First poem of June
First Lexpomo poem
Should I dive deep or go light?
Mondays are hectic
i finally took off the heavy coat
i didn’t realize I was wearing.
the air in the hallway is colder now,
but it belongs to me.
for a long time, the walls felt close,
as if the furniture had been arranged
by someone else’s quiet rules,
leaving no room to take up space.
i used to walk on my toes,
apologizing to the floorboards.
but yesterday I bought the wrong kind of bread
just because I wanted to try it.
i left the dishes in the sink until morning,
and the sky didn’t fall.
it turns out my voice sounds different
when it isn’t trying to soften the corners
or guess the weather in another room.
i am re-learning the shape of an afternoon
that doesn’t require an explanation.
just a quiet house,
a key that only turns one way,
and the strange, sweet habit
of remembering who I am.
This one doesn’t smell like lavender,
but reeks of shoes left out in the rain,
molded and forgotten for weeks
like the lyrics to the song
you used to sing to yourself
before someone asked you to stop.
This one is a bleeding cuticle
torn from the nail bed
when you couldn’t sleep
for shrieking into the dark,
imprinting illness onto the ceiling.
This one kind of stops near the middle,
trails off, forgets what it was saying…
but knows that no one said poems
have to be pretty, and neither do you.
Devoid of emotion or feelings
some can conceal inner thoughts
others cannot …
revealing disdain or pleasure
on their facade., their window
to the world.
i love you as a poet does,
with similes, and long drug out rhyming lines
to compare you with the sea
wind flickering across the surface, then back into sky
with flashes of memory glinting through tree lines
as you drive quickly and all the clouds stand still behind the branches
i love in between childhood fantasy and drafting picture book stories
that may begin to describe my adorations with a simple pen
drawing lines connecting life, truth, and reverie
dreaming up what you would do in the timeline i have written you into
wondering if you might stay if my adjectives are right
i love with words too complicated, comprised from long searches
flipping through pages of a thesaurus,
circling each synonym across my tongue to test its merit,
deciding if i may ever be worthy of your affections in return
i love reckless within pages of smearing ink, littered in misspellings
all the quiet words i’ll never say out loud
worried i will misspeak, misstep, be unable to retreat
or replace my remarks as i do on my page
the universe will know the ways in which i have observed
every syllable falling from your lips, with your hair wind blown,
your eyes’ gazing downward glinting with the slightest moisture
my pen will capture what has meant so much to you,
turn each moment of you into pieces of me
I pick up some words
with love, like tiny kittens
as they writhe around
I follow their moves
and hug them to settle down
coaxing them to stay
onto a new page
hoping they will start purring
having found a home
we were shown
our value
was measured in blood
spilled out during
the sweltering heat
that makes us worth
nothing
when the day’s over
a tool discarded
until tomorrow’s doing
not in complaining
because that didn’t
make anyone happy
and showed weakness
the greatest sin
for blue-collar over
sunburned necks
movies tell us
that we’re not
to go out quietly
told to idolize
last stands
surrounded by the enemy
for distant ideas
honor
tradition
respect
society made sure
that a father and son
only knew each other
through languages
of violence, hard work, or death
we’ve got to sit in rooms
knowing our sins
created by our forefathers
perpetuated
to now
ancient toxic bonds
killing all of our
already tired and ragged souls
in rooms our fathers would not
let them break us apart
with the determination to change
so we can finally speak
as equals
instead of finding our end
sitting in a work truck
smelling of beer and sweat
in an empty parking lot
with a gun in our mouths
because we’ve been told
it’s better to take our own lives
when things get too bad
it’s what heroes do
Soaked in grace
along the banks of rivers and creeks
across the clouds circulating the skies at dawn
creating a waterspout above the shore
dripping mist over verdant mountains
rich in earth scent, lush in meaning
that washes over you as you bend
to plant seeds in thickets and fence rows,
as you stretch to pick fresh fruit.
Peace echoes the floral blooms of each season
within reach of those that grasp
climb uphill
swim across raging waters
run through strawberry fields
dance in the shadow of the moon
gallop on horses
listen to the song of the purple martin
hum along with trumpets of angels.
My mother prayed for me
and when I came she called me Samuel,
which can sometimes mean Borrowed from God.
In Alexandria, Kentucky;
at Main Street Baptist Church;
in the women’s restroom;
in the sink, in fact;
she baptized me in the name of the Creator, and of the Christ, and of the Spirit.
My mother prayed for me
and when I came she called me Samuel,
which can sometimes mean Sent by God.
She wanted me for herself,
hadn’t wanted to birth me, if it meant sharing me.
Not her choice to make in the end,
but in the end, she chose to share,
if that was the only way to have me at all.
My mother prayed for me
and when I came she called me Samuel
which can sometimes mean Name of God.
The healer who pulled me from my mother
(I was already too large to leave on my own)
called me tall, called me handsome, called me white:
No excuse, he told the room, for me to fall, to fail.
The room nodded their agreement.
God called for me
and when I came God called me Samuel
and I said, It is I, Lord.
God called for me
and when I came God called me Samuel
and I asked, Do I have to, Lord.
God called for me
and when I came God called me Samuel
and I asked, Why me, Lord.
God called for me
and when I came God called me Samuel
and I said, No thank you, Lord.
God called for me
and when I did not come
God called again.
A conglomerate of atheists
are looking for meaning
in ladybugs crawling on the backs of
hands;
their legs tickling the
hairs at the base of withered wrists
to remind us they’re here
and they say (or maybe it’s us)
we lack spirituality
but tell me how my grandmother
visited me twelve separate times
since we buried her in June
