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Motion
I'll remember the movements
that ended in lyrics, in poems,
in songs I couldn't live without.
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Consumed
Not enough in the village
well for thirst this deep
No bottled poison proofed
to cure
No candied compliments
too sickly sweet
There's just one way there's
just one more
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Re: egret
I am distracted by the stretched z of the egret wading. Waiting, beak appointed to the wind, legs deep-creeping the pond,
decades of oaks pointing madly to the other direction. Is it aspiration? A twinge of jealous falconry that moves it so, slow,
in the deep breeze rushing by? It lightnings the tension atop the water, having seen within all this while,
attacking the moment it mattered.
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Parts of speech
A man in need of metaphor is lying to himself. He quakes in anticipation, certain the symbol will reveal, more certain still the meaning will be evident only to its subject, no interloping spy to likewise intercept. This is wrong, of course. But less obviously, it is wrong twice over. First, no metaphor worth making is a cipher built for one. And no metaphor indecipherable is a metaphor at all. So the simplest risk of simile is the widest revelation. And the cruelest, the deafening dumbstruck silence. There can be little room in which we live in between. There can be little to your surreptitious chance to wire a word across noise and curiosity and invective, and land safely on a shore of pastoral cognition, delivered alone in a story of love, animosity or revelation. So then what? The plain treatment of the thing? How Spartan. How corporate. How thin. Me, I’ll take a little flourish to my incantations, risking what? Indifference, or maybe ubiquity – either entry a reddened gash to my ledger. But winning what? Delivery. Both to the gentle or germy reader and from the burden of unspoken expression, unshared exposition or untold truth to move the intrinsic soul on whichever trail it is wont to trod. Here then, is the purpose, the passion and the inherent power—whither ever it wields—of a poem.
We agreed, didn’t we, to keep this sort of thing
quiet? Between ourselves. As one does the soft
fabric between fingers, nestled twixt knuckles
running slowly, knowing how easy it rips in two.
What I missed beneath this silent consent was
How little we knew what we then meant to
each other and what we would become now.
Or rather, how you, not I, saw all of this coming.
We agreed, didn’t we, to keep this sort of thing?
Quiet, between ourselves, as one does. The soft
fabric between fingers nestled twixt knuckles,
running. Slowly knowing how easy it rips in two.
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Lunch poem
I haven't written a lunch poem
in a while and it shows. It shows
in the Swan of my neck, bowed
but frowed, angular and mean.
Is it erosion, the ungraining of
my parchment, no more wood
to rub and polish for life's pure
Purpose? Just this softer soul,
Pliable and moved, and moved
again. Against this, what else
But observation? No :: Creation.
I've written no poems. It shows.
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Coming down
Ceasing. Decisting. Resisting resisting.
A tied tongue, tried, and tired of twisting.
In this I insist, I incite no insisting.
For fists, fearing flight, do fly far from fisting.
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Prayer
I need something good now.
Do you have something? I'm
Prepared for piety. Or poetry.
Name your price. I truly hope
We reach an understanding.
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Title, if you want one
Here at the entryway, way up
In the beginning, it all sounds
Good, like when the orchestra
Tunes before the tunes as long
As the tunes are still coming
Right? They're going to be here
Soon, right? As soon as we're
Just past the entryway, just
Over the threshold, once we're
Twice further than last we
wondered after that which was
Wonderful. Once we're almost
done.
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Midway
In this middle night of middle life
in which I'm middling, this medium
thought crosses this medium, poem.
How this self, centered here keeps
the same safe distance from every
thing as everything keeps from it.
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reunion
It’s a walk in the wood
Grown grim and thorned
But then flowers, as if
Never a wind removed
And the scent in the air
And ground, mossy green
Tickling toes as they grasp
Rooting in to old earth.
It’s this century you halve
And halve again. And you see
not the spring it once was
But this bloom we now have.
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The last pm
I want to write a poem today. But the air is letting out of the last pm hours in this lispy raspberry squeeze, pressured like a duck mad hunted to the final cartoon frame, or an elegy for yesterday's rascal wit known to make an entrance any time, uninvited even, and make strangers friends, friends strangers, after all, all he never really knew was when to stop too. Stop too. Stop to stop.
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Bedrock
It's the stone beneath the stone
that now moves us. Or shakes
us, rather. Rather shakes us.
Rather shaken, I must say.
And surely, I'd rather be still.
A boulder worn by rain, moss,
the slow rearrangers, weathered
into the next thing by experience.
Among all I now begrudge the
late quake, is this patience. The
chance, as it were, to wait out
weather, spared these tectonics.
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?now
?now
?code
?revolution
?resignation
?madness mended made
?about
?fight
?next
?
?
?
...
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The cottonwood leaves
The flowered winds flee from
late summer branches, gnarly
sprawled to pause, poke or paw,
but instead end bent and broken,
twigged and mossy in the low
consuming grass. Only the old
cottonwood stands, mostly still,
its tallest leaves betraying but
a slight and shining shiver, a
moment moved in the young breeze
to a silver-sided, heart-shaped
evanescent swing. Fall is nigh.
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Overhearing
What is this reverse-grained shave that tightens against
My back, these two mocking hands meant to massage but
Instead clench and firm like billiard balls stitched beneath skin,
The wicked work of a snuff surgeon, filthy in bloody scrubs, ogling
Scarring sutures struggling to heal, stretched about the weight of things.
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Revolution
The night-fearing daylight, time and again
Scurrying back to the brush as the hour fades
And the cold congress of darkness returns
From all corners. Here to reign in revelry
Until shining swords pierce in pieces,
Shredding the obscurity and shrinking shadow,
The death of dark mourned each morning
As we roll, roll, roll, tumbling about, plaything to time.
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Today art lunch
Contrast the web and the tree
Compare the branch and the line
The movement in air
The life and death of it
See the sky in both
Still earth attached
To one watcher
Under Sun.
See the created
Aspire to creation.
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