My name is yesterday’s rain,
is seeds beneath the soil waiting
for tomorrow’s sun. Mine
is the secret name
for roots that sprout,
a thin stalk reaching for air.
My name is spring
green, is celandine,
is crocus budding.
My name’s a kernel
just about to pop.
A hard nut to crack.
My name is the moment
before breath,
is spiral into sleep,
the star at the heart of the apple,
arils from a pomegranate
held beneath the tongue.
First light falls on foolishness,
blasts away the shadow it tries to hide in.
A man lays in a revelation,
his head up and tilted curious
before burying his face in the pillow.
No, she won’t be there when he gets home.
It’s not a surprise, in fact,
it’s been sure as the sunrise,
he just isn’t ready to face the day
for knowing you’ll hit a wall
and actually hitting that wall
are two entirely different discomforts.
But he is a patient man
who has already made his gamble,
waiting to see how the cards fall.
Wisdom would be to fold now.
After all, this season of the year
has never been one for winning anything.
Summer, a spectacular tragedy,
the solstice, no more fitting a day
for all these dreams to be scorched.
Play on he does, though, calling every bet
because he has to win something, right?
He believes, at least, sure as the sunset.
There are stories we tell ourselves
from the darker incandescence of our being
the tongue is a mortal flower
every word is a fluctuating flame
the seeds of fire are ours to mother
the leaves, the branches, the minutes, our listening
and every living thing is crying with its mouth wide open
the uncountable
inside everything that turns
We circle ourselves
I keep losing my place and starting over
this strewing and gathering
by sunlight, by moonlight, and by no light
to dislodge many buried keys
in each day’s margins. There
are a thousand illuminations
We see by the light of who we are
and the river reminds
for our most unguarded moment
how to hold the immeasurably heavy
how much we’ve already lost
the spool diminishing
fans every lit cell of us
A word has many lives
the visible and the invisible
the mind’s pleats, time’s hem
this feathered interval
of change and desire
wide open in the center
so many questions
all one blue. O, how much
each thing flourishes by singing
alone in a double shadow
~ Cento of lines taken from Li-Young Lee’s poetry collection The Undressing, 13, 14, 16, 17, 23-25, 30, 32, 32, 34, 47, 50, 52, 56, 58-60, 65- 67, 70, 72, 73, 81, 84, 86, 89, 90- 92
The bride and groom leave the reception after the cake is cut, with only farewells to their parents. Still in tux and gown, they stop in the church school’s playground, amuse a few children with their antics on the seesaw, then waltz the sidewalk to a working man’s bar. The looks they draw from strangers in smudges and coveralls are strained, bemused at first, but when an hour flies they have an entourage to lead to a jazz club for dancing and brandy. It’s almost sunrise when they fall in bed, fall quickly asleep in each others arms. They won’t make love until evening, the sole detail they’ll obscure years later when telling their children of the day they wed.
Born in January,
bright–but scary.
Born in February,
nymph or fairy.
Born in March,
collar starched.
Born in April,
barely able.
Born in May,
just okay.
Born in June,
loves to spoon.
Born in July,
will always try.
Born in August,
causes me lust.
Born in September,
cannot remember.
Born in October,
rarely sober.
Born in November,
fire turned to ember.
Born in December,
sexy–and limber!
After two Days of Rain
Soon, the time I have planned for,
will arrive, a jet will land,
and I will disembark, alone.
From a window, the cone
of a volcano, stand-
ing majestic, more
threatening to me
to the city, or you, and
Dayana, that is how is must be.
If we climb it to see
its fire, smoke and
lava, I will surely
fear for her more than you, city
that is her home, the place
where she was born.
Come Monday, Guatemala City,
Guate, I will try to keep pace
with your heartbeat, early morn
until late night
and every poem I write
will be for the new love
I’ve found in you.
Family gathering, names called out,
Regular sounds,Laura,Rachel,Mary,
David, John, you might hear anywhere.
But then we hear, Doc, Keek, Choke,
Hoot, Taters, TaTa, Coo Coo, GG.
Gobbledegook you say, crazed folk.
Guess you are from a far planet, names
Given with love and fun, not all the same,
Lets us truth tease without angry blame.
Hang around and watch with us a spell
You’ll see us sing, laugh and joke, do tell
Names changed in love say all is well.
con brio
From arpeggio to lightbulb,
a plucked chord near the eye
is a cut of sun, is a close call.
Foot goes forward as a nail.
Do not look at the birds.
Keep the consequences.
Step-by-step is one of
the most important progressions.
on the first day
she knit
a pair of black and white socks
on the second day
she painted
a landscape
on the third day
she baked
a vegetable lasagna
on the fourth day
she cross stitched
a zodiac sampler
on the fifth day
she embroidered
dolphins on her denim jacket
on the 6th day
she crocheted
two sloths
a boy, and a girl
on the 7th day
she binge watched
‘The Office’
looked
at what she’d made
and thought
these are pretty darn good
