Posts for June 22, 2022 (page 4)

Synoptical misfire and re-address
all concerns or any notion of prognosis

hollow this body. Flesh begets flesh
a pattern of disgrace. I have never

come so close to knowing where
I could catch meaning in my teeth

but my jaw hangs open. Sprouting
fingers, digits, bone bursting from teeth

shallow dreams bursting from shallow
waters. The depths are above us.

Symmetrical light shines down in
the waves and between where

the last traces of something great
could be found. I am casting out

to you still. A sliver of hope lingers
before it dissipates below the sea.

If:   ·        

*   dogs growl and the rooster crows  

*   the game comes to you  

*   the story might be a shit-storm    

Then:  

*   jump in feet first  

*   walk bone-shaking duality with poise  

*   put your faith in something you can’t see  

The bones of June lie in July’s field—
lily petals brown like parchment
upon which solstice’s demise is writ,
spiderwort’s slender leaves

lying on ground & burnt by sun,
creeping phlox bloom-dry & brittle
& fading at the edges.  Bury them,
I tell you, bury them beneath the broad

red leaves of cranberry hibiscus,
the pleated fronds of black-eyed Susan’s,
the sturdy stems of sunflowers-to-be.
They know their seasons, their months

in the calendar of seed & root & light
& bow gracefully, all of them, to grassy
ground & sleep.  They will wake in May
one leaf at a time, stretch, unfurl, torpedo-  

wrapped petals yawn to reveal centers
bright with goldfinch pistil & tiger stamen,
teach you to bury the daunting skeleton  
of your own past under a new verdancy

of sinew-root, stem-vein, leaf-palm,
rising to steeple-stigma raging under a sky
the color of mountain bluets & sown
with clouds like blazing daisies.

You will learn the fecundity of bones.

if it’s the dear friend
you haven’t heard from in a while

if it’s a suspicious scar
or bruise

if it’s the normally jovial employee
suddenly gone quiet

if it’s the child
afraid to go home after school

if it’s sobbing
leaking from adjacent bathroom stall

if he breaks down in tears
right in front of you

if it’s a belabored soul
seemingly swallowed in darkness

if it’s a dreamer
who’s stopped pursuing tomorrow

if it’s a man
unwelcomingly touching a woman

if it’s an off-color joke or opinion
wildly crossing a line

but also if it’s a voice being silenced
with it’s right to learn or not

if one is singled out by a bully
of any age

if your buddy
is the bully
or the abuser

if it’s family
or some other loved one

if it’s you
(i know self-reflection is hard)

if it’s me
(that’s what poetry is for)

and most importantly
(as I feel needs to be said)

if it’s your own child

i could never list every scenario in a poem
but we all have a part we can play

tragedy feeds on sins of omission
and i never want the guilt

of being the man
who could have said
a little something more

We are born in water, our naked bodies slipping
into the world from our caul into dryland, opening
our pores, our senses, our eyes, power like rivers to sea.  

We are not so different from earth, our renewal
is the sound of rain, drops reflecting light on budding leaf,
life source, liquid vein, exaltation drenching fledgling roots.  

Breathe, after rain on hot days, heat rising from forest floors,
wet petrichor, leaves us wanting more, fire-gold union of water
and land, the arrival of sun’s rapturous rotation radiates life.  

How could we forget our life source for big business money,
oil poisoning us, piping, fracking, more oil for blood?
How could we take down mountains where rivers once meandered?  

Water pounds on corrugated roof, a drumbeat of greeting.
My catchment tank is full, I shout, “Yes!” and clap, always thankful
for the gift, falling freely from the sky, in my father’s name.    

Water of Life

We’re all dryer lint & dry paint these days.
Planes flying west instead of east.
Parchment paper as a metaphor for sex.

Basically, what I’m trying to say is:
We’re desperate, darling.
Don’t try to tell me otherwise.

I’ve calculated the amount of peach fuzz
I’ll need to collect to know the You I never met.
It’s approximately: a lot.

So I’ve tried some side-by-side analyses
Of other flames: Bunsen, Lips, Eternal, those weird Dura-log-things.
Those seem to be the best comparison –  

Toxic if consumed by humans & animals but with
80% less hazardous air pollutants.
My lungs love you – my stomach doesn’t.

Or, at least, you’re not sitting right.
Why are we so keen to put stuff in our mouths anyway?
This looks cool. Let me eat it.

I’ve read it’s the same with small cute things. We humans
Have an insatiable desire to “eat” children, puppies,
Those little yellow downy ducklings.

No, I’m serious. Think about it next time you see
A waddling little penguin, waddling along right next to
Another waddling penguin. Two waddling penguins.

Wings inefficient at about 30 degrees of flappage.
Feet flippers padding on the ice pack, rubber-like &
Slappy. Dark suits, earnest beaks.

Don’t you just want to eat them they’re so freaking
Adorable? Maybe wrap them up in parchment,
Penguins en papillote.

Order that on your next flight away from me.
See if it quells your insatiable appetite. Your
Burning, albeit toxic, desire.

My tooth Cracked. into two today
-Pieces- when they removed it
(They were already removing it), 
I guess
It hung on just as long as it could.

Chewing diligently through my
Comfort foods and keeping space for
My tongue
When it needed holding
It’s been eight months today, did you know that?
Since You fell down and probably died.
But you kept so quiet we held perfectly,

still
For days to be sure.

Do you know how many times times eight it is 
That someone has only heard themselves
When they speak to comfort me
and I have had to bite my tongue?

She hovers at the edge

of the drum circle, 

brown eyes peek

through black ringlets.

Near her mother’s elbow

she watches

as her older brother

and toddler sister

pound tubanos

with abandon.

I offer her two mallets,

but she shies away.

Her mother urges,

but she whispers,

why won’t you try,

Mommy?

I shuffle soft djembe 

heartbeat under 

joyous chaos.

Mommy tests the harmony bars,

chimes out some vibe-like

bell peals.

Brown eyes widen

with surprise at

golden tones.

Her little fingers

wrestle the mallet

from Mommy’s grasp.

She strikes the “e,”

then looks at me, 

ovals her little mouth.

She takes two mallets

from my hand to beat

hard on the djembe.

I thought I couldn’t do it,

she tells me as she

leaves the circle.

But, when at first

it sounded good,

I was happy.

A young rabbit hops across the yard,

pauses to eat clover. I say “Be careful 

little rabbit; I found one like you 

in my garden not long ago, gone.” 

Cardinals whistle pretty-pretty-pete, 

robins laugh, mourning doves coo,

wablers cheep, wrens warn cheater-

cheater-cheater-cheat. In the background, 

twitters I don’t know, road noises 

from the bypass, the back up warning

from garbage trucks in our hills. 

A fat grey cat pauses, yellow eyes on me,

then ambles off without a rabbit. 

A cup of hot tea and an almond pastry,

and this recorded morning. Then I’ll be off 

to the garden to mulch pale straw 

around the base of tomatoes,

bush beans, red zinnias, red and 

white hollyhocks, peppers and kale— 

before the sun taunts. My body anticipates 

the healthy exhaustion of motion.