A series can tied together compositionally like this one, or it may evolve thematically (as with my series titled "I Just Don't Read Like I Used To") or stylistically (as with my "Frenetic Cubism" series).
I am posting a couple of poems below that I hope to discuss with my writing class tomorrow. Sometimes you just have to write about where you are. In this case, in my kitchen at sunset, or looking out my back door while one a lunch break during a rain storm.
Beyond the kitchen window
past the white horizontal slats
neatly tilted to measure the light,
the public school across the street
turns her back, windowless and bricked,
as though ashamed or in need of privacy.
When the sun
drops below her flat horizon,
the lights flip on and on and on
until she blushes prettily,
institutional, yet fully aware
that beauty is an arbitrary gift.
Seemingly out of sorts with garlic and turmeric
the kitchen’s chrome and glass and tile
remain cool in light of the purpling sky,
and the low white ceiling glows fluorescent
with an almost silent hum.
This time at the end of day,
the world folds inwardly with the precision
of an origami rooster.
II.THE DISTANCE BETWEEN
No smoke no fire no siren, still
I assumed lightning had struck the tree
three houses down the street.
As I walked back to work,
I saw the fire truck
skimming the street
as though anticipating a blaze
angling sly and sluggish
its bold, straight form around the corner
like a dated vacuum cleaner
with no ability to turn,
as though its wheels didn’t fit exactly
as though it couldn’t travel naturally
as though it was unwittingly fire resistant
and unwilling to discover an emergency.
I recalled how the storm had hit in earnest
as I ate my lunch, soup--
slamming itself repeatedly at the windows
as though determined to earn attention,
and how I witnessed, bowl in one hand,
empty spoon in the other,
as the balloons from yesterday’s party
still tied to the table’s umbrella
all exploded in the same second, silent
through the pane.
Every time I see you, I wonder
about the distance between your smile
and your intention, and I wonder
if I asked, if you would look at me
with first one eye and then the other
to make me dance.
Look at me quickly then off to the side,
and if you’ve been crying,
or if you squint just right
perhaps some lightning bolts will fly.
Divide by five the number of seconds
between the flash and the thunder
to calculate the distance in miles.
"Set out from any point. They are all alike. They all lead to a point of departure."--Antonio Porchia