Posts for 2020 (page 61)

Pine Mountain Cemetery XXIII
             The Magnolia

Climb with me to the mountain top,
Breathe in clean, cold air, rest your eyes.
There is a timelessness here to feel.

Just beyond we can see tips of stones
With tales they tell. Tip toe in, they never
Care, or if they do they refuse to say.

There are other facts to hear today,
Let’s listen to the boulder tell why
It is here so far away from its like.

That Magnolia there growing so fine,
How did that seed fly so far from
Stately lawns from deep down south.

Right behind that outcrop’s shade
If I’m not wrong there will be a Jack.
Never more than one, I guess to

Keep mother from hauling it off
To fill her wildflower bed. Nature
Has a way of thwarting man’s intent.

Look close at this rock, see the shell?
Now where on this mountain did this
Rock find and keep this fish’s coat?

This hill has much to tell if we will listen,
Secrets sought by those who care are here
In more abundance than one life can know.

Plants to heal, plants for sleep, plants
To make our faces rosy. Trees with
Tales of fire, flood and ravages of man.

Here, let’s sit down, this tiny bloom needs
A friend. I don’t know its name, we will
Look it up when we get home, drink

Some tea and remember all we saw
Today high up here on this special
Hill with secrets yet to tell and all those
stones and stones and stones.

In the midst of my darkness, she told me I was made of honey & glass
She admired the way that my mind and body were not strangers to the sun
In her darkness, she believed herself to be the night. 
She felt that she brought her darkness upon herself
It’s not her fault that she’s so fucking sad
She’s the moon. 
The darkness that caresses her only forces her to be the brightest thing in sight
I’m simply honey and glass. 
In my darkness, it’s her light that holds me until the sun can shine again. 

night, deep in silence.
noises receding behind.
the black river flows!

my boat, a black sail,
cutting moon water in half.
she shines distantly!

the duck dips for fish,
an idyllic ripple spreads.
wriggling at the end!

so speechless, quite still
the ohio flows on past,
past all memory…

a tree now, not i
tells the passing of time, and
how it babbles on!

the waves sliced still by
finger branches, leaves sailing
and i know not why!

though i see them sail,
with friendly winds prevailing
i do not know why!

waltzing with the wind
we kicked up ripples and waves
and then we stopped, yes
we stopped as children do, to
watch the sad rain do better. 

If I write 100 poems, I’ll surely have written one worthy
of being laid atop a bouquet of violets and purple orchids,
gently nestled alongside the other flowers
that seem to grow from the grass
that covers your sleeping body. Every word I write
is for you, even if
it doesn’t sound like it. For

you are the peace
that I pray to. You are the hope
that I sing to. You are the love
that I wish could be in my arms.

For you still come to me in bursts,
lights brighter than a dream – surely
one way or another,
you must be real.
You must be waiting for me

somewhere else,
where the sun shines brighter.

I unpack my days slowly now,
peeling off tape,
leaning in to 
inhale surprise 
rising through
the gaps
of the gift box.
I wait hours
before I return
to open
a single
cardboard flap,
finding the handwritten note
that I read
and read again
before bed.
I wait until daylight
to lift the gift–
a glass jar of homemade jam–
at last
from its wrapping.
In this way,
I spread my delight
over time,
decelerating
so I don’t become dizzy.

Curvy and lined with trees
A 20 minute drive
going the speed limit
A 10 minute drive
With the green fading together
Filled with hills that get your stomach
And bridges with the creek underneath
You give me time to think
And let me play my music as loud as I want
You are my friend, and my therapy.

the gas station is lit up
with an orange haze of lights
the lightning bugs fly around
insects of miniscule magic
the night provides relief

they hide among leaves

they sprout behind your picking— 

           like rabbits 

in the clover field.

Death is a cloudbank, building.
Do not hand me your precious
things
(my own cannot be trusted) I
will drop them, breaking
like bones. I will
use shards
to poke out the marrow.

It was so real
the sights, smells, and the people
in my dream were very familiar
there was a feeling of deja vu

Until the moment that 
the person that I was hugging
faded into nothing as
I opened my eyes

It was morning
I had not been hugging
my deceased mother after all
it was just a dream