The rhythm fades in and out to the beating of your heart.
The mustard is left on the windowsill; a robin chirps to me
as I pull in the driveway after a day of work. Nature is
constantly in a spiral. It moves in rhythm to the beating
of my heart, and the
doorway opens to let in the sun.
The sun shines like a round face.
The trees droop
precariously
in the blowing wind.
I have been sitting here for years,
leafing through a magazine,
while the night refuses to sing.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Sunday, April 26, 2009
My Love and I Went Garlanding.
My love and I went garlanding with grass,
upon a day studded with noontime stars.
The sun hunches over; shadows cannot pass,
nor penetrate the solar plexis of Mars.
The tulips and roses bow to the sun,
the daylight and night are heathen as one;
fading, dreaming, in the depths of the dawn,
the sunlight penetrates as God begins to yawn.
My love and I went garlanding,
picking roses and acorn seeds;
a sun studded with penetrating starlight,
is all that Nature ever needs.
The star-studded day comes to an end.
The sun hunches over; shadows cannot pass,
in Timeless dawn, the colors bend,
as my love and I went garlanding with grass.
(Written age 23, I think?)
upon a day studded with noontime stars.
The sun hunches over; shadows cannot pass,
nor penetrate the solar plexis of Mars.
The tulips and roses bow to the sun,
the daylight and night are heathen as one;
fading, dreaming, in the depths of the dawn,
the sunlight penetrates as God begins to yawn.
My love and I went garlanding,
picking roses and acorn seeds;
a sun studded with penetrating starlight,
is all that Nature ever needs.
The star-studded day comes to an end.
The sun hunches over; shadows cannot pass,
in Timeless dawn, the colors bend,
as my love and I went garlanding with grass.
(Written age 23, I think?)
Fair Music.
Break the fair music that all creatures make,
and hollow out the world of its core,
humans roam the world and they take and they take,
not knowing what it is they’re looking for.
The fair music plays on with melodious grass,
and the air smells so sweet and fine.
I could not help but find a sweet lady lass,
and call her my heart, my valentine.
This, I give to you, a gift, a gift,
the harp you play, upon the melodious grass,
it plucks at my heart, these string that you lift,
and no other notes will let it pass.
Oh, lady love, that harp you play,
sings me to sleep upon a dewy morn.
Play this harp every bloody day,
and I’ll give you words music cannot form.
and hollow out the world of its core,
humans roam the world and they take and they take,
not knowing what it is they’re looking for.
The fair music plays on with melodious grass,
and the air smells so sweet and fine.
I could not help but find a sweet lady lass,
and call her my heart, my valentine.
This, I give to you, a gift, a gift,
the harp you play, upon the melodious grass,
it plucks at my heart, these string that you lift,
and no other notes will let it pass.
Oh, lady love, that harp you play,
sings me to sleep upon a dewy morn.
Play this harp every bloody day,
and I’ll give you words music cannot form.
Why the small bird's grief is form'd of Dreams.
To his cold beauties on a summer morn,
love will smile its translucent smile,
with a rosy bosom, and eyes forlorn,
and all will be well in a little while.
To myself the Sun will keep my heart.
Oh cold Sun! I sing happy cheer!
When beloved’s song piped: he then came quite near,
then vanished, as soldiers were honored with
their wings of light.
Rose's thickest time of runes have opened
and there beheld a silver door;
then we saw, it 'twas the night,
and many white thorns thrust upon a dark shore.
My love, he laughing said,
"I've a sigh, 'tis reaches farther
than the light of woe!"
"Renew thy strength," I then replied,
"take your delight in the snow!"
But I could not be dark as the night,
for morn blushed rosy as clay,
and the dread hand of darkness faded from sight,
and the Sun, a lonely fen, was mine today.
(An older poem, written when I was 19, 20ish.)
love will smile its translucent smile,
with a rosy bosom, and eyes forlorn,
and all will be well in a little while.
To myself the Sun will keep my heart.
Oh cold Sun! I sing happy cheer!
When beloved’s song piped: he then came quite near,
then vanished, as soldiers were honored with
their wings of light.
Rose's thickest time of runes have opened
and there beheld a silver door;
then we saw, it 'twas the night,
and many white thorns thrust upon a dark shore.
My love, he laughing said,
"I've a sigh, 'tis reaches farther
than the light of woe!"
"Renew thy strength," I then replied,
"take your delight in the snow!"
But I could not be dark as the night,
for morn blushed rosy as clay,
and the dread hand of darkness faded from sight,
and the Sun, a lonely fen, was mine today.
(An older poem, written when I was 19, 20ish.)
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Rejection Slips, Part II.
Now, why do my poems keep getting rejected? I have been sending in poetry since I was a child and I thought my newer ones are especially good. Some well-established magazines say they like "my poems but they are not appropriate for the next issue" which is a fairly loose response, I think. I think many poetry magazines often lack in sales so they stick to people who are familiar, like Billy Collins, Martha Rhodes, and Maya Angelou-however I do not see Maya Angelou's works in very many magazines. Okay, Louis Gluck, then, I saw some of hers in the current issue of "Threepenny Review."
If poetry sales are lacking, then the publishing business really is in deep trouble-most of the people I know rarely read books; I say, "Do you read Tom Clancy?" They say, "Not lately." I say, "Do you read Anne Perry?" They say, "Who is she?" Never mind ancient poets like Rumi or Wu ti or 70s poets like Elizabeth Bishop. People like "Twilight" and "Harry Potter" now, which is okay, but there are more books than that.
Just sayin.'
If poetry sales are lacking, then the publishing business really is in deep trouble-most of the people I know rarely read books; I say, "Do you read Tom Clancy?" They say, "Not lately." I say, "Do you read Anne Perry?" They say, "Who is she?" Never mind ancient poets like Rumi or Wu ti or 70s poets like Elizabeth Bishop. People like "Twilight" and "Harry Potter" now, which is okay, but there are more books than that.
Just sayin.'
To the Girl Who Thinks She Loves Me.
Well, I kind of got this idea from a guy friend who is having trouble with 22 y/os who have crushes on him...and, he doesn't like them back. I've had troubles with younger and older men myself, and it is also relevant to me. I rewrote the ending like three times.
----------------------
I look at the pictures in the photo album.
They are not mine to have.
I look at the pictures in the photo album,
and grimace as I turn each page.
I do not like the lines in your face, the
wrinkles that look like molded peaches,
the blonde hair like dirty mushrooms.
From the heart of my poems, I have seen you
here before-discussing memoirs and smoky
mirrors. Your back is turned to me,
and at first I thought I might love you,
but you turned and gave me that sly, coy smile-
the smile of a black cougar with bitter teeth.
Teeth that gnash and teeth that bite,
swift words and war wounds.
My grandfather was in WWII-he made it out,
no thanks to you, I can tell you wouldn’t
care anyhow, your mind is on shadows,
shadows that wave and bend, nothing that is
relevant or real.
I try to discuss politics with you; your grin turns
into a hiss, a whisper of words you do not think
I would understand. I am no dummy.
You try to bat your eyelashes at me, I think to myself they
are fake as your fake ID, which you bought for
three hundred dollars when you could have waited
a few years when you came of age.
I told you there is nothing between us.
Your tears are bitter.
----------------------
I look at the pictures in the photo album.
They are not mine to have.
I look at the pictures in the photo album,
and grimace as I turn each page.
I do not like the lines in your face, the
wrinkles that look like molded peaches,
the blonde hair like dirty mushrooms.
From the heart of my poems, I have seen you
here before-discussing memoirs and smoky
mirrors. Your back is turned to me,
and at first I thought I might love you,
but you turned and gave me that sly, coy smile-
the smile of a black cougar with bitter teeth.
Teeth that gnash and teeth that bite,
swift words and war wounds.
My grandfather was in WWII-he made it out,
no thanks to you, I can tell you wouldn’t
care anyhow, your mind is on shadows,
shadows that wave and bend, nothing that is
relevant or real.
I try to discuss politics with you; your grin turns
into a hiss, a whisper of words you do not think
I would understand. I am no dummy.
You try to bat your eyelashes at me, I think to myself they
are fake as your fake ID, which you bought for
three hundred dollars when you could have waited
a few years when you came of age.
I told you there is nothing between us.
Your tears are bitter.
My Mother Was Making Chamomile Tea.
My mother was making chamomile tea the day
the Vietnam War broke out. She was standing at the
stove in the kitchen, stirring a pot of water; her back
turned to the television, which was
in black and white.
Suddenly, she heard the news reporter say the word
"War," and she screamed and dropped the large spoon
she had been holding, and called her mother on the
black and white phone that hung from the wall-
war, she wheezed into the phone, and her mother, who
had seen three wars before this one, murmured, "I know,
I know," over and over again,
her words like molasses.
The soldiers, my mother said, what of the soldiers?
So brave and handsome,
are on the front line.
My grandmother:
Nothing can be done about the soldiers, they are where
they should be, God will take care of them.
I do not know if my mother believed in those words;
only the dimming of gun shots lessened after time,
and they have traded sounds-instead of gun shots,
they are now the ching! Ching of the cash register
in her sewing shop.
That is all we
hear, now, of war; and the thrum of the cars as they speed up
and down the highways, spinning tales with their
exhaust pipes.
the Vietnam War broke out. She was standing at the
stove in the kitchen, stirring a pot of water; her back
turned to the television, which was
in black and white.
Suddenly, she heard the news reporter say the word
"War," and she screamed and dropped the large spoon
she had been holding, and called her mother on the
black and white phone that hung from the wall-
war, she wheezed into the phone, and her mother, who
had seen three wars before this one, murmured, "I know,
I know," over and over again,
her words like molasses.
The soldiers, my mother said, what of the soldiers?
So brave and handsome,
are on the front line.
My grandmother:
Nothing can be done about the soldiers, they are where
they should be, God will take care of them.
I do not know if my mother believed in those words;
only the dimming of gun shots lessened after time,
and they have traded sounds-instead of gun shots,
they are now the ching! Ching of the cash register
in her sewing shop.
That is all we
hear, now, of war; and the thrum of the cars as they speed up
and down the highways, spinning tales with their
exhaust pipes.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Lost.
I find myself walking down the street
where we used to hang out, at the bar on
Seventh Avenue, or the library downtown.
We used to read books. You said books
were like flowers, trapped in a fog. You said
you read them every day; you were hooked
on them like drugs. I’ve never taken drugs.
The clouds seem to hover over us like
giant airplanes that move with the wind,
being pushed by the hands of God. I had never
seen the hands of God, but I assume they
are invisible. The Earth spins around the sun;
or maybe there’s a different way I haven't
discovered yet.
I forgot what you told me late last October, during
the full moon that was bright and beautiful
and reflected your eyes. What are the color of
your eyes again? I’ve forgotten. I’ve forgotten you.
Maybe it makes you sad. I wouldn't know.
where we used to hang out, at the bar on
Seventh Avenue, or the library downtown.
We used to read books. You said books
were like flowers, trapped in a fog. You said
you read them every day; you were hooked
on them like drugs. I’ve never taken drugs.
The clouds seem to hover over us like
giant airplanes that move with the wind,
being pushed by the hands of God. I had never
seen the hands of God, but I assume they
are invisible. The Earth spins around the sun;
or maybe there’s a different way I haven't
discovered yet.
I forgot what you told me late last October, during
the full moon that was bright and beautiful
and reflected your eyes. What are the color of
your eyes again? I’ve forgotten. I’ve forgotten you.
Maybe it makes you sad. I wouldn't know.
Rejection Slips.
Considering the fact that the magazine SPELLED the title of my story wrong, I should be overjoyed they rejected me.
Blog.
I would post more poetry but the ones I am writing now are not finished yet. I have been focusing more on my novels.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
in all your terrible world waking.
in all your terrible world
waking I gently kiss
your eyes dreaming
the sharp sunlight
of april moves
gently the night
which has dark
hands.
(Wrote this a long time ago, when I was a teenager.)
waking I gently kiss
your eyes dreaming
the sharp sunlight
of april moves
gently the night
which has dark
hands.
(Wrote this a long time ago, when I was a teenager.)
Thoughts and Memories of a Rainy Afternoon.
Rain poured through my fingers like soiled sheets.
An umbrella sits, lonely, on the front porch.
I see you, sitting there, on the swing,
leafing through a copy of
USA Magazine in the pouring rain,
immersed in the pictures,
I suppose. You love to draw, it is your hobby,
you say that one day you want your pictures
to be put up in an art museum-not in Paris, you insist,
or Rome, but a local museum,
like in Boston. We live in Massachussetts.
You love Boston. It is your favorite place.
Sometimes,
we go there on Saturday mornings, and eat at the
Bagel World
on Fork Street, and watch the traffic go by.
Sometimes,
I wonder what you are thinking, if perhaps your thoughts
are about art, or me. I usually tell myself to quit it.
Most of the time,
I do not listen to myself.
An umbrella sits, lonely, on the front porch.
I see you, sitting there, on the swing,
leafing through a copy of
USA Magazine in the pouring rain,
immersed in the pictures,
I suppose. You love to draw, it is your hobby,
you say that one day you want your pictures
to be put up in an art museum-not in Paris, you insist,
or Rome, but a local museum,
like in Boston. We live in Massachussetts.
You love Boston. It is your favorite place.
Sometimes,
we go there on Saturday mornings, and eat at the
Bagel World
on Fork Street, and watch the traffic go by.
Sometimes,
I wonder what you are thinking, if perhaps your thoughts
are about art, or me. I usually tell myself to quit it.
Most of the time,
I do not listen to myself.
How To Follow Paths.
I followed you down the path.
It was gentle and kind.
The loving was not simple;
there was no peace, only hatred.
I do not generalize. I put my hatred
in a tiny box and send it out to sea.
I gather my fruit, put it in a
basket, and sail it out to sea. It hopes to find land.
My neighbor is a woman named Lonnie.
She hardly leaves her house.
She cannot hear me from where I stand,
and call out at her-ask her if she wants
any banana bread. She always says no.
I do not think she likes bread of any
kind, her blinds are always shut, her door
is always locked, she never takes the time
to stop and smell the roses
that line her sidewalk. She drives a gray
mini van.
It is parked in the driveway.
She has not come out of her house
today. My television is on in the den,
it is time to make breakfast.
The sun just came up into the sky.
A new day enters me.
It was gentle and kind.
The loving was not simple;
there was no peace, only hatred.
I do not generalize. I put my hatred
in a tiny box and send it out to sea.
I gather my fruit, put it in a
basket, and sail it out to sea. It hopes to find land.
My neighbor is a woman named Lonnie.
She hardly leaves her house.
She cannot hear me from where I stand,
and call out at her-ask her if she wants
any banana bread. She always says no.
I do not think she likes bread of any
kind, her blinds are always shut, her door
is always locked, she never takes the time
to stop and smell the roses
that line her sidewalk. She drives a gray
mini van.
It is parked in the driveway.
She has not come out of her house
today. My television is on in the den,
it is time to make breakfast.
The sun just came up into the sky.
A new day enters me.
Better.
Her tears mar the windowpane.
She makes herself get up from her spot
at the window. She makes herself a cup of tea,
lilacs bloom on the window outside
the front door. She makes herself remember what she
was doing there, why she was there, what she
was supposed to be doing. That the garbage
needs to be taken out, that the dishes need
to be done. The tea is strong. It makes herself
reflect on things that have happened that day.
Her husband came home from work. The dog
barked. Someone mowed the lawn, which was filled
with crabgrass. She loved good
deeds. They filled her with a sense of belonging
she does not feel doing anything else. She thinks
it makes her see better. Instead of worse.
She makes herself get up from her spot
at the window. She makes herself a cup of tea,
lilacs bloom on the window outside
the front door. She makes herself remember what she
was doing there, why she was there, what she
was supposed to be doing. That the garbage
needs to be taken out, that the dishes need
to be done. The tea is strong. It makes herself
reflect on things that have happened that day.
Her husband came home from work. The dog
barked. Someone mowed the lawn, which was filled
with crabgrass. She loved good
deeds. They filled her with a sense of belonging
she does not feel doing anything else. She thinks
it makes her see better. Instead of worse.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Riddle.
One day, when she’s old,
she’ll tell you the answer to the riddle
that has been tormenting you for years.
I have heard this one before; the words
curve like a spider’s silky web, they are
put on the shelf in the wine cellar
before being released to the public
If poems beat on the back door,
would you think to answer it?
Would you know, quickly now,
how to explain the ending to every story?
Metaphors drop out of the sky like clouds;
they land on your doorstep,
shaking and shivering in the cold.
Will you take them in?
They are orphans, you know;
they have nowhere else to go.
(Age 23, I think)
she’ll tell you the answer to the riddle
that has been tormenting you for years.
I have heard this one before; the words
curve like a spider’s silky web, they are
put on the shelf in the wine cellar
before being released to the public
If poems beat on the back door,
would you think to answer it?
Would you know, quickly now,
how to explain the ending to every story?
Metaphors drop out of the sky like clouds;
they land on your doorstep,
shaking and shivering in the cold.
Will you take them in?
They are orphans, you know;
they have nowhere else to go.
(Age 23, I think)
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Monday, April 06, 2009
I wanted to add this one to my list of blogs....
But I don't know how to add it yet.
http://pleasefindthis.blogspot.com/
(Never mind I figured out how to add it.)
http://pleasefindthis.blogspot.com/
(Never mind I figured out how to add it.)
Magazines.
Magazines I read:
"Times" Magazine
National Geographic
The Atlantic Monthly
New York Post
Poetry Magazine
Ploughshares
The Paris Review
Threepenny Review
"Times" Magazine
National Geographic
The Atlantic Monthly
New York Post
Poetry Magazine
Ploughshares
The Paris Review
Threepenny Review
What Is Wood.
the light from the lamp shines
on my desk
it is such a great desk
made from polished wood
I don’t know what kind of wood
it is
maybe it is brass
but brass isn’t a kind of wood
I’ve heard of brass organs
brass rings
brass silverware
maybe the wood is made from oak
but an oak is not a desk
an oak is a tree you find in
the woods
and sometimes squirrels hide their
acorns in holes
just before they go into hibernation.
(Written age 23.)
on my desk
it is such a great desk
made from polished wood
I don’t know what kind of wood
it is
maybe it is brass
but brass isn’t a kind of wood
I’ve heard of brass organs
brass rings
brass silverware
maybe the wood is made from oak
but an oak is not a desk
an oak is a tree you find in
the woods
and sometimes squirrels hide their
acorns in holes
just before they go into hibernation.
(Written age 23.)
Raphael’s Rhapsody.
There is sage in the brush behind my house.
I put a pie on the windowsill. The day comes pouring
in through my window, it is so warm I am wearing a shortsleeve t-shirt.
I am waiting for a call from my brother,
Raphael, who just moved to Brazil.
He is nervous, as he is wearing his heart on his sleeve.
He just proposed to
his girlfriend, Roxanne, who had thirteen boyfriends before him;
I assured him she would say yes, it was perfectly obvious
she wants to marry him. But even as I said this,
I had my doubts, for Roxanne is one to change her mind.
I wondered if it would work out; she is a
fashion designer,
he is a real estate agent, sometimes it does not work out
because the man cannot stand it when the woman
makes more money than he does.
I am contemplating what to have for breakfast-maybe a bagel,
maybe a bowl of cereal, Shredded Wheats, or Cornpops,
I haven’t decided yet. My cat wanders in, meowing like a cow,
hungry for something to eat-I sigh in exasperation.
He had
just pounced on a mouse this morning, dragging
the remains into the barn, sucking out its inner goodness-the
heart and the limbs, the liver and lungs, as gross as it sounds.
This makes me think of how
strange life is, and how I don’t know what it means to be
alive, only partially alive, eating fruit and vegetables,
and watching an occasional movie on my DVD player.
One day I hope to know.
I put a pie on the windowsill. The day comes pouring
in through my window, it is so warm I am wearing a shortsleeve t-shirt.
I am waiting for a call from my brother,
Raphael, who just moved to Brazil.
He is nervous, as he is wearing his heart on his sleeve.
He just proposed to
his girlfriend, Roxanne, who had thirteen boyfriends before him;
I assured him she would say yes, it was perfectly obvious
she wants to marry him. But even as I said this,
I had my doubts, for Roxanne is one to change her mind.
I wondered if it would work out; she is a
fashion designer,
he is a real estate agent, sometimes it does not work out
because the man cannot stand it when the woman
makes more money than he does.
I am contemplating what to have for breakfast-maybe a bagel,
maybe a bowl of cereal, Shredded Wheats, or Cornpops,
I haven’t decided yet. My cat wanders in, meowing like a cow,
hungry for something to eat-I sigh in exasperation.
He had
just pounced on a mouse this morning, dragging
the remains into the barn, sucking out its inner goodness-the
heart and the limbs, the liver and lungs, as gross as it sounds.
This makes me think of how
strange life is, and how I don’t know what it means to be
alive, only partially alive, eating fruit and vegetables,
and watching an occasional movie on my DVD player.
One day I hope to know.
My current taste in fiction books.
I feel like reading a very thick novel. I have the last Harry Potter book, but I do not feel like reading a fantasy at the moment. Maybe Michael Crichton, or Tom Clancy, Elizabeth Moon, or Nelson Demille.
Winter Falls On Cedar.
Bright winter morning, the snow flies,
sticking on fir trees and windshields. I trudge
through miles of winterland (just the driveway, really)
I open the door
to my automobile, but it is too cold to start. I trip in
the doorway as I go back inside the house, take off
my hat and coat, and call for a
taxi to take me to work.
The taxi is late;
he calls me fifteen minutes after I'm supposed
to be at work and says, "I can't make it, I'm stuck in the
driveway," with me knowing all the while he is not
stuck in a driveway, frantic to
get to his customer. I know,
at this hour, he has better things to do:
he is at home sipping a brandy in his Spiderman
pajamas, watching a rerun of The Early Morning Show.
(Written Age 22, or 23, forget.)
sticking on fir trees and windshields. I trudge
through miles of winterland (just the driveway, really)
I open the door
to my automobile, but it is too cold to start. I trip in
the doorway as I go back inside the house, take off
my hat and coat, and call for a
taxi to take me to work.
The taxi is late;
he calls me fifteen minutes after I'm supposed
to be at work and says, "I can't make it, I'm stuck in the
driveway," with me knowing all the while he is not
stuck in a driveway, frantic to
get to his customer. I know,
at this hour, he has better things to do:
he is at home sipping a brandy in his Spiderman
pajamas, watching a rerun of The Early Morning Show.
(Written Age 22, or 23, forget.)
Geese Pond, 1985, and a Photo of My Daughter
In the summer, when the wind chimes shiver,
the light over the hills is like a beacon going south.
It can't be going south for the winter, not yet, for
the
geese are still here. My daughter is feeding the
geese
at the pond, laughing, smiling, talking to them as if
they
could talk back. And sometimes they do.
I wish I had a camera so I could take a picture of her
feeding the geese, so she could look back upon it when
she
is twenty or thirty and smile. Or better yet, I wish
I had a canvas
and paints so I could draw my daughter, a still
portrait that has come to life
before my very eyes.
I write about geese in poems, I write about the long
grass
around the banks and
my daughter's jeans pushed up tenaciously around
her ankles so she
can walk into the water a little ways,
her hair in her face as she gives
a piece of herself to the geese,
and the small, shallow pond.
(I wrote this when I was 22, 23.)
the light over the hills is like a beacon going south.
It can't be going south for the winter, not yet, for
the
geese are still here. My daughter is feeding the
geese
at the pond, laughing, smiling, talking to them as if
they
could talk back. And sometimes they do.
I wish I had a camera so I could take a picture of her
feeding the geese, so she could look back upon it when
she
is twenty or thirty and smile. Or better yet, I wish
I had a canvas
and paints so I could draw my daughter, a still
portrait that has come to life
before my very eyes.
I write about geese in poems, I write about the long
grass
around the banks and
my daughter's jeans pushed up tenaciously around
her ankles so she
can walk into the water a little ways,
her hair in her face as she gives
a piece of herself to the geese,
and the small, shallow pond.
(I wrote this when I was 22, 23.)
Opal Rain.
The rain drenches the world in diamond colors,
red, opal, pink, pale green. The colors graze on
water lily pads, shelter things unseen, destiny
without reason, a sky without a name.
I hold you close, like there’s no tomorrow,
I hold you in my heart like words-a thumb,
a fist, a fingerprint, a beam from someone’s flashlight.
The river knows nothing, speaks nothing of rivers;
it shakes and shudders in times long lost.
The black cat creeps on its four paws, to a spot
below the river Nile, drops on all fours, and
evaporates rapidly into thinning air.
I am not light, nor color, nor tears,
the light is not green, I am not opal.
I am multi-colored, I see myself in smoky mirrors
spread out before me like cropped pollen.
It is me, I am myself, I crawl inside myself, and dwell,
hoping to rest awhile. No clocks tick here.
The spiders have spun silky spinning webs,
they are all spun out; shadows echo in spurts of gray.
I know not colors, they are not words I speak.
Light follows through, reasons unheard.
Unspoken, thoughts, dream of ‘morrow.
Forever and after,
I dream of home.
red, opal, pink, pale green. The colors graze on
water lily pads, shelter things unseen, destiny
without reason, a sky without a name.
I hold you close, like there’s no tomorrow,
I hold you in my heart like words-a thumb,
a fist, a fingerprint, a beam from someone’s flashlight.
The river knows nothing, speaks nothing of rivers;
it shakes and shudders in times long lost.
The black cat creeps on its four paws, to a spot
below the river Nile, drops on all fours, and
evaporates rapidly into thinning air.
I am not light, nor color, nor tears,
the light is not green, I am not opal.
I am multi-colored, I see myself in smoky mirrors
spread out before me like cropped pollen.
It is me, I am myself, I crawl inside myself, and dwell,
hoping to rest awhile. No clocks tick here.
The spiders have spun silky spinning webs,
they are all spun out; shadows echo in spurts of gray.
I know not colors, they are not words I speak.
Light follows through, reasons unheard.
Unspoken, thoughts, dream of ‘morrow.
Forever and after,
I dream of home.
autumn harvest.
streams rush by in flowing rivers.
golden like footsteps and crimson
as peonies.
water rushes past old ears, pretty girls
flick their dresses to the wind,
storms are drive(n) to the point of
resuscitation.
an old man pleads for the corn to
stop growing-he hears it from where
he stands. he watches Oprah
and the Bad News Bears,
and,
on sundays, he stays up all night,
playing solitaire with an old deck of
cards.
harsh winds blow in straight lines.
the poet in her old house putters about,
moving this way and that to the
tune of the wind.
this is nomad’s land, tears fall
like ash and silk.
golden like footsteps and crimson
as peonies.
water rushes past old ears, pretty girls
flick their dresses to the wind,
storms are drive(n) to the point of
resuscitation.
an old man pleads for the corn to
stop growing-he hears it from where
he stands. he watches Oprah
and the Bad News Bears,
and,
on sundays, he stays up all night,
playing solitaire with an old deck of
cards.
harsh winds blow in straight lines.
the poet in her old house putters about,
moving this way and that to the
tune of the wind.
this is nomad’s land, tears fall
like ash and silk.
River Of Lost & Found.
One day the river will stop flowing.
I will be there to witness it.
I will stand on the bank of the river,
knee deep in the crabgrass, and watch the water
swirl slowly down, down, down, to the last
bit of water, until there is nothing,
nothing left anywhere.
One day, I will see the river, and it will
not be a river any longer.
The fish will be all gone, eaten or starved;
their skeletons littering the ground like
a graveyard,
and the bottom of the river will be a dried
bed.
Pigs will sleep in it. Beavers will move
in it, up, down, or across, and they will
sit and stare, their tongues hanging out
of their slacked mouths.
One day the river will stop flowing-
One day I will no longer be here,
one day my memories will fade,
and I will sit and think of things that are
lost.
I will be there to witness it.
I will stand on the bank of the river,
knee deep in the crabgrass, and watch the water
swirl slowly down, down, down, to the last
bit of water, until there is nothing,
nothing left anywhere.
One day, I will see the river, and it will
not be a river any longer.
The fish will be all gone, eaten or starved;
their skeletons littering the ground like
a graveyard,
and the bottom of the river will be a dried
bed.
Pigs will sleep in it. Beavers will move
in it, up, down, or across, and they will
sit and stare, their tongues hanging out
of their slacked mouths.
One day the river will stop flowing-
One day I will no longer be here,
one day my memories will fade,
and I will sit and think of things that are
lost.
THE FIELD OF QUIET.
the field of quiet is a withered rose
in a mesh of field (s) a mystery wrapped
in shroud when clouds shiver in an arc
and fade glistening like a glass (pass)
movement is/
in a mesh of field (s) a mystery wrapped
in shroud when clouds shiver in an arc
and fade glistening like a glass (pass)
movement is/
Winding Down the Hours.
A black woman stands on broken rocks.
She wonders what time it is. She does not know.
Her mind sees deep within herself, the sunlight
That falls on the ground, she forces herself to move
Forward.
Time is never still.
Lost worlds and lost words, I protect myself from the tick-tock
Of the clock. A black woman walks outside to get the mail;
A pickup truck rumbles by, sounding like firecrackers.
Who’s to say what we will see, today and tomorrow?
Who’s to say what we will know, one minute from the next?
The ticking of the clock is all we have-it sounds like motors
Running, it sounds like clocks ticking.
A black woman stands on broken rocks.
A pickup truck rumbles by, sounding like firecrackers.
The clock ticks in the kitchen.
She wonders what time it is. She does not know.
Her mind sees deep within herself, the sunlight
That falls on the ground, she forces herself to move
Forward.
Time is never still.
Lost worlds and lost words, I protect myself from the tick-tock
Of the clock. A black woman walks outside to get the mail;
A pickup truck rumbles by, sounding like firecrackers.
Who’s to say what we will see, today and tomorrow?
Who’s to say what we will know, one minute from the next?
The ticking of the clock is all we have-it sounds like motors
Running, it sounds like clocks ticking.
A black woman stands on broken rocks.
A pickup truck rumbles by, sounding like firecrackers.
The clock ticks in the kitchen.
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