Poet

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)

Within a Dream

The sound of my last dream

will be silence: the silence

of fog, the silence of fear.

My last dream will echo

the clack of high heels

on wet London streets.

My last dream will be warm

like your bare skin beneath

my hands late at night.

My last dream will linger

over the thousand, thousand

kisses: your lips soft,

warm, hungry for more.

My last dream will be free

of doubt, secure in coherence

with all the lines blurred.

My last dream will not wake

to return me to a place

it can never know.

My last dream will be

a harbor, a sanctuary, 

a last whispered breeze.

(October 15, 2019)

Light Erases Shadow

The sun sits still, yet moves

perpetually to a new horizon,

a new dawn; this world

moves with us, always here.

Inevitably, moment to moment,

color extracts from shadow,

as morning, refuses definition,

and pushes back night’s advances.

A prismatic god unfolds

around us as you speak; words

divide to nuance and variant, 

until blinded, we turn away.

Too much light erases shadow;

we’re defined by what we are not.

(August 4, 2019)

Patchwork

I find a narrative,

as I age, hard

to patch together.

I cannot mend

all that I have

rendered, all

I have misplaced

in anger, and neglect.

I have no prologue

to explain succinctly

each switchback

I have turned along.

It’s easier to see

a moment without a past;

easier to mind the flower

as a petal first falls.

What scars I have

are well hid; no

stars to weave

a pattern in the sky.

(July 31, 2019)

Inner Truth

from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress

somewhere, nearby

vague, yet pervasive,

like these whispers

which define all

as some other than me,

some other voice–

always here

not just an echo

of myself

(June 24, 2019)

Limitation

from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress

Image property of the Albright-Knox Art Gallery, Buffalo, NY.

Random borders set blurred forms

to contain apportioned bits

of chaos. He accepts these

chains, like religion, to free

himself from the infinite.

(June 10, 2019)

Language


Syntax chains words

To you as if preordained;

There is no control.

(December 27, 2018)

A Present Absence


As if braille,

I cannot be traced

Without a quick

Flutter of fingers

Across the page.

Even as I hide

Within words,

My handwriting,

Like kudzu, disguises

My intent.

I don metaphor

And stand still

To cloak certainty

In comfortable 

Deniability.

My whispers are

My camouflage—

Hints and misdirection

Like bells nearby 

In the dark.

(December 3, 2018)

Storied Definition

Storyteller-New

 

Within the parameters

Which define me,

Am I who I am,

Or who I have created?

I revise a simple story

Of which I am a part;

The story compels belief,

And I comply completely.

I am only a part of

this story as a voice

I hear, which stays near

Slightly behind all I do:

I am this voice, this story;

I am my only limitation.

 

(November 20, 2018)