Spooner
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A magnetic north of the heart draws me back again. It’s all rain and wind in my beloved Midwest where dusk is augmented by a beautiful amber-orange sunset. It means fires are raging in the west and people are getting hurt. I’m reading, Let It Be Told In A Single Breath, by Michigan poet Russell
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Shipra Saraogi (pictured) at the Usery Mountain Regional Park, Mesa, Arizona. #MotorcyclingyogiG teaches yoga for riders (YOGA AND LEATHER) at Superstition Harley-Davidson in Apache Junction, Arizona. His classes demonstrate to riders how they might use their bike for a prop to stretch when taking a break from the road with the goal of keeping riders
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When you engage with yoga, it will slowly render the surface-self transparent to its underlying divinity. It will build a foundation well below the frost line. Yoga will not be televised, its moves are not dictated by chart, table, or graph; yoga will not whiten your teeth, but you will be astonished in moments of
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Port Yonder Press / Eastern Iowa University will be publishing its third volume of lyric essays this summer. Work by two writers is now online, including my essay, “Midwest Intimations.” The other essay online, link included is, “You Will Have a Son,” by Cindy Lamothe, an expat living in Antigua. Thank you Port Yonder Press.
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Decompression in a short video. https://goo.gl/photos/pdBb7KKt2JtGT268A It’s been called The Old Style Place for 42-years, four months. I like to call it Oz. But at this Oz, there is no wizard behind the curtain. Not one is capable of changing the weather or bringing dreams to fruition. Here, it is still. It is quiet. One is
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Paragraph from an essay in progress, “Oz: Emerging Truth.” OZ sits me down where we’re accompanied by the parting grip of Old Man Winter. His dying is not pretty, he’s peeping around the corner in prurient self-interest, wanting to mess with Easter. But he can’t, so Old Man Winter becomes a disgruntled wizard, holding
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Notes from The Old Style Place Everything at The Old Style Place remains upright, anchored in stubbornness. Its steadfast preachment to tenacity has denied gravity its victory. This stubbornness was earned by hammer and
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I tune to WOJB for an in-breaking from another world. The indigenouspeople speak in even tones, softly on the microphone, nearly a chant. Theiridiom camouflages a humor I sometimes get. Dead air, then a night-time jock speaks with refreshing lack of pretense, clear and simple. She says, “Good evening everyone. It’s Tuesday and I hope
GREGORY ORMSON'S Notes, Articles, Blogs, Vlogs Gregory Ormson writes from the ecotone, the vibrant intersections of landscape, spirituality, and physical presence. His essays and poems have appeared in literary journals, anthologies, and print magazines. Author of *Yoga Song* and other works, Ormson blends lyrical observation with grounded reflection drawn from his Midwestern roots and global travels. He lives in Arizona and Wisconsin, seeking stillness where stories emerge like bears. 