Posts for June 7, 2022 (page 6)

It’s not nothingness
but it’s not very much of a something.
That calm kind of anger.

I think of what anger should feel like
and react accordingly. 
But inside is that calm kind of anger.

When I hear the rumors
about him ruining my sanctaury
I get that calm kind of anger.

After a fight that’s been repeated a thousand times
where I know I’ll never win.
I get that calm kind of anger. 

With every gutter ball,
every wasted dollar
I get that calm kind of anger. 

Maybe I use it to hide from the pain
to forget how much it hurts.
It being, that calm kind of anger.

The next evening, and the evening after that, Dracula sat down to his mug and the same crossword puzzle on the back of the folded newspaper, eternally perplexed at 22-down but determined. “Six letters: Poignant want. Hmmmm.” On the fourth night it finally hit him: “DESIRE! No wonder I couldn’t think of it,” he chuckled into his coffee. He stood, furled his cape, sighed, and headed out into the night.

Why would a wolf
howl at this moon?

Is it a hymn he offers,
a soul blue note
heard on high
to praise this
orb of yellow?

Or perhaps a lament
for lost wolves
he remembers?

No matter why,

he must know better,
surely, as a good hunter,

he must know better.

Has he not seen this
moon each month?
He knows it
comes and goes.

It’s the easiest night of all to hunt,

but no,

instead he fixes
his nose to heaven
and moans
his lonesome bellow.

He knows it blows his cover.
That any chance of a catch
tonight is over.

Below in dappled
pastures his prey suspect
it a ruse. Why wouldn’t he
pick a night like this, so ripe
and luxurious, to slink
out on the prowl?

It’s as if he’d rather
starve, as if no flesh
could stave his appetite,
as if his instincts
to survive are overridden
by moonlight,
and all he knows
to do is
howl.

One of my new coworkers
I swear can whistle better
than God teaching the birds how to sing.
He lets loose his mellifluous calling
as a way of telling the forklifts,
I’m around the corner
so please don’t hit me.
As if I could ever hit anything
that can make such beautiful music.

But the whistle does more.
It takes me on sonorous wing
through the aviary of poems
that have been flocking before my eyes.
Golden sunrise scenes captured
by wise and understanding words
sharing the light of nature consistently doing
exactly what it was designed to do.

I don’t get much birdsong anymore.
The new start time is one in the morning
when most of the world is still;
the night dangerous as it can be beautiful.
And then I discover the grace
of spending breaks and lunches outside
in the day’s first brilliance.
The birds become the choir of angels
soothing an aching soul.

I carry more hurt with me now
than I ever have at one time,
which you might be seeing now.
If I’ve made you feel uncomfortable,
well that was kind of the goal
but I am still deeply sorry
for what is and will still come. 
It’s important to say that I’m not drowing in the dark.
Rather, I’ve submerged myself in it
for the truths only found in its oppressive depths.
Vulnerability can be the truest beauty.

I withstand it because of you
making observations of the world’s kindness,
still just as vibrant
if slightly quieter.
Human beings were designed for community
lending it such incredible power when we embrace it.
I am blessed in the therapies of poetry.

And as for right now,
a beautiful bird fills the mid-afternoon air
with her song of life.
How wondrous it is
that I can be here
to hear it.

A white church at every turn

Blinking traffic lights

The suburbs bleed into each other

Houses with the same frame

The people sit in lawn chairs,

Sweep their sidewalks

And are in bed by 9, up by 5

To the same over working,

Underpaying job

The same lonely people

At the only bar in sight,

A falling apart school across

From a tiny donut shop,

I ponder as I drive

By too many dollar stores,

Will I ever get out?

home is but the heart
how many arms has it grown

i
want 
what i
have 
lost 
to be
found 
in 
front
of
my eye
and 
under 
my nose.

oh,
look!
here 
you are
right
under 
me,
tangled 
in
my sheets
with 
your
light hair
in mine.

My fingers stretch, seeking new holds
Across the sheets each morning
Your body never knew this bed,
Bought in a bout of desperate keening pain

But still my sleep-warmed tendrils search
Supple cotton but for the cracker crumbs
& hope to catch the crook 
of Your elbow
across some distant plane

I promise if I find You, I won’t look back til we break daylight.

Out here when they offer
me a destination, when they name
a place I do not recognize,
it almost always means an
hour drive, or longer.

If I cannot quickly relearn
how to calculate my needs,
how to trust destiny despite
the distance, how to make
the most of it, I will sink
and sink into this countryside, left
nowhere, nowhere
to go but down.

how interesting 
to see it go through the different stages 

it starts off
SUPER serious 
schools are shut down
death is everywhere
we are afraid
mask up or die 

wait a minute 
it’s your fault 
no, it’s their fault 
playing the blame game 
turned violent 
hate crimes and slurs 

this whole thing is a hoax! 
watch The Simpsons 
you’ll see what i mean

time passes 
calm down 
death continues 
we’re desensitized 
but do they still matter? 

vaccines and variations 
memes and jokes 
paninis and panoramas 

mask or no mask?
does it even make a difference anymore? 
i tested positive 2 days ago 
so it must – right? 

the pandemic is not over 
the pandemic is that we don’t take care of each other
or ourselves 
COVID19 is just a symptom