On the Nature of Poems and Puzzles
I work a puzzle
sudoku, kenken, crossword
one is not enough
I pen a poem
pantoum, sonnet, haiku, fib
muse prods another
poems and puzzles
resemble salted peanuts
one does not suffice
I work a puzzle
sudoku, kenken, crossword
one is not enough
I pen a poem
pantoum, sonnet, haiku, fib
muse prods another
poems and puzzles
resemble salted peanuts
one does not suffice
This is not. The poem you thought.
It was going to be. This is not.
The poem. It might have been.
This can only be. The poem.
You make it. Every time.
A different poem. Depending.
Where you stop. This will be.
Any poem you want. To read.
After their house sold, I dreamed about
the home my grandparents had-
I am in the house.
I am purchasing the house.
Or just looking at the lawn, the gardens, the places
where everyone parked
from across the street,
as if I had just collected the mail
from the mailbox that
had been there. Yes, over there.
Before their house sold, the marching band dreams began-
Repetition rehearsed among band members.
I still belonged but I did not
have the choreography in my muscles anymore,
the hits I needed to mark on
the field under me. My legs forgot.
Once, I gave up caring if I knew. I performed anyway.
The last time the marching band came thru my dreams,
I knew they belonged to them, to someone else,
and I cheered them on
and remembered. It was me.
Me they belonged with.
Finally, the dreams caught up in degrees-
I am back in undergrad to complete a degree no one else cares about.
I still have the next degree higher, in dream.
It’s not a question.
I need to complete so many credits
in social sciences, in dream-accuracy,
and I feel confined
by the rooms, rules, textbooks.
The last time was the last time:
I quelled the theme before my dreaded
drag-along duty
deemed itself definitive:
In the dream I remember
how I traveled far, out beyond the quizzes,
lived through the essays, created
and studied firsthand accounts though
I was often the outsider.
The last time. It stopped quickly.
-from an “Arco: How to Write Poetry-Third Edition” exercise
stain my skin in tones of the earth, tones of home
stain the wine glass rim
stain the rosy cheek back of the palm dragging blood red cab’
stain my lips with the lipstick of the week, whatever’s in season
paint in wtf-bright Pikachu yellow, Elvira mid-summer’s night, mud-mood espresso coffee
Mycenean-adobe Crimson, Electric-Cleopatra blue, Venician-vacation wine
stain the senses
taste the rainbow painted before the cusp of the tongue
if you dare
take on a subscription until it starts to become a problem
no one ever mentions this though
the taste the of lipstick stain in broad strokes
“Domination” tastes like rose scented play-doh, “mad love” liquid lacquer glazes like cinnamon bun scented candles and the deeper the red the further in the rose bushes you smudge
until thats all you smell
stain the page, while you’re at it
stain the fingers
the crest of the palm too
stain it all in black, blue, red and green
stain my hands like sewage workers boots
while heavy hand presses ink into a flood
and no one mentions this either, but
the smell the of ink
no one ever mentions the scent
the smell of dental equipment once the cap is gone
and that wafting aftermath of floating soot behind the squid, you grabbed too tightly
finally, the test tube aroma drifts away
when the ink settles between iris blots blasted onto the page in excess
and this I believe is the only stain that leaves no scent behind
not like berry wine
no that stays with you through the night
like the stains you have yet to make
the words you have left to write
childhood summers
exist in my mind
as blurred nostolgia–
stepping out into the morning
and letting the air,
heavy with dew, fill
my body. my grandmother
and i would sit on her
porch, our hands wrapped
around mugs of coffee
and i’d lean my head
against her arm. after a bowl
of cereal, i’d nap under the quilts
of her bed. only the mornings
hold this poignancy,
everything else seems
to have the same
finiteness as the now.
From work straight to church
leaves me plenty of time
to sit reflective in the sanctuary,
a grace long denied.
Tears gather in my eyes
as divine love spills into my heart.
Peace pervades the pandemic induced walls
completely disrupting our lives.
God, how I miss the normal things
like the hymn books and the hymns,
the congregations joining hands in prayer,
people mingling after the service
but most of all, I’ve missed this chance
to sit in Your Holy presence
as I do this beautiful evening,
letting myself be Your child again.
Today marks one year
since a challenge to pray a rosary
every day for a week straight,
since I hadn’t said one in years.
This sparked an explosion of faith
with showers of wisdom
as I came more fully into who I am;
a disciple of Christ.
It was a tumultuous year.
You know all the nasty devils
that stood in the way of happiness,
how I had to rely on You for survival
and I will never forget
the way you saw me through those wars,
dressing my wounded spirit
when people inevitably failed.
God, you never stopped fighting beside me.
Armies of saints and angels
became my shelter against the hurricanes
that surely would have destroyed the old me.
When depression came crushing
and anxieties paralyzed me
and fear threatened to take all the light away,
You provided the courage to stand strong.
But out of all the blessings,
You, of course, saved the best for last
when I would need her most.
I promise to always love her the same way You do.
All of this flows through my mind
and with my sanctuary tears.
I have absolutely nothing to be afraid of
for my God has already won all of my wars.
For twenty-six days
I will have two grandchildren
twenty-one years old.
Even they think it’s crazy.
Property for sale,
About 200 acres
Good land for dirt and flowers
For dreams and growth
Old farmhouse in the corner
Falling in the creaks in the floor
It’s a fixer-upper
It’s a visual aesthetic
Of a time and place
It’s a thought
Of 100 years ago
From the found pictures upstairs
Were these people happy here?
If I had to guess, I’d say no
It’s a trap with cat tails
Coming through the bathroom window
It’s a trap with snakes lounging In the old couch in the front room
Return the favor for me
Dare the moon to turn away
Feel the sun burn behind your eyes
Hide away, like clockwork
and watch as the winds shift
You’re just too melancholy for me
She shrugs
After a brief pause
She admits
That ending our decades-long friendship
Probably isn’t helping
