A short poem rings out was a poetry newsletter run during 2020. It was sent out every Monday and Friday at 9:00am. The poems mostly adhere to the haiku format, although will occasionally stray into the inclusion of more or less syllables depending on patience and inexperience. All published poems can be found below, listed in published order.
The city knows rain I know a small breeze over head looking up outside Pass into daylight slate column, now reflecting is warm; just know that Days without focus: fixing the brakes of a car with only three wheels Hair caught in the drain contemplating dignity standing in bathwater Left-on a burner, The pan is put into snow hisssss; it melts right through Spending my money on this pen better deliver better poetry A cruel laughter Gets swept up in the seasons to come back later The trajectory of this, many falling leaves - I can't comprehend A thin mountain air slows to a stop at a lake: sips glacier water A once clear footpath is now covered in a fog no foot nor path, here Memory floods back unearthing my foundation and washes my thoughts The house and whistle do not come bound together; they become friends. The dust of the day settles with no complaint and I can now rest A heavy footstep in an unopen forest glade muffles and thumps I am not counting syllables on my fingers anymore; it is nice Who so knowable beyond out casual greeting a heart, a handshake Dart of the finite meets the infinite target hanging all around Coin of energy how will I spend you today? I cannot bank you Swear by the candle or the broken hourglass not sure which hurts more Carefully loud bird ready to be heard in spring I am glad you're here Tie down the awning! Here come the bellows of spring lifting at the roof Muffled bird chirping by two panes of window glass heralding what next? The sloshing mind reels: one big, uneven tree standing tall, in the backyard Hundreds of houses connected to each other all very quiet Sitting on a log sharing lunches, sharing time looking at the trees Big book on the sill waiting to be read out loud to myself; out loud. The dim lap of a single wave against a beached, smooth log. So many poems escaped from the barn at 2 a.m. Now I round them up. No studied masters not many years in school still, the pen does move. A thought about hope quietly folded and stored for a later date. Circulating dust above a glowing marshland a "pop" from the bog Sometimes I am stone but the kind that can move when no one is watching. I hear a piano like the light of a lantern in a quiet field. Returning to writing may be to come to nature words trickling out. From a tiny seedling at least I can imagine the yellow sunflower Hundreds of pictures before my eyes, every day no wonder I'm tired. Tried doing nothing the experts say "be bored again" twiddling their thumbs Subtlety might be for the smart, quiet, and those who can laugh alone. Alone with my thoughts I haven't seen a billboard in thirty minutes Delightful idea The seed meets rainwater, and thinks: I might just stand up. A curl of rope burn temporarily marks me: person who holds on Dipping wing to wind a swallow veers out of sight just beyond the rocks Don't need so many words to only say so little: what was said already I hear teeth grinding at the salt of the ages sunrise horizon Heaving shopping carts from polluted city creeks I grow strong and fierce. Puddles everywhere I jump in with hope for another world Things need doing Things need wanting to be done done until undone Letter from nature: not written, not shown either: just heard, bird at night