Posts for June 8, 2024 (page 5)

I sit at my desk

Twice as wide and half again as deep

            through wet clay 

                    each day past sixty

**going to Sundress for a week starting tomorrow, so I may choose to forego posting & reading. I’ll be writing poems, though! Happy week, all!

Bluebirds feed their young

Swallows menacing nearby

Storm clouds gathering

In the blackout 
we sat beside the dry swimming pool
and watched stars
together. 

We usually can’t see many stars here
(if we even think to look up at all;
it’s shameful how often we forget to look),
but tonight it’s late and quiet.
The life we’ve built behind us in
a darkened house.  

I can feel time move when you stop talking.

We will be old soon.  

A cup of copper wishes find I ‘pon my Sunday stoop;
quizically yet hastily I grab them in one scoop;
then hand you half a handful of the wishes I had found;
and while we walk, at corners, cast we wishes on the ground.

Between two pillars
the High Priestess sits
before a veil
decorated with pomegranates and palms.  

Behind the veil
is the vast sea
of the unconscious.  

She wears a lunar crown,
a crescent moon sits at her feet
and on her lap
a scroll
on which is written
Divine Law.  

She is the mediator
between humanity
and the Divine
Guardian of knowledge
master of intuition
keeper of mysteries
devoted servant
to higher powers
and an oracle
with a deep connection
to truth.  

But you need not seek her out
with your most urgent questions
and your most vexing problems    

Because the knowledge
of the High Priestess
is already
within you
you need only
lift
the veil.

I loved the farm in the most unruly way
I used its dirt and biked on its hills
I hid in its corners and gathered rocks from its floor
I cried in its rain
And sank in its mud
I got hit with its sticks and bled on its core
I was drowned in its isolation
And fished in its waters
I coughed out its tragedy
And rummaged in its generational trash
I danced with its ghost and felt the pain of its slumbers
I ran barefoot on gravel and fell asleep in its trees
I watched knives cut skin and belts bruise
I felt trauma in all its aspects
And kneeled down for a savior
I worked
Forced to stay up at kitchen tables for screams
Yelling
Don’t you dare fall asleep
I plastered deer feet
I played baseball
Ate pears
And ran for my life
I grew to prefer independence
My outside demeanor got hard
My innocent trust disappeared
And I knew
I wasn’t part of this family

Keep it concealed,

            after Czelaw Milosz and James Wright  

Two small herons with yellow feet
circle their nest.  A fish flips
into the air.  I am fully awake. 
Dragonflies flutter, blue, lime green. 
Water striders spiral.  Cypress knees
cluster around their mothers.  I feel
the sun’s heat.  The great white heron’s
neck never straightens, its wings pull it,
like Icarus, to earth where it touches
a branch, then soars again.  My heart
opens.  A bullfrog croaks, once. 
In green shadows, trees, moss, leaves
stand tall. I have not wasted my life.

the beautiful has a way
of calling out
it’s not as much 
    leave the world behind
as
     come out, into the world
what’s beyond the boundaries
explore
remember who I am, presently
not that yesterday person