I have become fascinated by a set of poems I wrote years ago -- twelve, maybe fifteen, years ago. The last two blog posts were from that "Talking to" series. I was an amazing writing. Fresh ideas, interesting combinations of words. My poems were condensed and power packed. They took me to unexpected endings. Now, I think, I fear, I write too much. I say too much.
I want to revisit this series because for some reason talking to something or someone might be easier for me than talking about someone or something.
These are the titles that spring to mind:
Talking to my right foot.
Talking to the dirty sheets in the hamper.
Talking to the the woman I passed in Target.
Talking to my savings account.
Talking to Charlie about modeling glue.
Talking to Sheridan about death.
Talking to the screen door.
Talking to Kathy about protest.
Talking to the sanctuary window.
Talking to my plane ticket.
Talking to the fat-free french dressing in my refrigerator.
Talking to my lips about the last kiss they had.
Talking to mud splashed up on my passenger's side door.
Talking to my talking to poems.
Who knows where this will take me, but tomorrow the beginning will begin. I'll start talking to something to see what it teaches me.
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