 2007 Barbara W. Klaser

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