Geode
I am a rock.
No.
I am a geode!
TiltedOne
My Son,
Terry,
called and said
“Dad,I’m going to Iraq.
My girlfriend’s dad is
the sergeant over the base
that the Italians left.
I’m not enlisting.
I’ll be working for
the Vice President’s company.
I’ll be managing the base
as a civil servant.
I’ll let you know
when I get settled there.”
a dot on a map
one year ago poetry
ribboned with longing reminiscence pain
calling it peace
striking it acceptable a vagrant lie
a dot on a map
here we are I am
building a building
collecting the beauty making space for creators
visioneering this one piece of land
courageous in the site unseen
faithful to what I can hold my own two hands
a dot on a map
More days than most I fail to thank
the world for being just as it is,
stubborn as patches of kudzu,
unforgiving as the snapper
at the bottom of the pond,
lessons carried into meetings
with bank managers, or my wife
when I feel compelled to tell her that she’s wrong.
I’ve learned so much about injustice,
the convincing threat of a cruel hand,
how to separate the slow and stupid
from money, make an ashtray of white sand.
That the wounded make easy prey,
little bunnies breed so frequently
to produce enough high-protein progeny
to keep apex predators fat and happy.
There are those who delight in seeing others fail,
one gust of wind and the circus tent collapses,
one loose screw and the rocket explodes,
too much hubris and the sub implodes.
It’ll take the fall into that cold, dark abyss,
before I’m grateful for everything I’ll miss.
without digging the stone from the mountain
without imagining the human form within
without touching the marble
feeling its power, its possibility
without the embrace of a lover?
But such I am called to do
in more than one promise.
The value of a pledge
holds a world of care
Philia not eros,
though the veins of the stone are real
and its edges sharp
and the dreams still
beckon.
Inspired by the painting The Treachery of Images by René Magritte.
You see a Victorian portrait painted of you
not by you but by those who think they know or knew
you:
Your hair, bright blonde and long and feminine
Your mouth, bold smile, exuding confidence
Your skin, finest china, no blemish, only porcelain
Your body straight-backed, posture perfect
Your hands atop one another, tucked in, reserved
Your blue eyes alive, sapphires that gleam
Your name, a beautiful name for a beautiful girl
The title reads as such,
This is a painting of you; this is not
you.
I pick up spray cans, graffitied in the missing parts,
showing those who knew and think they know
who I think and know
I am:
My hair, blonde, sometimes dyed black, short, tomboy.
My mouth, smiling to hide insecurity and anxiousness.
My skin, combination of freckled cheeks and pores left unclean.
My body, slouched, crooked, yet all the same, comfortable.
My hands, constant in their motion, moving along in my speech, defiant.
My blue eyes, puddles rippled by muddy shoes, murky.
My name, Itallian for and then, and I continue the story as them.
Red splatter line across the old title,
new title reads as such,
This is graffiti of me, this is truthfully, unapologetically,
me.
Great owl shakes dust from her wings,
delivers this gargoyle—your mother:
a reluctant animal until
walking you to the car
she sees your tender face against the flurry
hangs off
the nearest bamboo branch, becomes
an earnest panda.
From snowy Caribbean, Cape Cod to California
we put down our tools, we
muse aloud
“God. God. This astronomy.”
Moths flutter, flicker-flicker-flicker flam
that everyone of us were lightbulbs in another life
near the parkland maples—
We accept all, reject nothing.
We sweep streets slowly.
