Posts for June 27, 2015

The poetry is beautiful and rare,
expertly read, exquisitely received,
but I am supposed to be
away, I feel
called by the babbling of the stream
echoing deeply against the darkness enveloping it, drawn
by the lightning
bugs hanging above like strings of Christmas lights, or else entranced by the sparks
floating toward the sky that lies always so
vast here, full of unseen infinities. I sit on the edge of life,
considering
the walk into the dark
that must come next.

Signs
on Alumni Drive
at Tates Creek Road

 “Church Access Only”
“Arboretum Access Only”

 
Mary Allen

I live to hear your voice.
I love to hear your laughter,
see your smile or frown
as you tell me some small story. 

God, that woman two houses north.
I can’t stand the way she screams
at her oldest daughter and flirts
with the grocery delivery guy.  

The tomato plants have buds,
the butterflies love our flower bed.
The cat actually played with the puppy,
and the puppy actually peed outside.  

Tell me the little things, the flea-sized,
ambered moments in your universe
when the speed of light parts us
and the evening’s so far from sight.

Poem 27, June 27

Awakened by the Storm

I close my eyes.

I look up slightly,

first left

& then right.

At first I only see

an orange glow like sunrise

or sunset,

but the color recedes.

I wonder whether

my process is the one

prophets used

to write their words.

I squint

like I do to adjust

my astigmatism

& all colors blend.

Suddenly, I’m not looking for a poem.

I’m searching for the

llllllllllllllldddddddddddddddddddd,

but I fall asleep before she comes to me.

I should have settled

for the word,

sometimes any word

will do.

My shower delivers absolution
for the day–
washed clean–
forgiven of all impurities–
down the drain
with all that–
a fresh start.
Then with yoga,
the joints lubricated
so movement glides
loose and smooth–
a blessing on my head–
I start the day.

Joggers spill every which way with a purpose.
Women runners do pushups on the pavement.

We yoga practitioners linger
until we realize our teacher has overslept.

Our intention disappears.
Starbucks beckons.