dogwood turn to umber
tumble from branch to mossed understory
passing another no exchanged regard
I let it go this simple petal’d delight is enough
for now
I am back to the wonder
when all of all this exists
how can one excuse need for an attention extension
no masking this moment
here
A purple burst of petals
above the trinity of leaves in the
mountains and forests, lush presence
rooted in deep, dark humus and
covered with a light snow,
melting in an early spring surprise.
Trilliums bend low until
the morning sun gets the attention,
several open in unison, as if rejoicing
in place. The wood lily with triplet
leaves, a whorl of mystery holding
up its prize.
A walk along the snowy path,
in between seasons, each with
its own splendor, each with its
own purge of ambivalence,
medicinal balm,
sacred symmetry.
I raised you with my scars
because they were all I had to give.
Lessons etched into skin, into silence,
into the way I sometimes held you too tightly
and sometimes not enough.
Each mark was a map,
a story I told without knowing
I was telling it.
I called it strength.
You called it home.
We both believed the lie,
until it wasn’t a lie anymore.
I’m sorry for the blindness in me,
the things I could not face
because naming them
would have meant
unraveling
entire rooms of silence,
For turning away
when the light hit just right
and showed me the cracks
I painted over
again
and again.
As you walked across the broken parts,
and didn’t break,
You found footing
on every piece of me I once thought
was unworthy.
The scars that grew thick over my pain,
Became the stepping stones
to the path you travel now.
Once I was super, a man made out of steel
I was moving round faster than a rat on a wheel
My mind was filled with ideas, a dam filled to the brim
Somehow it started leakin’, and soon I found I couldn’t swim.
The highs ain’t as high as they used to
On a good day I’m just a feeling blue
So I’d stay away if I was you
Cause the highs ain’t as high as they used to
Here comes the flood, here comes the end
All I can do is brace for impact, tumblin, something’s pulling me in
Now I’m a sittin on the shore, dried up, on my knees
I can’t make sense of this empty head full of all this disease.
The highs ain’t as high as they used to
On a good day I’m just a feeling blue
So I’d stay away if I was you
Cause the highs ain’t as high as they used to
I can’t even show my face, its not time for the show
The one where they can read your eyes, and the only thing you want is just to go
I look at my reflection as if its not really there
There lies the truth, but I got nothing left to care.
The highs ain’t as high as they used to
On a good day I’m just a feeling blue
So I’d stay away if I was you
Cause the highs ain’t as high as they used to
Gentle Reader,
Forgive me for my lapses this month,
but I have lost my dearest Editor,
and the dog cannot read.
I am grateful she understands
a few spoken words, such as “cookie” and “outside,”
her hearing being most excellent.
But, as her muzzle has greyed,
her eyes have gone milky:
she is wont to bark at the neighbor’s new mailbox.
It is no small comfort
that she curves herself against my back in sleep
and sits in a chair next to me as I write.
That she follows me from room to room–
when I myself have forgotten why I went–
perhaps illustrates my unedited situation:
how we meander through rooms,
my furry shadow and I,
as if looking for someone to give us purpose.
entices my niece, just now eleven,
to pontificate about a new
water bottle, to identify a cell
phone by its camera configuration,
neither item owning, but knowing
she’ll be happy when she has it.
I practice holding my breath
sweat, tremble, and wait, fear
I’ll find we’ve come what we scorned
it’s nothing new – books banned, books burn
journalists vanish into the despot’s hat
knocks in the night
snick of a blade
report of a pistol
hail of bullets
a bomb rattles windowpanes twelve blocks away
while peaceful protesters march
handcuffed
down the road of obscurity and into the night
rulers seeking empires danger themselves
just ask Napoleon, Hitler, Stalin, Melosovich, Mao,..
Could someone nudge Trump?
This year’s junta issues warrants of whim.
Were Japanese-Americans “happy campers?”
Did anyone ask Der Fuhrer’s Jews?
We are swimming
In the shallow sea
Until the tectonic crash
Of continents occurs
And the ancient Appalachians
That dwarf Everest
Grow and drain
Our home so we settle
[through calcite caverns…bubble…sinking holes]
I am a pile of stones
On the loam
From limestone slabs
Beneath the ground
The one emerges who sees
And I become a wall
Dry stacked in rows
Shaped by lines and chisels
And hammers until I form
The bones of the field
From this our crops emerge
And our cattle are cataloged
When the car crashes
My stones scatter
You are the eye that sees
My shape restored
From ancient shards
And weathered memories.
