Posts for June 2, 2020 (page 3)

I’ll plunge feet first
into the depths of
winter just to feel
the satisfaction of
the edge.
The dulled nerves
of age have me
numbed
to sensations
I once found
overwhelming.
Now, I seek the
ones that cut
right through.
This all ends.
Our deep obsessions
and manicured lawns
and doing the “right” thing –
or not –
it crashes down in a heap
of time burned too fast
by bright screens
and races to the false finish,
an artificial end
where we have it all,
except we never do
(and we can’t).
That’s the catch.
But here we go,
racing.
Sprinting
when it should be
a marathon.
Standing apart
when we should
hold each other’s
hands and
march against
this idea we
should be running
at all.

                –“To see, we must forget the name of the thing we are looking at.” – Claude Monet

Drawn up from glazed sleep, my consciousness returns to me,
a thousand drowsy houseflies gathering to settle on the windowsill.

I break the wax on this day, snap on the lamp and dose
with reheated coffee. I enter into this cathedral one line at a time.

The stain glass is dark and I incandesce in the dance of yellow flames
on white candles in red glass votives. I steal time from my voracious day,

and wonder where I am. The world doesn’t need my ars poetica,
it doesn’t need me to redefine the saltpeter heart.

This morning is cold like all mornings away from night’s kiln. I reach
to the barrier to see in the not-me a soft-edged reflection.

If I invite you here, lay your hand on this frescoed wall, do it not
to learn of purpose or valor, but rather that you see your story

written in the plaster cracks of saints’ robes. You can only see it as you will,
even with my breath in your ear. We exist between dogma, between stanzas.

Sounds of muffled air and whistles
 That float like a bomb

Birds chirp on my front porch
 And messengers sing in a chorus
 It sounds like the Court of Owls out here
And time has been paused

I’m a privileged white woman who is an anti-racist
I grew up abused And psychologically damaged 
But still had every human right

 I say these names that have been brutally murdered
 And feel sickened and unclear on just how
 We as a country can call ourselves free

A country who murders black people
A country that puts children in cages
A country that elects a pedophile as its president 
A country that is in desperate needs of police reform 

Crooked smiles come from their gears
 As smoke fills the air and fire burns 
I’ve never stood for the flag and I never will 

Silence is expired
 It’s time for change 

It’s always been time 

While snatching those coins,
you get to play the hero.
No one asked your help.

She hated the way her voice sounded
asking for another cheese sandwich
at the soup kitchen 
her accent leaking information
she’d rather keep to herself
her pants cheap and stretched
small gold hoop in her nose
a community service to no one.
She had a PhD in Robotics            
played bass in an angel band           
had a horse and two dogs           
yet there was blackness inside            
every elevator going up and down            
her breast pocket, her pants pocket           
So what if she wanted to sleep in her car           
So what if more than one closet            
was one closet too many           
And the fog of a backyard spooked her            
more than a parking lot sunrise
what happened in the past &
what happens next 
was nobody’s business but her own 

To participate but not break
Terms of Use of Posting and Commenting
I’ll simply point to the first
female African-American poet to be published
and her lines
To The Rev. Dr. Thomas Amory
Thank you, Phillis Wheatley

Black squares flood social media feeds,
People with influence dedicate their platform to the cause,
White people vow to make space for melenated voices.
Around the country tear gas spews into streets,
Cops in riot gear secure zip ties around shaking wrists, 
Black bodies make their way to the morgue.
I can’t help but wonder which will stop first.

Oh object of my long held affection
The very sight of you has so often
     brought a smile to my face
         or a tear to my eye
You are a reminder of what was
        or still is
Although there is no life or breath in you
You stir life within me
A thought – a moment – a precious memory
And a feeling of joy is kindled in my heart
But you – you remain the same – you are a 
                            Thing
I have heard that it is not you that I seek  
It is the feeling that you evoke
    that causes me to rejoice in you
    and regard you with such great esteem
Your value is in the eye and heart of the beholder
                 It’s true –  you are a thing
But when it’s time for me to tell you goodbye 
     Time to let you go
I will say thank you 
Thank you for the moments and memories
    thank you for the gifts of joy you have given me
When it’s time .  .  .
          When it’s time .  .  .
                     But not today

Thinking of the word “enough.”

The waterfall’s voice carries so well here.

On a clear day, you can see down into the valley.

The koi will come to the surface if you feed them.

Come, look.

If you are still, the butterfly might land on you.

The grasses wave with the ripples of sunlight.

Can you feel the wind carrying you?

Before the fences, the sky seemed so much larger.

Come back.

Saturday’s crowds swirl noisily, tasks to be done, lists to be completed. They break around each other like self-considered waves and rocks. The street vendor’s cart announces sherbets, pictures of satisfied faces making the exchange clear. An older couple approaches, the man ordering for both while her hand waits, raised like a well-mannered but eager child’s on a market trip. The couple walks on, she with an arm through his, savoring the routine, repeated moment with teeth and tongues. Familiarity breeds contentment: Two cones, two scoops each, bright lemon and lime paired and glistening.