My commute is long;
my mind wanders
lost along the way:
miles pass,
and the exit
is almost here.
(November 19, 2019)
Before Sleep
Author: subtextures
I am a poet and a teacher living in central Texas. I attended The University of Texas at Austin, and Middlebury College's Breadloaf School of English.
To Catch the Edge of Darkness
Our words hold close,
unhinge, this dream–
a singular
translucent dawn.
Narrative fragments
float around a room,
flotsam and jetsam
without back story,
without connection
to a set array
defining truth, lies
into difference.
An organic flux
tendrils arabesques
along fractal lines
until we shatter.
(November 11, 2019)
Lessen
I read with difficulty,
poets I once admired,
not seeing anymore
the simplicity I once saw.
I worry stones smooth
between my fingers,
as if patterns emerge
through a force of will.
There must be something
more than what is here.
Certainties tremble, then
fall like ash into dust.
I’ve come to know less
than I have ever known.
(November 8, 2019)
I’m Not Looking for a Saint
When I read a poem, the voice
of another being is enough.
Someone extant in the world
who for this moment speaks,
resonant with each leaf,
with each burgeoning flower.
I do not expect epiphany
to fall from Spring’s mouth
for that would not be true;
truth grows in retrospect,
a mirror to distort the past
reshaped to an image more divine.
All gods are just us
without desire for more.
(November 7,2019)
Taffy
I tell a story:
I am a part
as are you
being pulled
apart, each
part one.
The horizon’s shadow
flees before
I write this line,
a demarcation–
this path
versus another,
which word
takes us where?
(November 5, 2019)
The FrogPrince Without Standing
He sat by his pond content
with the depth of his longing.
Then one day, she dropped in
laughing her way into his dream.
He thought he heard a splash,
and a glimmer near the bottom.
She played along the pond’s edge,
waiting for what he might bring.
When he returned to the surface,
the forest was dark and she was gone.
The castle was so far away—
and it was just a toy after all.
He sat by his pond discontented
with the depth of his longing.
(November 4, 2019)
continuum
if change will happen it will
happen now whenever
it happens so simple
–
yet still fear stays
the turn in the dance
the conversation the poem
–
where change shifts without
the moment noticed within
light which drifts through a window
–
or rose petals scattered
across an afternoon floor
oblivious as a sleeping cat
(November 1, 2019)
