Trite
Sometimes
the world
makes no sense
to me.
I feel like an
alien,
dropped on a
foreign planet
with no knowledge of
its culture
or
inhabitants.
Small talk is
trite
and I search for
meaning.
I turn to the forest
to escape, only to find
my retreats are dwindling.
The breeze brushes
my face, a gentle whisper
enticing me to follow,
leading me across the
valley through an herbal
rainbow. The air is ripe
with rain – anticipation
makes wildflowers smell
sweeter – all the senses
peaked in preparation.
Birds bursting with song
trying to fit it all in during
these moments before the
storm. I step into the shadows
cast over the hollow, the canopy
creating a false night like the
long shade of my ancestors
shielding me from the truth.
Mycorrhiza latch
arbuscular transference
phosphorus scheming
Crystalline ion
refraction induction flow
mutation complete
Listen
press your right ear
then your left
into the creeping ivy that took over everything
long
before you set foot in this place.
It’ll be hard to spin the dial
low:
bird song & electric hum & your neighbor’s questionable taste in men
but there
just there
—whatever it was that was always going to be—
(that thing you were always going to hear)
a bark beetle can hear the pop of water in the tree roots
a baby chili can hear the fennel nearby, whispering sweet
—stay small—
terrible nothings.
so it grows
five
alarm
hot
before the song is too siren
to think what fennel never learned about playing at gods
The volunteer tomato whispered,
& whispers still
—growing only where you’re planted is a fool’s game—
It is not your fault.
Gardeners have inexpert & ungentle hands.
Air so humid you knew
rain must be coming. From my side
of the Kentucky River, I watched
the thunderhead. Like a vast and terrible
sea, it consumed the day and left me
coiled up on the sofa, wrapped up and listening
to the roil and stomp of
rain. In other words, the pressure
unroofed itself and everything
changed.
1:12 read the clock
when I finally woke up today.
I stared at it until the minute changed,
repeating in my mind
the to-do list I could only hope
God would help me accomplish,
but I know myself.
I have an intimate knowledge of the state I’m in,
a world of burnt out light bulbs
overflowing trash cans
mounting piles of laundry
none of which will be touched today.
It’s not an attractive life.
The only saving grace is
I know this won’t be eternal.
This is just what it looks like
inside a man who’s lost his inspiration.
There’s still a fire in here somewhere,
its warmth of redemption
waiting to be remembered.
There’s still a man within these walls
who knows this daily war
of pain and despair
will one day yield to worth.
He’s just not waking up today.
It’s just me, charged with a day
of getting through by the grace of God,
accomplishing what my limited soul can,
all the while missing
the better man I used to be
and strive to someday be again.
The light is red
I stop
I see a tiny leather hand
Driven into the pavement
Is it a casualty of a child’s careless caretaking
Justice for stolen gems and jewels instead of jail
Is this the start to some scary story
Perhaps the unaccounted uniform of an unaware action figure
Maybe a dangerous drug deal ending in disaster
An eye for an eye
The light changes to green
I turn
I see a turtle
Smashed on the road
A life ended
A tragedy
Now I am ashamed at my imagination
The sensitive plant is a houseguest—
but it thrives, during summer, outdoors.
It likes direct sun (not too hot)—
it loves dampened soil (not too wet)—
it craves breath of space (not too much)—
any of these, in excess, can kill
those leaves that fold up,
those stems that roll up,
when touched without care
for their kind.
More often than not, it’s tossed out
when the season has come to an end,
an annual whose beauty’s adored
til it’s not, til that beauty has waned.
But those who do care will not plant
these kids in the heat,
nor drown their sweet feet,
nor assume that this poem
is about flowers.
Carefully remove the burning piece
of shrapnel from your heart.
While it’s still glowing red, hammer it
into shape with endless revisions.
Plunge it into the water of detachment
and let it cool down for a while.
Word by word, grind off
any excess material.
Hone the edge until it’s barely there.
Polish the blade until some people can
see themselves reflected in it just
before the point enters their heart.
those doves
they don’t care where you are
their poetry sounds the same
i think the air
has dropped an octive lower
in grey meditation
five syllables whispered
in undertone, an iambic foot,
a pyrrhic, a half foot, and an endstop,
or just a feathered melody,
“how you do, do, do…?”
a call without a response.
