Drifting between big projects

I’m finally shopping my novel around, so I have more time to take care of the rest of my life. There’s something about a book-length writing project that shuts out too much else from the range of my attention, so I’ve decided that unless I sell this novel it’s going to be smaller creative projects • Read More »

After the fires

The local birds seem to think our yard is a good place to visit while the last bits of fire and smoke die down, and they’ve come through in flocks as well as individually. At one moment this morning they seemed to be throwing a bird party in our side yard. I stepped outside and • Read More »

Who was the first poet?

I wonder, because reading so inevitably pushes me to write. I wonder, and I even worry. What if I’d never seen a poem? Might I burst apart one day from the pressure of too much held in too long? Could I have learned, even as slowly as I do, how to forge words into a • Read More »


This has been a good summer for butterflies in my little corner of the world. I’ve seen a lot more variety this year than in past years, and yesterday I sighted a Western Tiger Swallowtail in a pepper tree in the yard behind ours. It surprised me, and at first glance I thought I was • Read More »

Emily’s journey home

We had to say goodbye to our little gray cat Emily today. We think she was about 20 years old, but we’re not sure, because she adopted us just over nine years ago, appearing in our back yard to steal our puppy’s food. She had a lot of problems, resulting from having nearly starved on • Read More »


“Be the change that you want to see in the world.” — Mahatma Ghandi Growth 9 x 12 watercolor collage (click on image for larger view) This painting’s background sat in my file cabinet for over a year, a cast aside experiment. I reworked it a little, adding bits of blue, and I nearly threw • Read More »

It just got old

old thoughts sometimes wear grooves so deep they bury themselves before new ones can rise the buried old ones make good fertilizer Copyright © 2007 Barbara W. Klaser


Poetry turns an unshuttered eye on beauty, on ugliness, and everything between. It translates the profound through focus on the loved, the reviled, and everything between. Not the driest news, nor the most turgid melodrama have anything on this passion expressed in objectivity, objectivity in passion. Copyright © 2007 Barbara W. Klaser

Early morning in the country

Slick roads. A thousand tires stir the water in a broken rhythm echoing off concrete. Brakes squeal, a helicopter passes overhead, not the first or last today. All around me people start another work day that begins, and will end, in traffic. People say this is the country, but in the rain I hear city. • Read More »

Compass rose

When you’ve lived near the sea you notice its scent each time you return from far away. Fifty miles from home I’ve caught wind of it. Once, driving west across the desert from Arizona, still a hundred miles inland and separated by mountains, we hit a bank of salty air thick as fog. The sky • Read More »

Some thoughts on The Universe in a Single Atom

Just some thoughts I’ve had while in the middle of reading a book titled, The Universe in a Single Atom: The Convergence of Science and Spirituality. It was written by Tenzin Gyatso, His Holiness the Fourteeenth Dalai Lama, recipient of a Nobel Peace Prize and religious and temporal leader of the Tibetan people. It’s not • Read More »

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 • Read 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 • Read 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 • Read More »


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