Posts for June 25, 2021 (page 4)

“In Italian, the word stanza means ‘room.’” – Doireann Ní Ghríofa, A Ghost in the Throat

So now I am building a room
that we walk through on our tour
of this house, the poem.

Different rooms have different
shapes, sizes, colors, purposes.

Sometimes we linger
to admire proportions or décor;
sometimes we hurry through
to reach the next room or just
get the whole thing over with.

Some houses are large, some are small.
Some are simple, some are elaborate.
Some require a guide, some feel like home.

But each has an entrance, particular
views, and places to sit
and reflect.

And here’s yesterday’s poem. (I think I’m wearing down a bit.)

Question

Sycamore, how you get
so tall? You like a big
speckled snake, slithering
into the sky.

It’s 2:46am and my eyelids
are stapled
to my forehead.
No dream dust or droopy shoulders
or drool dripping down
my chin,
just ‘comedians unleashed’
looping on the tv
and an odd buzzing
I’ve been tracking with my ears
for the last 47 minutes—
that doesn’t seem to exist
when the sun is up.
Just me and this ungodly
bright screen
praying to be forcefully
slammed shut
as I roll to the farthest edge
of my bed hoping
to knock my plug
from its socket.

the     hOllOw     space
there in the middle of
my bones is where
yOu used to live

where yOu
nourished sustained nutured fueled
supported     me

i have
wilted
melted
dissolved
into my own tears
                                     since yOu left

I celebrate
a little party inside my mind
no one to deliberate or decide a theme
just me and that’s alright
I have come a ways and now
I rest, or rephrasing, I will rest soon
first though, I will myself to look about
all around and inward
before I’m onto the next 
why have I chosen so many times to skip the party
the personal accolades
instead wrapped up in a turmoil of progress
today I will pause, tomorrow too
celebrating until it’s time to not
as of now I don’t know when that will be

My hands slither through fresh thyme,
sprinkled with hint of lemon,
where blushing blooms quicken  

promise to silken tonight’s dinner.
Husband tiptoes his daily words:
“Do you know when we’re going to eat?”

“When it’s done,” I quip, quick to return
to brisk scent of sea-rimmed lands
hands brimming with thyme’s time. 

Beaming
Chasing Light
til the end
of the 

tunnel
of
wonder 

Meant            something akin to
                                                                    “The World is A Sleep, And I am a Dream”
                                                                                                 – I mutter on a million life lines
                                                                                                                                       the list of always 
                                                                                                                ALL WAYS
watching me 
grow
lingering

The Woods of Wonder Born a Billion Pies
Baking Easy
Sheathed in Thick Lattice
Hiding the Insides

Cherry Goo Drips                                                  Burns Black                                      On the Rack
                      Sniffing                    Oven Cleaner           in a             ploom of pressure       

                                                                                       fissure 
                                                                                      future
                                                                                   mounds of sugar
                                                                              mountains
                                                                                        of
                                                                                  white
                                                                                        rocks
shoveled for profit
art lost on the aside
shoveled into your insides
rich and creamy
“More Sugar for Your Sugar, Sugar?” – Chipley muses. 

Barb never made it easy.  

“Your Lattice is Too Close together. You can’t see the pie.”

*Maybe the π Wants to Stay Hidden,* i think while doing dishes.
silently assaulted by the House Manager. Memory hidden. I see it when I stand alone in an apron. 

The Shield of Flour and Sugar Hash Tagged
4 A Cross
thicc and layered
hide your insides for the most
Deserving. 

Hidden
Goodies for the
Nogoodies
Sugar Kings
White Teeth
Black Insides dripping
On the Oven Inside of Your
Body
Stack
The Black Snake Creaming  
Oozing  
                                                                      Hunting The Tunnel of Wonder

                                                                                                             Meant Something Real For Real 

                                                                       Waking From Antisesha the Doc
Slips a Baloon in my throat
So I can Breathe Again
Easy Breezy 

All The While 
The Black Snake Searches
I Dream Deep

In A Cabin of Pine
Company with a Silent Friend.
The Lake Outside Watches

Comfort Comes
When I need it Most

Sleep Sleep

I wake for a moment on the bathroom floor, my cat sleeps next to me, not on the bed where we used to be, but on the floor of the bathroom. True Companions Presist in the Soup of Spirit.

Do you ever feel so lonely you could cry?
But you wouldn’t be crying because you have no one to turn to
Or nowhere to go if your kitchen suddenly caught on fire
No, you would be crying because you have the sudden realization
That everything that you have accrued in your life
All the people, all the experiences, all the STUFF
Will never be able to help you combat the chasm
This yawning void buried deep, deep down
And the creature that lives within it
Too distant to examine and much too far
To even begin to understand
This enemy that has embedded itself into your very fabric

He quietly said into the dark room, into the straining night,
You’re a house, not a home.

The dying died a little more—
parched sunflower knocked sideways,

bent, hastening the water loss. Shortly,
his breath heavied and he twitched in some dream.

You’re a house, not a home
swallowed the positive space of atoms

until she shrank, flattened, and,
sucked inside out by the words,

there was a tiny popping sound as she broke
into little black galaxies which drifted apart, lazy repelled magnets.

“Go then, there are other worlds than these.” 

                      —Stephen King, The Gunslinger

If I’m not special,

then maybe you’re not so special either.

If I’m so easy to leave behind,

then go ahead.

I will find other yous

in other realms.

So say goodbye,

and I’ll see you in the next life,

one where your heart isn’t so cowardly

and I’m still precious to you.

Because you come back to me,

a version of you

in another reality.

There’s a universe where you don’t leave.

So walk away,

and I’ll see you again

next time.

There are infinite yous.

I just have to find them.

And I won’t mind

that they never said

the tender words you did.

I’m going to find

your doppelgänger

and I hope someday

you’re jealous

that your double

makes love to me

better than you ever could.

I’m going to find the you that doesn’t hide.

I’m going to find the you

with commitment,

with follow-through.

I’m going to make him moan

my name.

Because a real man

could never walk away

from all I have to offer.

So go,

if you want to.

Because somewhere

out there

your twin

can’t get enough of me.

And he not only loves me,

he cherishes me

to the bone.

So make me

a memory,

because some day soon

I’ll be your favorite thought

and you won’t be able

to get me out of your head.

I hope the person

you’re giving your love to now

isn’t worth the love we made,

the love I’ll make

with you without you.

I know the love we had

can still be real

in another place.

When the world sickened and grew cautious,
the coffee shop adapted. It is how they survived.
People still came, happily, though they drank
from to-go cups and could not smile at the baristas.
Then the medicine arrived, and the worry subsided.
Ease returned with procedure and proximity.
In the midst of all the changing-back, it turned out
that what people had missed the most, the gratitude
they now sigh into every order, is the ability
to hold a ceramic mug. They palm its sides
like a talisman and grasp the handle like a confidence.
They soften the moment they kiss its rim.