Archive | November 2012

Frost-Ridden

The ice descends,
And burrowers sleep
Below the frostline.
But it’s hard to know,
Yet,
If this winter will take,
And old men
Give divergent accounts,
With no woolly bears
To tell tales.

Still, the sun thaws
Bonechill,
And my ink has not frozen,
Yet.
The culling’s begun.
So we fortify
Bone and blood
With this frost.

Let the earth slide
Below our feet
In glacial progress.
Let
The illusion of solidity
That contains the flexibility
Of this blue ice
Protect us.

Watchful,
We join the predators
For a morning.
Yet,
An angle of sun
Snags the rust-stained
Grass —
Evidence of weakness’s passage.

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Now

Today as we sit without words,
Gracefully the bountiful now
Escapes from the mind’s glancing touch.

While living we curiously touch,
And disappear in whispered wind,
Embraced by the bottomless now.

Then reformed as when becomes now,
With a thumb to fingertip touch,
This breath a releasing of words —

Relinquishing words in this now that we gratefully touch.

Ramble

The river smells of ghosts again.
Sometimes we worry
They’re our own —
That this rambling
Is bringing us
To no good end.

Was a time
We were strong
And settled.
Now all is expectation —
And we must trust
Attentiveness
To take on
What defenses
Can no longer manage.

And we should be so lucky.
That something might happen
To break the intensity
Of this day-to-day.

But this loneliness we looked for
Dominates.
We celebrate
The dark and the dead,
And can wish
It were otherwise —
But know
You will never find us here.

And the answers
Are just dust —
Something to be found out
And cleared away.

Resolved

Our fingers twitch.
Her throat is
So soft,
So white —
Sweet, trusting repose.

And we are faithless
Under an indifferent sky.

She reflects
Some kind of
Angelic light,
But we have had
Enough of goodness.
And we have had
Our fill of flesh.

We devour
Smoke and iron.
Metal sings against metal —
But not too sharp.
We want this to hurt.

The Bearded Lady

Her crimson tent
Had two rooms —
And she mostly passed
In silent whispers
From one world
To another,
Among the rumbling wheels
That carried the sideshow.

And in silence
She would step into the light
To collect their eyes
And words.
(How much is revealed
In the gaze of those
Who only see surface.)

She could delight
In the openness
Of observation,
Uncovering judgement,
Disgust and derision,
As the watchers
Exposed themselves
To the risk
Of being known.
And what they thought they knew
Was nothing.

She could tell you
All about the consumption,
And how one can want
Without needing.
Or how an eye that worships
These shapes from afar —
Curve of hip
And slant of eye —
Need not bare all
Or bed them
To know what it means
To love.

A magician outside
Juggled nickels
And knucklebones.
Night gathered
And grew,
As the gawkers
Cut a path
Backward,
To home
Sweet home.

But the lucky —
Those few who lingered
When the light went dim
And she beat
An inner sanctum
Retreat —
Refugees from the real —
Could listen to
A cricket chorus scream,
The barker’s
Footstep offbeat,
Catch the hissing of a teapot.

Inside, she smelled
Of leaf mould and mint,
And she’d undress
In the naked light
Of a candle,
Let the silence
Envelop her
As she opened a vein
To unpour another day’s
Worth of knowing.

And if you do not stay,
You’ll never hear
How blood can sing.

Acclimating

Do it.
Or don’t.
November is for testing.
For moving slow blood.
For leaving just enough
Exposed to gather sun.

Now we know
The sickness of enclosure.
Here,
Shadows,
Silhouettes shift,
But there is no less
To love —
Only fewer who will
Love it.

Dry cattails
Tell secrets,
Say we are the northern
And the southern ends
Of the passage.
She throws around
Browns and grays,
Silver and gold —
Preparing for
Winter visitors.

And we stay.

And we stray
Yearlong beyond
Boundaries of convention.

And it is a time
For testing.
And it is a time
To discard the habitual.
And it is a time
For collecting this warmth
And directing it inward,

That we might meet
The dangerous crowd
And not falter.

Suncatchers

He couldn’t care less
About the sun,
And didn’t understand
Why my eyes
Kept straying
From the road
To watch water vapor
On fire–
Or about the
Golden hour,
Which turns the trees
To beacons
Pointing toward
Twilight.

No one warns.
But again
Decades melt
And you’re
Face to face
With a stranger.

And I could be wrong.
But I think your way
Is better.
And I beg you
Not to give it up.

Let your surprises
Remain here:
Lost butterflies and bees
In November,
A sky full of feathers
And hawks climbing
Spiral steps of air,
Red tails like suncatchers,
A silver line that says
There’s water in the marsh
Again —

How every moment
The sun claims
A new lover
To blanket with kisses.

Let what defines you
Be what you define.