Archive | Spinning Poems RSS for this section

Calls

I was drawn and quartered
on the floor
when the sirens kicked in
and we had forgotten the old drill
and tension
of waiting for all clear.

And we were sorry for not listening,
so we made our hearing hard.

And I deserved these desertions —
diversions from the way
it never stops calling the wind.

Unwary

Its hunger the devouring dark
of a new-moon midnight,
we feed it,
and feed it again —
an open vein,
salt eye and skin,
sorrow and shame —
and it feasts
yet first grows thinner
for a time —
a lying in wait,
but always testing the air
for thin wires of light —
measuring the most minute movement,
ever ready to take us unaware.

Touch

Do not know
if I was wrong
or am.
You’re such an engaging purpose,
but I forget how
to take up the cause.

Before I skip it away,
turn this stone in my hand —
its rough and smooth
sides and edges,
hours into years —
and despite the progress of erosion,
we end the same —
afraid to touch
or be touched.

Suspension

Can we let this minute be —
without what’s done?
Or what’s to become?

Surrender one breath
to the suspension of time.

And because nothing stays with us,
and because nothing ever goes —
we are easy with it.
It is well
and you are never here,
but always presence —
my lover of a different stripe.

How we have been transported!

Ascent or descent —
let me touch you now,
then.

We can rise or fall into it.

And breathe.
And breathe.

…breathe…

Unsay

Slow feet, fast hands
make the single,
St. Valentine’s cowgirl boots.

The fever takes me and I
wait for coyote haunt
and owl time.

The great shift back to one.

Betrayed,
I cannot unsay.

But we learn it —
what restraint has to teach.
Let gods or angels take it up.

We are low,
but we aim for consistency —
draw it inward —

and the elusive summer
still sings in the night.
In the night, it still sings.

Moonstorm

The blessing moon —
you count them now,
one hand or two.
It’s grown its face,
but hides in storm —
and I know how it feels.
I know how it feels.
I know how it feels.

Astray

I refuse
to cry over this.
I am not going to
not.
How could one bear
the exposure?
The scrutiny?
I keep it still,
steady and locked.

A May snow melts
half seconds
above the ground —
insubstantial omens.
And I am grown
so cold and hard-hearted.

Still trying
to place them
in space and time —
to the minute
of the actions,
as though this definition
could further define
my own reactions —

how did I grow
so far and foreign?

There is something
we all want.
But the taking
is hard.
So we give it,
and hope that will suffice.