Posts for 2020 (page 48)

Out of the Box

Decades of my life disappear into one box
that multiplies when my back is turned, turn to building blocks
of cardboard to hold what think important. Each tier mocks —
somewhere in there are blue coral from I sea I can’t recall, rocks
that echo a canyon wren’s song keys to locks
of houses I no longer own, more keys to old clocks
that no longer run. Do their gears move slowly, their tocks
still tick beneath layers of sweaters, thick blankets, matchless socks? 
Would I hear a rustle behind corrugated walls if my little clay fox
 flicked his cupped ears toward the snow geese flocks
that web white contrails overhead. Will bittersweet vine fill crocks
of brown pottery beside some new-to-me door, as I wait for the knocks
of neighbors to say Welcome to your home! Is this sorting a blessing or pox?
I might find the answer in this one last box.

How many
  mistakes
     does it take            
to make
   a sensible life?                

Where the road curves toward the lake
there’s a hobby farm where they raise
miniature ponies, llamas & alpacas.

In May, the furry beasts amble like happy
old men on the rolling land, which is now blanketed
with yellow wildflowers & patches of hay.

I’m reading a book of Chinese poetry
from the Tang dynasty. So many images of earth,
animal, & sky — full moon, fragrant pine,

rivers, mountains, wind & rain. Horses
& resting birds. In June, my neighbor
shears the thick coats of the alpacas,

leaving nothing unshaven but their fluffy
heads. If a field of new flowers could applaud.
If small black ponies could laugh.

don’t write. ain’t written. mimics
#12 hanging there, suspended
mind whirling about in whorls of gloom
like a fever dream during twilight sleep
in the twilight zone as croce belts
don’t you know that i gotta get outta here
’cause where poet finds herself
is not, will not be her home

poet dreams so lucid swears she
astral projects, could lick desperation
offa dead man’s guitar strings
taste it on her tongue even as it bleeds
travel to 9-20-73, cup the beechcraft
airplane in her right palm, raise it high
above that murderous pecan tree, send
ol’ jim to sherman to sing another song

You are crumbling

A monument once so sturdy

Falling to pieces

The deterioration I can’t help but noticing

The crippling of your hands

The slipping of your tongue

The static of your brain, once infrequent now overtaking your thoughts

You won’t remember this conversation

There’s already so many that have faded

Nonexistent into the void that you are slowly becoming

We mention who’s to blame

But you wave our worries away

Unable and unwilling to accept what you are becoming 

The groves we wandered through
in our youth 
have all begun to bleed into
one another,
and I no longer know whether
the brook
is safe to wade in or if we’ve stepped
past safety,
into the outstretched arms of private 
property, where
two kids threatened to fill our bodies
with holes,
said we’d never be heard from again.
Back then,
I still hadn’t learned how to use my voice,
didn’t know
that the burning in the back of my throat
was shame
begging to break the shackles of silence.
I’m indebted
to that spitfire savior, the firecracker
that stood
face-to-face with fear, danced 
with danger,
and showed us how to navigate a world
of wayward woodlands
and ill intentions.

I am writing
this poem because
I want a catalpa tree in it.

Not because 
catalpa trees are stunning—
with their immense twisty trunks and branches,
broad green leaves—heart-shaped,
clusters of white flowers with tiny orchid-like throats.

The Arbor Foundation says of catalpas:
“How could you not
stop
to take it in.”

No, I want to put a 
catalpa tree
into this poem because of 
the sound it makes when you say it: 
catalpa tree.

Those hard sounds—that C that T that L—
Did I mention the dangling seed pods—smooth pale green
longer than a giant green bean?

Better than those long lengthy mysterious seed pods—
the popping sound of “pah” at the end,
only one vowel used 3 times, pronounced differently 
as the word moves forward to the right,
rather than moving upward toward th sky.

Ending with the earthy hum:  treeeeeee

Oh say it—slowly, whisper it—now, cut into it—be LOUD
Catalpa tree!

a field of soybeans
laid out before me
the creek twisting
through the trees
i have grass
in my pocket
and a singular clover
and a dried up leaf
it’s innocent,
care-free, and beautiful

in the heat of the garden
my gut chirps up towards me to say 
“surely this must be the worst of it”
i pull another weed with sore ripe fingers 
and whisper back 
“even if it isn’t, we’ll be fine” 

i repeat myself so often,
i’m not sure if it’s become mantra or delusion.

i’m going to be sick i’m going to be sick i’m going to be sick
don’t picture it don’t picture it don’t picture it 
we’re fine we’re fine we’re fine we’re fine 

the ship feels different down here
no windows, stale air,
heat from the engines,
the stink of men who bathed
three months ago

we’ve not seen the captain
since November
reckon Thanksgiving and Christmas have long passed,
by now–who knows?

hard to remember fresh air,
blue skies, wind,
the sound of birds,
clean skin, food that is not
spoiled, laughter

truth is the assholes above us–
we hold their lives in our hands, 
but they don’t give a fuck about us
on the lower decks

most of us, covered in burns,
mostly deaf from the machines,
eyes red and burning,
clinging to some woman we knew once,
long gone from everywhere
but our brains

not sure we’re human anymore
feel more like a part of the machine,
each of us a single cog, not worth
a halfpenny

i had a dog, once–
and a home with windows
and a wife
one day, in a foul mood, 
i kicked that dog
the look he gave me–
weak, defeated

that’s me now