Posts for June 4, 2019 (page 5)

Molecule acid
aberration messenger
metamorphoses

Angiosperm optics
reflection synthesis
fractal creation 

Yesterday,
I hiked a mile
just for fun
and discovered
that hiking
isn’t fun at all
and that
I really
really
hate
being outside.

O captain, one of my captains 
Kirk, who subverted the rules
Circumvented the Kobayashi Maru
Circumnavigated the metaverse
Circumcised Khan on Ceti Alpha V
—Or was it VI?—
In his own doomed Xanadu
Contemplated Melville in old-man’s specs
Sat with Old Friend as the radiation laid waste his cloven heart
And brought the pieces of his own
Back together when he reconciled
With his Son
And the boy’s Holy Mother 
Conquering the biggest monster
Within and without

You say that I’m
the glue in this
relationship, a
thought that
surprises me,
until I realize
I would have
to agree: if
there’s one
thing you can
say about me,
it’s that I’ve
stuck around.

.   .   .   .   . 

The Backstory

I love to talk to poets about how they get from the initial thought for a poem to the final product, and about the journey in between. There wasn’t really much of a journey to report for this poem.

I was on the phone with a colleague today discussing a job I had recently left after a long tenure when I said that some day I’d like to be the glue that held a team together at work, and my colleague said, “well, you were kind of glue”.

When I asked what she meant, she said, “you sure stuck around long a long time”. I thought that was funny. At least, funny enough to immediately hang up and crank out this poem.

jamming with angels
infinity neon blues band 
shimmers on stage
we boogie round the room
waving our “freak flags” and signs
that say “ the end is nigh – we
might as well go out dancing” and
then the lights extinguish themselves
deep in the minds of time

Warming tortillas in the cast iron skillet
I remember how he pronounced
“Tacos”
the “s” sibilant

“Taco, tacos” I imitate
and he is alive again
speaking with my mouth
smiling with my lips

A small miracle in my kitchen

I open a book of poetry looking for a phrase

or line, or just a word, inspiration 

for this poem today. An hour in the garden

before the morning sun starts to burn, 

my break brings me here, 

my laptop ever waiting, ever ready. 

I find a phrase that catches, then 

I get lost in reading the poem,

forgetting why the phrase caught. 

I remember I forgot to spread lime, 

so I’ll need to get the tiller out again. 

Again I’ll wade the spaces between the various berries

and asparagus, spreading the lime, tilling it in, 

spreading white clover seeds—for the bees— 

walking the seeds in, spreading straw, 

some cover for the seedlings as they sprout. 

The next time I wade in

I’ll be picking blackberries.

Title is first line of poem “River” by Davis McCombs’ Ultima Thule, 2000.

i consider plucking a string of leaves,
keeping them in a fishbowl above my desk.
a year ago, i stitched every inch of road
into a distinct memory, now
miles and miles slip through my fingers like water
and i watch them pool, unblinking.
i drown the bowl in honey,
watch the stems buckle against the glass
paper skin wrinkling with too much sweetness.
last summer my eyes were clear
burning endlessly with daydreams
when the sun started setting during my classes,
i blinked and i could only see clouds.
the leaves begin to brown, still sinking
and i miss a girl who isn’t here anymore,
miss a girl who used to grow flowers from dust.
i don’t recognize her in the mirror
but now i’ve plucked all of her leaves
and the last of her swims in fragments
at the bottom of my fishbowl.

i consider plucking a string of leaves,
keeping them in a fishbowl above my desk.
a year ago, i stitched every inch of road
into a distinct memory, now
miles and miles slip through my fingers like water
and i watch them pool, unblinking.
i drown the bowl in honey,
watch the stems buckle against the glass
paper skin wrinkling with too much sweetness.
last summer my eyes were clear
burning endlessly with daydreams
when the sun started setting during my classes,
i blinked and i could only see clouds.
the leaves begin to brown, still sinking
and i miss a girl who isn’t here anymore,
miss a girl who used to grow flowers from dust.
i don’t recognize her in the mirror
but now i’ve plucked all of her leaves
and the last of her swims in fragments
at the bottom of my fishbowl.