Posts for 2020 (page 56)

As midnight approaches I realize  

my poem has been written before
by Whitman who published his own work
again and again, celebrating himself
as lover and poet of nature.

W. C. W. wrote the same poem as
a memo on a refrigerator,
mastering the line, short lines
to control how to read his work.

Cummings wrote the same poem
when rhyme was declared dead.
He hid it, etcetera, creating his own
made up puzzle words.

Poets laud a total poem, a pure one.
giving their all,
considering the same elements
of the craft, and draft

the same poem,
aware that there can be
no pefect crime.

I stand in a field
of purple cone flowers.
I climbed the steep hill
behind our house
to arrive here
watching butterflies
drink nectar
and flutter
from flower to flower,
and gazing at the
dappled sunlight
cast over the blooms
on the edge
of the forest.
I am hypnotized
by their beauty.
I look down upon
our yard
and garden
and my husband
tying tendrils of beans
up on poles, the hills
casting long shadows
down around him,
but he kneels in
the one patch of
sunlight
glowing golden
in a sea of
deep green.

This summer is thick and heavy

Blanket of still humid air on the top bunk
Okra’s slime from the okra’s lip
A bead of old molasses caught
between the spiral rim and the dented lid

These stains never go away

That house doesn’t seem to have
aged a day, stuck somewhere in the limbo
before I was born. 
We’d explore the basement, placed
squarely in between your professions
of teacher and taxidermist,
not quite sure whether we would
learn something new
or unearth the unburied.
The world down there coated in dust
and disarray. The piano with dead keys.
The discarded knick-knacks and remnants
of a forgotten time. I fell in love with a 
rotary-dial telephone we exhumed.
Remember the quiet mechanical whir
as it returned home after each number.
Sometimes I wonder if the wires
could get crossed, if I could call
those still breathing
in the year that house is still trapped.

              “Morgan has this crazy idea.  
               He thinks that, with one kiss,
               you’ll remember everything.”

                                  –      Chuck

We can’t forget
this world ain’t

a fairy tale. Or,
not really. 

I’d like to
think

one
magickal
kiss

could draw
you, back

wrap myself
like iridescence

around
your heart, 

incandesce
the filament

of every memory
we shared. 

But you ain’t
asleep, and

I’m rarely
that charming.

i never told you the truth
that i recongized your lies
and loved you so much
i kept your secret
i pretended not to see
the hate that sometimes
made your eyes red and hot
like the burner on the stove
i imagined you were my equal
and worthy of the respect
i freely offered
even after you offered
only pain and disappointment
i love you still 
after all these years
there is no room for anger
in the space you occupy
in my soul
for i hold within that frame
a moment captured in 
sharp focus:
you held my hand
we walked the beach
the red sun retiring 
to the song of ocean birds
the salty breeze carried
your breath and mine
to the far place that is
still our home

Soft spoken
people
are often
those
who have
heard
the most
yelling.

You’re sitting on the back porch drinking iced tea,
Watching birds fly back and forth,
Watching squirrels run back and forth.

Today is your day off,
You don’t have anything planned,
You don’t feel like doing any work around the house.

Nobody has called,
There’s nothing on TV you want to watch,
You have a radio with you on the porch tuned to an oldies station.

Nothing eventful is happening,
You’re starting to get bored,
Isn’t this a good time to have a slice of delicious Beebopareebop rhubarb pie?

Such utile architecture, a place to murder and to burn the evidence of murder. There are ghosts watching from the sooted walls, reaching out to loved ones and strangers in their shared final moments. They cry that the marks’ filthy lessons aren’t universal, that the horror of this tangible reality is denied to excuse hatreds borne since Eden. These walls will not be cleaned, the pipes below the ceiling not removed, but if they were the haunting would continue: The pale spirit of a child gazes from the flowers that bound the small monument in the room’s center, puzzled by the fault that brought it here.

(after Jo Bell)

If you fall off the wagon, don’t stress. Just get back on.
If your early efforts are not masterpieces, don’t worry.
If your latest efforts are also not masterpieces, don’t worry.

It’s not just you. Be a little kind to yourself, but also
be a little hard on yourself – only a little. Life gets in the way,
but life is also your source material, so you can’t have too much.

Read every single poem in this book. Any poem you don’t find
in this book you will find online. Read every single poem
you can find, anywhere that you can find poetry.

Nobody writes good poetry without reading good poetry.
Those who don’t take this seriously are doomed because
they are not aware of the context in which they write.

Use this book to teach your own class. Better yet,
become your own class: be the student; be the teacher;
be the famous poet laureate brought in as guest lecturer.

True success is in the private conversation between poet
and page. The process of writing, not the process of winning
awards, is where the real treasure may be found.

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