Posts for June 15, 2017 (page 5)

Category
Poem

for liz 2

you would never step on a cockroach
because you feared being reincarnated
as one and suffering the same fate

i imagine you coming back as a paintbrush
speaking in colors and dancing in the swirls

or perhaps you return as a soft summer rain
to gently caress those of us who wish we could 
hold you one more time

maybe you visit this world as a song
playing in our hearts as we go about the day
wondering what you’d be doing now… if only…

for me, i will wear you as pink fuzzy slippers
that will never step on a cockroach
just in case… 


Category
Poem

Music Video Cliche

A broken mirror
Afloat in a sea of ipecac
A scratched up vinyl
Hailing the same woeful chorus
A pile of dusty belongings
Huddled by the front door

It’s all the same to me


Category
Poem

My Mother’s Gift

Her superpower
is
her eyes—shut
so tightly against all she cannot
bear to see, her lower
lashes have curled inward toward
a world of her
making. She sends dispatches—
slow smiles, a laugh, sometimes my
name.


Category
Poem

Inscribing Runes in Firmer Sand

                                              “So mote it be.”

Don’t call this Seasonal
Affective Disorder. Yes,
the climate is gloomy. Yes,
it’s grey as cold hell. But I am
not disorder, nor am I, any more,
any correlation between the two.

When the rain falls, I will rise
up against the grain of a world
descending; my breath a blustering
wind; my words a gathering storm;
my will, my intent, the echo of ages
& ancestors long since fallen, but climbing
the chords of this genetic, energetic Memory!

Look for me, if you will, in the clouds! This head
set high, this jaw defiant, this chin an athame. I will
not be your definition of limits; I will define those limits—
walking widdershins beneath this flesh, amid the standing stones
of this chest. I will draw a flaming pen in the defense of this menhir,
& what you call the “softer sand” of poet’s heart.

I will set these arcane eyes afire in the shrinking face of this dark world
& I will be
                                               found smiling.  


Category
Poem

alien self-autopsy 2017 (parts a, b, and c)

a.
as a poet i am hummingbird;
i walkslow and hockup sadshit.

b.
i am no new james browns, bobby
byrds, or curtis mayfield…
i’m no new fela kuti, roy ayers,
or pfunk…

i am devoid, sir, of soul
& consciousness.

c.
a liberation untended / unattended.


Category
Poem

Necessities

Necessities    
HOPE
Hope in the tomorrows
Hope in resurrections
Hope in eternal life  
HOPE
built
on
“The Rock”

Category
Poem

Muscle Memory

Scrape, scrape, scratch, scrape.
 He’s scratching the floor
around his food bowl again.
Scrape, scratch, scratch, scrape.
A million generations
at the end of his paw.
Scratch, scrape, scrape, scratch.
Concealing the carcasses
of goats and gazelles.

Run, run, kick, run.
Sturdy men running
with one goal in mind.
Run, run, run, kick.
Forty-five minutes and
the ball goes in the net.
Run, jump, shout, hug.
Tired legs rejoicing that
the mastodon is down.

.


Category
Poem

THE CONVERSATION

THE CONVERSATION

Poetry is a conversation among poets
whose words if overheard
may inspire our dreams and desires
and help us discover what it means
to be human, how to share
and to care for life in this world.

It’s rich in metaphors and similes
painting word pictures that
may give us tantalizing glimpses
at life’s underlying mystery.

It’s stories of great visions,
revelations, romances and tragedies,
or an ancient prophesy writ on clay tablets,
or the history of the stars scribbled
in pencil on the back of an old paper sack,
or a simple tale of a child’s
day at play typed on the latest laptop.

It’s a homemade pie,
a dying soldier’s last letter,
a single bird singing…
and the first and last breath
that you take.


Category
Poem

Cannonball

Today it was just me 
at the swimming pool, waiting for 
my laundry to finish before I went
to work.  Hands to knees, hugging myself
into a whirlwind of fire, my bare feet
challenged concrete until

                                                    
                                                       splash! 

It is the simple days
we have but may never write
that are worth living. 


Category
Poem

A Prayer for the Untamed

For my lion who shot back, from your invisible man. And for my baby bird, here is that story about the song.

“Ótaminn setur í ný batterí/ Og hleður á ný” -Sigur Rós, Ný Batterí

The song had played
or maybe not played
but had certainly been there

I was alone in the woods
I wanted to pick a fight with a bear
How else can you explain it
What I was doing
No shoes
No light but the moon through the trees
Wandering in off the path

I was in the creek
I needed to bless myself with holy water
And small waterfalls are
A kiss from you in the form
Of time and force
I crossed myself, feet like ice
Shivering

I was in the barn
Creeping about like a woodmouse
Nibbling leftover cheese and cookies
Crouching lazily in the shadows
Listening to the crackling snapping hissing
Of the fire dying out
In a big empty space

I was tearing myself away from
Another self that I could not be
Scared of the dark
That comes after
That was before and I was
Excising her like cutting out a splinter
Holding myself down and
Lancing a sore and
She poured out disgusting and vile
I petted her like a mother does her stillborn
I left her in the woods to die

The song kept you there with me
I thought it was him that it was bringing back
Love that made me ache
But it was the memory of his body
The expression of you
Found through his body’s singing
For he does know you, too

But he did not want his body to sing to me
If I was a bearfighter, a fallseeker, a still growing shoot
Splitting skin with such fervent
Lack of shame and tact

And I was those things
I wanted to be those things
So I had to learn to walk away

I need you unfettered
Like in the song that held the memory of the body
Slow and hard and every dark thing
Unfolding into the softest
Yielding
I need you in tongues
So that I will know you completely

The song had played
Or maybe not played
As I learned to sing of you myself

I was in the field
Incense of silkweed and resin
Lying on my back
I thought that I would stay for seven shooting stars
But people had seen a coyote and
The last one took so long I almost gave up
The fireflies put on their show, gentle and constant
Growing nearer to me the longer I stayed
They blinked from my arm, my leg, my hair
I was as part of the field as the grass or the goldenrod
And just when I thought I couldn’t wait anymore
The seventh star came

I knew you then
Empty of everything and bigger than I could think of

The song was there
Just under my skin
Someone could play me like a fiddle
If they knew you
The way I do