Archive | July 2012

Confession

Dropping my Sunday
Clothes on the floor,
These collected confessions
Burst at the seams —
But just a whispered thought
Of the telling
Drops my heart deep
Into butterflies
And makes me want
To run into it,
The city here
Outside the window.

So I am beating
A retreat,
Again and again,
Out into the heat
To watch the people
Who watch
This place,
But none of them
Is you.

Still,
I carry your voice
With me
And my ears ring
Alarm,
But I don’t care.
And maybe it feels safe
Cuz how could you know?
And maybe I fell
Cuz of no expectation.

And maybe here,
I can outrun the wave…
But it’s building high
And I never learned
To swim, anyway,
And I want to touch
Your face,
And show you around
My secret hiding place,
And feel your thin hands
Tangled in my hair and
Resting on my hip and
Oh…

Outcast and lonesome,
Rambling the city,
Full of strangers,
Just keep dreaming
All these confessions.

Washington

Find a puzzle piece
Put back
Into the wrong box.
There’s no making it fit.

10,000 faces,
Again alone,
Watching the crowds
Congregate.

Some are surprised
To get so close to it.
Others are celebrating,
Colorful in their festival clothes.

I’m indulging the
Vagabond,
Heat of midday —
Just keep moving into it.

Then bottle in hand,
Small talk
And small talk
And small talk, incessant.

Concrete and rats,
A gathering grime
Penetrates
Thin veneer.

I want water,
He brings me wine,
And I watch the drunks
Grow drunker.

Then help them home,
Mothering stranger,
Remembering why
I don’t.

And it’s lonely —
To be puzzling,
And impossible
To fit.

In the Balance

She,
Up on toes,
Then hands on hips,
Strutting end
To end.
Push up into
The bridge,
Cartwheel,
Roll
And roll.
Jump and reach
The branch,
Now pull
Up into it,
Mulberries –
Pass them round,
While she plays —
Fingers on keys,
Strings,
Nose in book,
Daughter climbs,
Now sleeping,
Before expected.

She,
Arched-foot stomp,
Arm-swing inkstain,
Pacing out
The woods.
Bend them into
The tree,
Cobra.
Strech
And stretch.
Ease into
Movement,
Now pull
Down toward it,
Cherry bowl –
Pass them round,
Break of day –
Fingers on keys,
Strings,
Nose in book,
Mother sits,
Now sleeping,
Before expected.

Prompted by this post on Balance over at the dVerse Poets Pub. Always fun to stretch a little…maybe do a cartwheel…

note to self

Awakened,
Dream-shaken,
Electrical storm
Pushes tension high.

No escape
From hard hands,
From hard words —
The rope grows taut.

Rib to hip
Hip to thigh,
Compensation for
The stacked and wound.

But a rope is not a bone.
The anodyne is bitter.
And there is no more
Confidante.

These dreams are truth-tellers.
But you’ll never learn.
You’ll never listen.
And you’ll never say the words.

So go ahead then.
Untangle the knotted thread.
Twist it into new rope
To bind yourself to stone.

Gray Makes a Greener Green

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distracted

Here by the woods,
A fawn hops off
Flashing white tail.
Finally gray,
And good for today.
Because endings
And sudden wakings
Occupy these circuits.

Cardinals discuss
How purdy it is,
And it’s not like
They’re wrong,
But distractions.
Easy, now.
He had
Life full of life —
Struggle,
Work
And worry
To spare.

But he had all these lessons,
For a sun
Like a daughter —
Letting it go,
Value of graveyards,
Quiet wing in the wood,
Hiding and waiting,
And how there is
Nothing to need —
Just curiosities
To satisfy.

But these shoes,
So heavy,
And I am full
Of blood.
Is a pause allowed?
Just a moment’s indulgence —
I swear —
And then
I will pick it back up,
The mask.
And who would know,
Anyway?
Just these finches —
So many!
Hinting at the
Gold around the
Calendar bend.

And in that dream,
Running away,
Running away
From your door —
Trying to beat
A storm back,
But heavy shoes slowed
Until it was upon me.

Rainsoaked I turned.
Walked back.
Knocked on the door.
You let me in.
Hands full —
Bottle to warm,
Towel and dry clothes.
Then we climbed
In your old truck,
Turned the engine —
Everything held its breath —
The sun cut the gray —
And you put me back
Where I belonged.

Caught

Here, the dreaded
In-between.
A moth, lit like the moon.

Alternating wingbeats —
Against the glass,
Against the screen.

Enchanting pain,
Slow burn,
Any light will do the trick —

Or —

Safe shadows,
Dreams forgone
Retreating to the night.

And there is
No road forward
To the fire.

And there is
No path back
To the gathering of sweetnesses.

All the while,
These spiders grow fat
Between the panes.