Manatee Tanka
Gray boulders litter
sun-warmed waters of the bay.
Sweet whiskered nostrils
surface, scoop up balmy air.
Magic, slow-moving mermaids.
Gray boulders litter
sun-warmed waters of the bay.
Sweet whiskered nostrils
surface, scoop up balmy air.
Magic, slow-moving mermaids.
I turned my back for good on religion
after 9-11,
no loving god would put innocents in positions
of such torment,
forcing them to choose
between the flames or the terrifying fall.
Sunday mornings,
I hear the church bells from across town,
and I envy those
who brunch after sermon,
bellies and souls filled,
purpose-driven
for the remainder of the day.
As for my salvation,
no one should have trepidation:
there’s a hyacinth patch that speaks to me
revealing truths through its geometries,
the determined paths of honey bees,
and sometimes, that voice belongs
to the peonies.
after eilonwy
two lips
twined-
be leaved
into light
light
led up
upon light
lit below
from an other
light
left over
above
left here
unled
from behind
unto some
other light
covered-
never gone
never done
nor unbecome
We had no control or balance & Vietnam threatened
like a cobra coiled in a basket. I was 19 & in withdrawal
from my parent’s inebriated calamity. I felt guilty
when your number came up & I could do nothing.
Move to Toronto or apply for a deferment?
There were false steps, lost vows, unpaid bills
& lost babies. Was it a mistake to say yes
for our parent’s sake while still dusted
by guilt of crucifix? Newlywed years
passed like torrents of mud. What a mess.
It’s worth it to bear a relationship,
however hapless, that tethers to root,
even misplanted. The finicky orchid roots
of us grew strong for a while, their thick
silvery tendrils growing outside the pot.
We didn’t spot the orchid rot fast enough, dark
spots overcame the foliage. No signs
of new growth, the roots mushy & discolored.
We failed to leave a fan on for hot humid days
& overwatered as the marriage withered.
sleepiness does not shake as quickly from my eyes
or muscles or bones
these days
an added minute
another stretch
a simple pause
are ritual,
not optional
unsolicited gifts of movement
I open with care
hand me back to the day in which awe awoke
birdsong and sunrise constants full of wonder
hand me back to the day which held out timeless treats not predictable making them all the more rich
hand me back to the day where naivety was a blanket of protection and curiosity a cape that consistently lent giggles to the minutes
hand me back to the day where past was mostly present and future reigned raw untethered
hand me back to the day in which responsibility was simply to answer a call and joy seemed the only transaction of urgency
perhaps scientific or prescientific or just pure beauty or just God
this assurance this chance at life in human form this grasp toward remembering with it’s ephemerous skim this glimpse into something held out in promise of willed hope
nothing to replace that
Just write down one poem each day
What could be easier, you say
Just put down your thoughts
Remember the shoulds and the oughts
But I say dispense with the rules
Maybe iambs are simply for fools
All this meter and rhyme
I haven’t the time
I have some hot soup
In the crockpot
Irrepressible Bitches
See my dream of wolves and water—alerted ears inclined—
on edge of Widows’ Creek where we sound for food, maybe
gigawhales with the hiss of the whispered word withered wigglers,
this way come! They gurgle, flop apart like county carnivals country down
this night—purple orchids drowned in shimmer, motor oil left
behind in cans, and a vagrant’s child bites a fleshy black plum bleeding
jaw sinking hard and cold—you’re a feral dream of home with wolves and water
in elegant pours tuning a wheezing, humble, backwoods
organ in a shed ashore of found water-spouts, propped on old crutches
and door jambs—sixteen Venus fly traps catching every drop after the rain.
My bones, my bones are its carved stops and offer you endless rows
of violets lazy at morning—butterflies on round dandelions reaching ways
up to distant mining hills. You play Morning Has Broken in its arms you call father.
We are strong children. We take and we are iridescent. We glut
when we quaff and we growl, we are educated trash. But we are respected.
Home, we stand, we travel in our land. Most people think we’re unrestrained.
When you speak to me beneath the breath, tearing flesh
with pointed silence, your calculus seizes all kindness and music,
for my part I think a crafty distraction and ploy—it is deliberate, what else?
I know I am decent, and no-one so neglected was so pushed away
here by animal or even the rot around. Speak to me again, my only friend,
hiding, howling, meal wedged inside your teeth, I will drink. Let’s drink once more.
And you will drink. And I will drink again.
I can’t stop.
The water always delicious, so. Downstream from the taste of you. You say,
“close your eyes, get some sleep”—then in a dream
I bring you strawberries
off grape vines used to make cherry wines,
and you roundly refuse it all—
become the rich loam of the country earth, not to be duped or exploited—
why am I still spilling out groans?
I thought I masked better
repetition couldn’t
ground me
into words today
long enough to feel
a healthy portion
of their meaning
I silence my pain
for the pleasure of my company
for the elephant in the room
to take less space
I couldn’t pretend
to delude myself
maybe
I’ll delude better tomorrow
and my tire
won’t look quite as flat
