Posts for June 8, 2017 (page 5)

Below the lower Jordan Valley
on the shores of the salt sick Dead Sea
blooms the Sodom Apple;
Calotropis procera.

Bountiful fruit tempts a weary traveler.
Shiny rind a firm plump inclination.
Dazzling, this diamond find in a hostile desert
more edict than invitation.

The traveler, who could be you or me
or a character in an allegorical parable—
picks the fruit of terrifying absences, takes a bite,
crisp as crystal, bristling, ship rope.

Swallows the poison investiture.
Immediately the acrual
of lost equilibrium and shredded breath.

Grasps a sincere looking branch
against failing labyrinthine mediated muscle memory,
he is excoriated by the piercing sap.

He falls desperately delirious, the desert a motionless
white fog— Then the caravan of a hedge fund
passes by. The traveler begs for mercy
and is rebuked by outriders with epithets
mocking his stupidity.

He watches dimly, helplessly,
as the caravan, rapacious, and predatory,
appropriates his only camel and moves on.

The regal manager
castes a knowing glance at the dying man.    

There is a tree
perched on a cliff edge overlooking the Kentucky River,
the oldest known tree in Kentucky, whose name
derives from a 3000-year-old language now nearly extinct.

The chinkapin oak is slow-growing and long-lived,
drought tolerant and able to withstand the rigors of life on karst,
a tall dominant canopy tree.
In this forest, 13 trees pre-date Daniel Boone.

The oldest dates to 1611, when The Tempest was performed at court,
and stands today because a botanist, who wanted to protect this land
from timber harvesting and development,
bought and endowed the sanctuary she named Floracliff.

Cores from the chinkapin reveal a growing library
of links to ancient times, climate, and disturbances in the forest,
slivers of Fayette County ecology, even rare glacial relics
to show us our past and instruct our future.

the center of the heart is a

dark four chambered suite

eternal in its rhythm; what 

matters most is the warmth 

of the rooms and halls, 

the hue of the walls, and what most

stars never need 

Title and phrase “the dark eternal matter of the stars” taken from http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2017/05/01/two-ruminations-on-a-homeless-brother

During the last eclipse,

When I perch on the edge of my bed
to tie my shoes,
I sense you standing
erect between my legs.  

Staring down at worn carpet,
your hand ensnares my neck.
“Look at me,” you demand. 
Your grip tightens.
“I want you to look at me.”
I lift.
Your eyes tether me
as you thrust into my life.  

And every time I sit
to manipulate laces
I am bound.

The sin of invasive roots is irredeemable.  Limb by limb,
my Silver Maple comes down.  Chainsaws slice
the quiet morning like a death knell,
their surgical precision carving
my front yard bare.  Years of abundant shade
and seasonal fanfare is being erased
in a flash of metal and indifferent ruin.

And I feel like a traitor, skulking 
inside my house where the high-pitched whine
of destruction is muted, less accusatory;
where I mourn, as emptied
as the treeless space. 

          I can’t write a poem today
          All my rhymes have gone away

          I feel empty, and it’s sad
          How feelings make one feel so bad

          Perhapes tomorrow, when I’m up
          This empty mind won’t be so shut

          Meanwhile I’ll just close this door
          And go wash dishes – such a chore.

if time
could turn chaos
into perfect design
the way bodies spark
when they align
i’d be more prone
to worship it

From a balcony we watch a clam boat vie
high sea leaps, acres of water  

parallel to the coast’s oily edge
a lustrous necklace  

a woman follows a ragged, ivory goose
to a well, a secluded, ruined garden  

the sky turns leaden when day ascends
into evening, you lead me inside  

unfasten, stir the ache of clasp
mine the holy ore of wonder                                  

~ Found poem inspired by clues and answers in Leana Bloom’s “Higher and Higher” crossword puzzle

It’s been a long time

Since I knew pain like this.

Maybe I never have.

That’s how it feels, anyway.

The slightest “wrong” motion

Activates the knife that slices through muscle

And mind—oh, yes, mind—

And that, of course, is the more serious issue

Since “muscle strain, probable tendinitis” will eventually run its course;

But the mind, out of its primordial fears that the slightest discomfort signals

Death itself,

Turns every annoying agony into fully developed existential angst,

And in such manner makes its own hell.