There is a wall
between the
sacred and earthly,
between the
eternal and ephemeral.
I want to destroy it.
I am stuck
on the earthly side,
my nose pressed
against cold granite.
Impenetrable.
Until
a spark of emotion,
lonliness or dispair,
tranquility, hilarity
disolves the wall,
for just a second,
like a glitch in the Matrix.
Poems on the chopping block
Cut and quartered
Trimmed from the bone
The knife comes slashing
Final cuts
Blood and guts
After so much violence
A tasty Filet
When ough says oh
We can say though
When ough says “oo” like zoo
We can go right through
But when ough says “uf” like puff
I think we’ve had enough!
I found the box disguised as a book
in our dank basement and pulled open
the satin bow, looped lavender, closed
for decades. Silverfish must have eaten
some words off the tucked paper,
but began bleeding
and the names Fiona or Tara
lived in the recesses. What if you had been
another boy? I blew the dust away
and reshelved the box.
the rain has stopped;
the evening is grey & blue,
& even though i listen
like the most-well-behaved child,
no birdsong lingers
my barefeet on the wet pavement
is both harsh & comforting—
this is the most beautiful loneliness
i allow the birds to continue
their hiatus—knowing ours
will last forever—calmly,
i go back inside
Remainders of the deluge
now rest in the pockmarks and potholes
of backroad pavement,
as though waiting to rouse itself once more,
hoping it has just enough mischevious vigor
to again climb telephone poles and knock over fences.
But the dawn just now touching the hilltops is a clear one,
the rain having washed the sky of its foreboding
and the Doppler radar is giving a dry weekend.
Already, the sky is offering its bouquets of many colors
with promises, promises that this will never happen again.
In the still low light,
the puddles, thick with clay and silt,
seem impossibly rich, milky,
able to sustain the hungry day
just now waking.
My grandson
Ozzy
with Caribbean blue eyes
has learned to point,
saying something in baby gibberish
that sounds like WOW! What is that?
But, it could be I want more watermelon.
Screeching and fussy at an outdoor restaurant
in Vieques, their colorful murals fading in evening light,
a rogue wind gusts–Ozzy’s voice is everywhere.
It’s past his bedtime, but the adults are on island time.
I take him into my arms, carry him into the street,
where it is dark, the wild horses are calm,
congregating at a corner, whispering, tails flicking.
He points up at an almost exact half slice of moon,
wavering, silver in mid-sky.
Moon I say Mun he says Moon Mun
Moon is the only word he’s repeated for me.
(I have tried not to be incensed that he hasn’t called me MiMi yet).
I do like the word–it’s lulling o sounds, moon,
a lullaby in one word
moon
a favorite of poets and astronauts and
owls.
