from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (29)
this is me
these words define
my perception
like skin
.
a vague edge
between
what I hear
and what I say
.
if I peel
apart
the wet layers
I find nothing
.
beyond regret
self-flagellation
embarrassment
psychic decay
.
this is me
a bleeding scab of words
clot across my tongue
like worn rags
(February 20,2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (28)
the mirror reflects
a person I cannot see
.
familiar yet
not
.
a ghost
that is me
(February 19, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (27)
if anyone speaks
of anything
she might know
–
some small bit
that might relate
to her
–
a childhood memory
the center
of a collapsing star
–
anything at all
sparks her speech
until it is hers
–
and she turns and
turns and turns
all to her
–
as if she were
more
than who she is
–
and knew more
than
what she was
(February 16, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (26)
days copy days
as if life stutters
what’s to be said
until finally
one’s last word’s
spoken
(February 16, 2020)
“These fragments I have shored against my ruins”
—T.S.Eliot
my students work over the abstract
idea of redemption in three stories
as a preparation for the wasteland
which we will read for the next class
one thousand miles away students
hide as their classmates are killed
and we are told there is nothing
nothing we can do except pray
prayers are useless balms for the dead
and pale recompense for the living
who must clean blood from walls
and mix memory into the earth
devoid of hope near an open door
we are in a hell we have created
(February 14, 2018)
I wrote this two years ago on the day of the Parkland massacre. I think about my students every time there is another school shooting. And there always seems to be another shooting. And still nothing is done. This poem was published by Shantih Journal.
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (25)
walking the beach
before dawn
before the gulls
pierce
their pointed cries
through the waves’
unrelenting crush
I drown
in the wash
of noise
my thoughts beaten
calm and submissive
I have no voice
among these voices
they are still
lashed into silence
by the cold waves
the sun’s first
motifs float
along the edge
of the sea
slight pinks
and greens
define night’s end
alone on the shore
I know who I am
without interpretation’s
variance to distract
(February 7, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (24)
in the turn of dawn and dusk’s
vague half-light night becomes
neither herself nor the other
but a transitory beast slavering
wildly ahead or at the heels
of the raging sun
shadows pulse
through me with celestial fire
each rock leaf flower
each grain of sand vibrates
in resonance the textures
of the world
I am all I am
and all I am not a conduit
for violent streams which fall
silent into a churning sea
(February 6, 2020)
“we are our own prisons.”
–Joel Brouwer
barely audible
tumblers click
into place
–
words turn keys
jam snap off
and trap us here
–
telling the same tale
confident the end
will change for us
–
confident the end
will not end for us
as it always has
–
forever and ever
amen
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (23)
starlings turn a double-helix into themselves
their poetry drifts through dark clouds
–
I murmur my admiration
still stunned after years
of seeing them dance
like calligraphy through silent air
–
what’s written into our veins
century by century
flows darkly
in a continuous reel
beneath these stars
(February 2, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (22)
once I was cynical
now I’m just defeatist
–
once I was sarcastic
now I’m just bitter
–
once I was happy
now I am just old
–
like the earth I decay
a slow spiral into the sun
(January 31, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (21)
the moon hangs on the horizon
a waterdrop waits on a leaf
–
we are on an edge
–
like acrobats along a wire or
a knife at our voiceless throats
–
I don’t know where we fell away
(January 30, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (20)
she remembers the future
he slips through the past
–
she watches patterns within
patterns unfold like ice
–
he reweaves strands
unravelling on the floor
–
the difference lies
in the holes between
(January 28, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (19)
several years ago
for several years
nothing came to entrance me
–
more specifically
doors entranced me
the emptiness of doors
–
the simple lack of existence
led me further to rooms
and bowls cups and spoons
–
it wasn’t the rooms the doors
the bowls cups or spoons
but the pure embedded absence
–
nothing was useful
nothing was transcendent
the absence the lack the emptiness
(January 25, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (18)
I’ve been here before
floating adrift frightened
the water is cold
–
a door opens
I walk through an emptiness
to arrive in another
–
I’ve been here before
this time the people are blue
and the music hasn’t started
–
a door opens
air rushes in
to fill the space
–
I don’t want to repeat
but no one is listening
and patterns are seductive
–
years later
the same song plays
I dance alone
–
I’ve been here before
a door opens
I step through
–
there is no dream
there is no metaphor
the wind is silent
(January 23, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (17)
he alludes to a poem as if others
know what he thinks about before he can
speak which in this case means before he can
think his thoughts being like Rube Goldberg
devices clacking along tripping springs and
traps which propel the odd idea along
tangential routes until finally falling
into its assigned slot and everything
stops and silence expands like waves of water
rippling across the surface of a lake
eventually lapping the far shore
where a small boy plays with a wooden boat
never once thinking about poetry
(January 23, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (16)
in fog
a hiss
scratches
the skin
(January 23, 2020)
“sadness of those unschooled in the bottles’ gloom”
–Rene Char, Poets
Tonight, I hold my shape
tenuously, like a rabbit,
tense, on the edge
of a field: hold tight
in silence, or flee
into the brush?
(January 22, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (15)
from the upstairs window
the grey cat waits
and watches shadows
shift like dark flowers
dance in morning light
(January 21, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (14)
forgetting the pattern of fear
and doubt tangled about me
I fall out of sleep and remember
what parts of myself I need
–
to continue some resemblance
of the day the inessential shades
my ghosts as darkly as the essential
each shifts its position evasively
–
when questioned like a cat
slips through shadow and grass
(January 21, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (12)
in school we were always on the move
field trips to museums to math class
with Mr. Buesing to middle school
to high school to college the future
was a threat brandished like a whip
–
by degrees our world turned
then it stopped and I stumbled
and found myself here in the mud
like a body dropped from the door
of a passing car
(January 18, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (12)
I drive an hour to work
each day then back
–
ten hours each week
too fast too far
–
crossing the river
fog hangs in the air
(January 17, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (11)
she skitters part way
into the empty street
stops stutter steps
grasps the road
trying not to fall off
then leaps back
unsure what’s next
*
I rarely know
finding myself
now as if
it made sense
yet knowing I’m wrong
*
I turn
without reason
as a car
crushes past
(January 16, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (10)
we fear
what we most
desire
(January 14, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (9)
silence creates the context
for what’s said
caught up in desires
he listened casually
only hearing
what he heard
she spoke thinking
her voice was clear
easily understood
along her margins
(January 13, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (8)
I don’t want
to be a salmon struggling
upstream to spawn and die
exhausted and decayed
nor
to be swept downstream
with broken branches and silt
into a churning sea
I want to be
a catfish
calm and content
deep within a silent pool
(January 12, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (7)
as the creek flows past quick
minnows mouth my fingers
(January 7, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (6)
distracted
a whispered kiss
slips past
(January 8, 2020)
from “process, not a journey” a work in process (5)
always the fear waits
along the edge
of the trees
the casual phrase
the unsheathed knife
it waits
for you will come
unbidden
(January 7, 2020)
from an untitled serial poem (4)
yet you know
we are alone
together
only in our common
solitude
I assume you are
like me a simile
if you will
like
an understandable analogy
a cat is to a dog
as a rabbit is
to a stellar singularity
I fear the wind
in my fur
is a tell a fox is near
a trap is set to drop
I am aware
because somewhere
some other thought
and told some other
who eventually
inscribed the pattern
along a random strand
like now
(January 6, 2020)
from an untitled serial poem (3)
and nothing specific is ever learned
it’s more a pervasive atmosphere
an inescapable context which traps
us in a web woven and rewoven
moment by moment knitted from our flesh
and residue left from this dark frenzy
*
daily we fall deeper into the tale
yet there is no white rabbit to follow
only desire to ride us like harpies
the news the neighbors our friends all screaming
into a discontent none can escape
nor explain enough to be forgiven
*
as if there could be a strong enough god
to save us from our own stupidity
(January 5, 2020)
from an untitled serial poem (2)
tufts of dark fur
scraps of red cloth
broken glasses pools
of wine the remnants
of someone’s meal
are splashed across
the cottage like blood
on a butcher’s apron
she is not here
neither is he
one fled
one’s dead
birds hop and sing
on the window sill
a family of rabbits
nibble grass
along the path
the door lies shattered
on the ground
dry splinters of wood
punctuate the grass
with unvoiced cliches
(January 3, 2020)
from “an untitled serial poem”
grey and cold all day
the year begins again
cedar pollen drifts wildly
I can feel the shredded bark
deeply behind my eyes
trying to cut a way out
I’m not surprised but fear
all that has changed enough
to become a normal day
as wolves claw and slaver
at the door
(January 2, 2020)
note: I am starting a series of 140 poems, the length of each poem will be a set number of syllables determined by a random number generator. each poem/stanza will organically arise from the previous poem/stanza in the series in the manner of a renga without following the traditional renga’s syllable parameters. Additionally there is another requirement put upon every tenth poem/stanza in the series which will connect it to another “ten” poem/stanza following abstractly the traditional rhyme pattern of a Shakespearian sonnet. This is the second time I have written a longer poem following this self-imposed system. The first was called “Sonnet: a renga” This is the beginning poem/stanza of the new series.
Another cold night flows
into yet another dark day.
For more than forty years,
I have spoken to silence
unvoiced presumptions,
unvoiced expectations.
Why do I still presume
tomorrow with change?
Why do I still expect
that day will come?
I’m tired of talking,
pretending some one will hear.
(January 1, 2020)
I swim toward a room.
The door is open, yet dark.
Someone is there, hidden.
I shout out vaguely
like a toothless dog
growling at shadow.
*
In this dream, I am other;
not the dream where I see
myself as some other:
I’m a mobius strip
made of my flesh
rendered to a game
where dice clack quietly
into the thinning air.
(December 31, 2019)
a presumption that all
falls into place as if
metaphor were truth
as if anything
we could say
will lead us home
words are tangents
to themselves
too fast to follow
so I plod along
content with the detritus
I stumble upon
making a trail
wherever my foot falls
(December 30, 2019)
My past imperfections intercede
to lay claim to what I can see.
The air between thickens in time
like delirious veils in the wind.
Each word she spoke I heard
as if her fingers on my arm
traced a secret in braille
I was too blind to read.
*
Now too tired to transform time,
I watch myself as if dead;
the chill pushes through my flesh,
like a rat gnawing in the wall.
Time’s translations fill my silence
with the words neither of us spoke.
(December, 20, 2019)
In the air, starlings
pulse between chaotic winds.
Quickly, cars rage past.
(December 19, 2019)
She said
I can’t imagine you young
in school
a time when you didn’t know
everything—
*
I know less and less each year
he thought
so much confidence and verve
years ago
now only anxiety and doubt
(December 18, 2019)
He bends to a shape
he can manage. One
he can fit into
a pocket and ignore
the blood clots
and broken bones
that brought him here.
He knows his mistakes;
yet, decides to stay–
one place being the same
as another he finds
after so many years
pushing along his edges
like a bird in an egg.
(December 14, 2019)
When we scattered mother,
the ash swirled about me
like a cape. I breathed her
in, then spit out what
I could into the winter grass.
Metaphor’s bitter aftertaste
lingered between my teeth
for years. Now, left with
a handful of ash to toss
to the wind, I resist this
final gesture, and begin
again. Life’s easy without
thought, or a nearby pattern
to hold one together, despite
death’s constant push to contain
the living who remain.
(December 12, 2019)
Yes, even today—
as dark devours day,
light breaks the night.
(December 11, 2019)
All around him, the forest burns,
uncontrolled, beautiful.
The warmth reassures him
with its certainty.
His fingers burn; the flesh
chars as on a spit.
He turns, searching;
but she is gone, if ever
she were truly there.
He stands alone,
arms outstretched.
Flames leap through the trees;
smoke swallows the sky.
(December 10, 2019)
The cracks proved the power
of words. Such spells cast
across the fissures formed
fears of a painful death.
Who would be willing to test
this hypothesis on one so dear?
Her survival, by correlation,
confirmed the childish chant.
She lived. Not writhing on
the floor, vertebrae shattered,
just oblivious to your heroic
leaping, like a hopscotch knight,
from slab to concrete slab
to save your one true love.
(December 5, 2019)
What we wish
to hear, what
we wish them
to be: scolds,
advisors, absolvers
of guilt, devour
us like desire.
Yet, table thumps
and tarot cards
talk only
with our tongues.
The dead cannot
speak except
through ghosts
we evoke
in memory
late at night
when we cannot
sleep again.
(December 4, 2019)
I do not know
what it is
I do,
nor if what I do
is possible:
a girl, in creative writing,
says she knows
nothing
about love. Yet,
she writes
a love poem;
so lovely,
so simple,
so honest,
that I believe
in possibility’s
incremental
transcendence
in that moment.
(December 2, 2019)
I am from a poem
I have yet to speak;
words puzzled together
which will absolve me
of a last explanation,
one last precise detail
to bend my lived framework.
.
Useless without function,
my life is a broken gun
displayed beneath glass.
My past wears me
like skin stretched tight
across an empty drum.
(November 30, 2019)
The ghosts have returned home
slipping between the day
to day conversations
holding our silences
in locked yellow boxes
without a trace of air
.
I would say I’m happy
to most circumstances
with my small discontents
not sad enough to search
for bits of joy scattered
across a field like grain
weeks after the harvest
was gleaned by dark sparrows.
(November 30, 2019)
In downtown Baltimore
Years after he died
Lou Reed sings from the sound system
Of this corporate hotel lobby.
This is funnier
Than it should be.
I am almost sixty years old,
Attending an English teacher convention.
Back in Austin, hours later,
I casually toss herbs into the mortar,
And without thought, begin to grind:
“I don’t want to know…
All the streets you’ve crossed
Not so long ago”
(November 24, 2019)
Like remnant threads
lifted from the floor,
I collect shreds of shadows
from my heart. Then later,
when the room’s dark,
and the nights grow long,
I pack them tightly in a jar
and place them on a shelf.
Some nights, I’ll rise from
sleep into the dark, and sneak
a slice of one from a jar;
And in an ecstatic occlusion
to shroud what I’ve become,
I dance bodly beneath the moon.
(November 22, 2019)
My commute is long;
my mind wanders
lost along the way:
miles pass,
and the exit
is almost here.
(November 19, 2019)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (26)
yet I suppose it could be worse
the tidal pull and push
leaves me stranded
among the dune’s desolation
or drowning beneath the wave’s
cold pulse
so I take my meds
for ten years each morning
without fail I perform my Eucharist
without wine or blood or flesh
just chemicals I’m told will save me
from the rising tide
(February 12, 2020)
