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Fellowship

from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress

We ate a simple shared meal,

a sixteen-bean soup with bits

of Christmas ham. Afterward

we played a counting card game:

They laughed and talked awkwardly,

as players dropped from the game.

I realized, once again,

I do not fit in.

(January 31, 2019)

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Ars Poetica: The Fiction of Truth


Since I do understand the importance

Of narrative, I tell stories without

Telling stories, like now, as I write this

Poem. I’ve created a fiction of me,

Truthfully, yet still a grounded fiction,

Who is speaking to you, someone absent,

As if we were strangers ordered to share

A rough table in a pub. But instead 

of talking about the local football 

team, or rudely about the government,

I talk to you as if you are in love,

Listening, as I speak, rather than write,

These simplistic thoughts upon this blank page,

And pretend you did not leave years ago.

(January 11, 2019)

The Weight of Regret

Court-Weight-Scale

to lost friends

 

The weight of silence

is not the same

as the weight

of absence;

anymore than the weight

of disappearance

can be the same as

the weight of being left.

 

The weight of forgetting

is much lighter

than the weight

of the forgotten—

for it does not carry the weight

of all that can be remembered.

 

(July 25, 2018)

Known and Unknown

Unknown

 

she knew he thought she hinted

the words he wrote were heard

she knew he thought she wanted

him to speak them to her

 

he knew she thought he hinted

the words she wrote were heard

he knew she thought he wanted

her to speak them to him

 

they knew they thought they hinted

the words they wrote were heard

they knew they thought they wanted

each other to speak true

 

yet secrets left unsaid

are best left to the dead

 

(April 15, 2018)

the untold continues despite silence

 fun-time-clipart-socialization-2

there is always that moment which arrives

when the conversation has abated

and all that must be said remains unsaid

and our minds’ sharp intimacies depart

amid insincere handshakes and chaste hugs

in a doorway and what occurred that night

vanishes into small talk’s silent wish

 

and this wish is somehow always the same

which is somehow that what one says matters

enough somehow to whomever may hear

that they will somehow respond in a way

which will somehow equate as well to your

first desire and yet still somehow both will

mange to survive your disparate lives

 

(January 31, 2018)

He Sees He Says

eyeblinders

 

He resists his clichés

With their tiny reins

Guiding the blinder’s

Simplistic vision.

“Everything’s okay,”

he says, yet knows, as she,

it is all just a lie:

her questions, the feigned

interest, are too much—

too coy in their intent

for him to be okay.

He feels his answers

Thicken like cataracts

Clouding all before him.

 

(January 15, 2018)

Crush It

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“yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me”

                        —Malvolio, 12th Night, William Shakespeare

 

 

 

I wasn’t one of them,

I just want you to know—

I wasn’t like those others

She said almost as if she

Believed what she said

 

He smiled and nodded

As she said it again

But he knew as well

As she that she was one

Of them and was the same

 

But he was in love and wanted

Her to be what he wanted

Her to be not with those

Who were those who giggled

And mocked his doleful thoughts

 

Not that he cared then or now

He was in love then as now

And wonders now why she

Wanted him so badly to know

She wasn’t one of them

 

 

(December 24, 2017)