Posts for June 4, 2024 (page 8)

He questioned my certainty.
How could I know, even through the strife, that she was my love?

I paused, looking for the right words,
Not from lack of feeling or reason, but from searching its depth.

How do I describe the blooming garden’s beauty to an unseen eye?
How do I convey the bubbling marrow when greatness is just a few steps away — Goosebumps,
Or the pleasure of the breeze’s cooling kiss on a shadeless summer day?

I think of her and measure my love in devotion,
Not by what she gives, but by what I provide.

Yearning to soothe the toll of her weary feet,
Massaging each bound muscle until it’s free with relief,
To gently hold her when she’s wracked with tears.
Longing to cheer her triumphs,
To be the echo of her laughter and
To reflect the smile of her joy.

How can I say that I love her because of all I am blessed to do with her and for her?

The storms we braved only made us stronger —
Paddling from lighthouse to lighthouse
Through damning, mountainous waves.

Each time we rescued ourselves and reached the light again,
We’ve seen the source.
It was always our love, rooted in service given, not acts received.

It has been an unshakeable foundation
From which we’ve built a family, a home,
And countless beautiful memories.

I know my love the same way the salmon
Is called to swim upstream,
The sun knows to rise and fall,
And the migrating bird feels home
Before ever arriving.

It’s the most natural thing I’ve ever known.

And each day through my window,
I watch her as she passes by,
Because so far,
This love is just my imagination,
Running away
Without me.

(after Tena Moyer)

forgiveness is less
easy than love

the righteous fury
of our wounds

more palpable
than grace

there is no shame
in yearning

memory rescued
from rancor

grief bleached
of blame

the human heart’s
exquisite resilience

map, compass, candle
always find a way

Contemplating the spinning
composter of poetry production.
Open the hatch & toss in some Blade Runner
Hellboy Eliot Pound dada Grendel
memento mori with the rotting remnants
of several  musical medicine commercials,
Fight Clubs, used tissues, melon rind,
classic MTV 80’s flashbacks, and spin it
right round baby like a record baby right
round round round.

When exhausted, grab a cup
and fill from the spigot with compost tea.
Season with good verbs and existential angst.  

Drink, slowly. Savor.
Accept the fact that the dirt-stained photo
of Leonard Nimoy wearing hobbit ears belongs there.

Cumulus clouds looming,
Thunderheads, my dad calls them.
As a child, they frightened me.
The abrupt crash of thunder. 
The intense flash of lightning. 
Massive white pines 
Swayed and danced in the wind
Around our house. 

Now rain is overflowing my gutters,
Air rushes in the open windows 
Cooling the house ten degrees 
And I sit listening, waiting 
For the excitement my heart 
Feels with every flash and clatter.

KW
6/4/24

First:

I cared for my 
kennel-coughing 
basset   stroking
his fur  mopping
his spittle as he
barfed between barks
all night and morning

Then:

I transplanted a madevilla
and a volunteer tomato
vine that sprouted in a
flower pot last summer
still refusing to “go gentle
into that good night”
(earning my respect and
no doubt Thomas’s were he
here and not in that good night)

I read
I thought
I ranted
I lamented

as all men do whose
careers have crashed
on seas of change
and must learn anew
what gives meaning
to simply being

But I didn’t poem until
now with the sun high
in the sky and me relieved
that I met my deadline
as good reporters do.

And tomorrow…. 

I am drawn

again and again

to a labyrinth of lanes

full of favorite things

side loves and mains

indelible stains

of well worn hand made things

who made this crafted bliss

weathered frail

enduring tale

unforgettable

love infused, bruised

ancient

town crier news

faint voiced beauties

you entreat me

I am you and you are me

lost in the labyrinth

are we

/

the song spilling from your throat is splitting. cells dividing and mossing and molding over creamy silk. all of it. everything you say is going to live on its own. matriculate in parasitism and burgeon teeth on passerby arms. that’s right. cut it down and build a shrine that speaks back to you from a database of your own words. draw a bath of tattoo ink. laugh until your tongue rips out.

\

maid of honor setting the table. staying pale and wilted. letting the blight take control and make my insides smooth. my hands roam like grace notes on a staff over the silverware. clicking from line to line and recording and spiraling down the mouth of the vinyl. wrong color. the plates should be white. my face should be the moon. only Monet could suspend our disbelief. calling him asshole and pill and prick and sack of shit. then kissing his feet. then his vomit wettening my scalp.

/

folding cloth napkins into swans for the wedding. I ask why we have to live like animals. I get down on my hands and knees and ask is this how you want me. he arranges cocktail glasses in ordered rows. my stringy tail flicks insects away from my dirtied ass. fluorescence stings us both. he says it’s the closest we come to making it.

\

but he doesn’t have my best interests in mind. my neck aches with the grind of my oar. the moan of the water. the sky above me is gray but the other side is invisible. behind me he is singing about beer bottles. the lake browns by the second or maybe it’s the sunlight migrating to warmer places. we all want to be where things like us are. I smash the glass container on the kayak. I make it. I smash my pelvis on the water. I make it mine. I smash a cloud on my crooked nose. I make it mean nothing. I smash my poem on the horizon. I make it quiet. I smash my nervous system on his ribs. I make it. I smash us on the treble clef. it’s beautiful. it sounds like a baby, sexless, crying.

/

twisted sisters and Texas trees
survived. Turtles stacked
on same log I seek—
weeping willow branch
lies across water, perfect
angle for sunning. I chase
two geese with my phone,
capture video in quest to play—
silly instinct for an old woman
marking miles across causeway
to choose new stone in same pillar,
setting intentions I sometimes
keep, sometimes forget, often
disregard. Will there ever
be a day without remorse
or is that the subtext of aging?
Are there any poems that mean
anything, really? Yet they must
mean something other than scratching
words on a blank page.

Beside a clear reflecting pool  
a maiden, naked under the stars  
pours the waters of life and spirit   
upon the land and back into the pool.  

She is the Divine mother  
the womb of all creation  
kneeling between two worlds.   

Behind her are the distant mountains  
of another realm  
and in a tree, the ibis of Hermes 
its wings stretched upward  
while all around her, flowers spring up  
growing like grace  
under the light of the star.  

After life’s upheavals  
sit in contemplation  
beside still waters  
and be restored  
and when you begin again  
to move forward  
let the hopeful light of the stars  
be your guide.