Thursday, May 20, 2010

trash out

bone grind
road wet

Sunday, May 2, 2010


She looks with searching eyes
far afield, another place;
she stares through time at pain's own face

Lifecycles, Icicles

The past comes washing back to me
like waves of fear and pain.
Its rivulets wash over me,
irregular as rain.

It rattles me as loudly
as it might a roof of tin,
freezing my emotions soundly
as it turns to ice within.

It takes some time to thaw me.
once the freeze is gone;
the heat but slowly gnaws me,
and I but slowly warm.


Starting small, saplings, seedlings
subjected young to human plans dreaming,
boxed and hemmed in ways and streets
cut and pruned our ways to meet.
With long years unplanned they rise,
growing higher, girthing wide;
one day outgrow our old designs,
life their own roots take in stride,
our malformed plans to cast aside


Backup beeps
advancing, construction,
hinder my appreciation
of the feel of wind
and the smell of berries.   

Distant cars
talk over the sound of wind
and song of crickets
but could almost be
mistaken for water.

I save this poem
on my cell phone
and go back in the office


I used to wait for night to come, wait for her to settle down:
in the bones of all the creatures when the chilly air surrounds.

As surely as the setting sun, as certain as the grave she'd come,
daily I'd be waiting  for the nightly visitation of her dark embrace,

the dark to hide my face. I'd go eager to her, lost inside I'd contemplate.
 like a scrape with death, she touched me every night;

Just a scrape to give me fright, she drove me mad but left me feeling right,
thrilled me, blessed me with her deep insight, deep and dark and black as blight,

still she's calling, my dear night; deaf, i call back without sight,
lost without my pleading lady, blind without a leading light

Coldhome, Fishhome

I thought the dark cold waters looked dangerous enough to freeze in,
a blue deep out of night and no better illuminated,
death under cover of water as certain as death under cover of darkness.
But there atop the churn of waves: white sails float aloft,
the only whitecap to be called savior.
As the day fades, day grades in paling shades,
I'm brought back to warmth and the world.
Looking back from exhausted shoreside waterlog
on the sawtooth-hazard rows of sunsoaked waves,
I think: how beautiful a place to make my watery grave,
lifeless home away from home and shore and breath and shame.