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The Making of a Key

The Making of a Key

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The Making of a Key

152 pagine
35 minuti
Sep 27, 2018


This is a book of poems and songs. Oh, I threw in a cocktail recipe of my own invention toward the end. Maybe look at that first, mix the drink, have a seat, and start reading. I can't promise much. Very subjective stuff here; however, the drink recipe is top-notch. Read the poems, sing the songs, drink the drink, then let me know how you feel.
Sep 27, 2018

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The Making of a Key - Dustin Drennen


To my wife, who indulges and encourages me in all of my strange ways.


My thoughts on this volume are few. I’d prefer it to speak for itself. If I have one objection, it is that my poems don’t display enough of my sense of humor. For that reason, I’ve included the following insight, a recent reflection of mine. I only hope you can take me seriously hereafter.

To keep a book of poetry in the bathroom seems like ghastly behavior. But, I do. I read more poetry because of it. In fact, I find there is no better time to entertain my senses with this superb art form.

I am amused at the thought that someone may someday read my most intimate observations of life and self while on the toilet. I’ve also considered the objections of other poets, some dead. What might they think if they knew (and perhaps some do) I read their work from the most humble of seats?

I’ve read poetry in all the right places: on moonlit nights, on mountains, in the first glimmer of sunlight that chases the morning chill out of the meadow. I’ve read to myself, to my children, to women, into a microphone, aloud in a circle, even while I danced and flailed. These days, I favor reading quietly while I relieve myself.

I look forward to daily meeting with mentors and fellow poets. I do apologize for summoning them in my bathroom. It should not be considered any indication of the value I place on their work.

-D. July 12th, 2018; Clark Fork, ID


Keep my heart

a tender organ,

back upright and strong,

hands working out some good thing,

mind filed to a point and piercing mysteries,

face set hard,

like flint,

Toward my purpose.


The door rests open

My floors, clean swept

All the lights glow

An invitation

My house is ripe

With song

And merry-making


Out of the inkwell,

And like a cat clawing,

I pray the names:

Six I love,

Five other than myself,

Four, the names of my children.

It’s been three days,

I think.

There are two calendar dates I would change

And one name I hate.

Not the one

you think.

-Strange what we hate


us, defines

us as much as what we love.

Yet, indifference is not freedom,

only the absence of feeling.


this place is

dark & light

I am Jeckyll

& I am Ulysses


insufficient time

for small talk



Muscles, sinews, and joints,

New fired and quenched.

I stretch over the earth

Cooling to ambient temperature.

In the red-yellow gradient of daybreak

I try my form,

Singular as a tiger,

Unrivaled in my way.

Doomed and gleaming

I go.


Rolling through a dark

corridor of evergreens

The moon, she flickers

Like a failing fluorescent

Still, pale and charming

I am at ease beneath her.

Then, the belly of

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