An inspection of something before it comes to light.

I'm a slave to the poetry despot. The muse knows my number and I am it's poor farmer. 

Anyone who creates knows, once you commit to that creative process, it either becomes a way of life or you move on. Poetry is that process for me, continuous and ever evolving. Absorbing, never ending and sometimes obsessive. I would be much more successful at almost everything if it were not for poetry, and I would be unsuccessful at just about everything if not for poetry too. It makes me who I am and it precludes me from getting those necessary things I'm supposed to do done, in a timely fashion, because more times than not the only voice I hear is the muse. I have lots of things around the house that may never get finished, may get finished someday, or will be left for the ages and all for one reason: I'd rather be in the poetic state than anywhere else. This includes Hawaii or Alaska too! 

Just because you've finished something like a collection doesn't mean you're done with it right? Didn't Walt revised "Leaves" how many times? 

So I've sent this collection off to my publisher and I'm still writing things that could/would/should fit into this thing! The year is over, the perimeters were fulfilled but I'm still working on the journey! The original concept was 21 poems. (I kinda cheated and added an epilogue.) Now I've written another 4-5 that I feel belong. What am I supposed to do now? Add 4-5 epilogues? So, I guess I'm working on the next cycle right?

At this rate when I do my reading as a Co-feature at Café Lena on August 1st with Ken Hada and launch this book, I'll have plenty of pieces to read I can bill as previews of a coming attraction! 

That's what this poem here is. A preview: |ˈprēˌvyoō| noun: An inspection of something before it comes to light.


~

My Mothers Hummingbird:

A messenger came
from
otherworld

healerspirit,
luckgiver,
gifter

you firebringer

came to me

when I was in need

but I
unawares
caught you

in grille
of car
on rainy morn



a chance to seek
wisdom
hear council

gone these years

missed in twi-night
opportunity margined

I stumble blindly

bury you again
in backyard
of dreams

under
next
years

flower.





obeedúid~
10/June/12

The following is a Link 

to the Audio Recording 

on SoundCloud 

of me reading this poem:

Pine Hollow 15-June-12 My Mother's Hummingbird

[Note: My Mom planted somewhere around 120 varieties of Lilium. As a result we cultivated Hummingbirds also. If you were in the flight path you often had an angry hummingbird IN YOUR FACE wondering why you were not a flower! Since my Mom died when I see a Hummingbird I think of it as her Animism. She taught me to return to the earth things that are of the earth so that they may become something new and beautiful.]


obeedúid~
02/July/12