Metaphor’s Comfort

Flying free

through the blind night,

bats,

with their high lyric cries,

justify

the walls around them.


(July 19, 2021)

there again as if never there (127)

the rose belies death’s presence 

its slow decay into transcendence 

like words we almost knew 

but failed to say somehow 

only to be troubled for years 

rehashing conversations 

as if our world would change 

if we could only stay on script 

hearing each cue clearly without 

improvisation to distract 

from the offerings of love  

burning upon a broken stone 

as if some deity would take pity 

on creatures who could create 

no better god than themselves 

(March 25, 2021)

parenthesis (95)

with an accent slightly different

than any dialect spoken here

 a hole opens around us like an amoeba

and we are contained within 

an other’s misinterpretation

as if we were not a part

of the conversation like a rock

is not a part of the river

which erases incrementally

shaping the rock as it surges past

oblivious like memory to the change

as each remembrance rises

to take dominion everywhere

if only for the moment it takes

to speak and then to unhear

all the patterns which brought us here

(November 19, 2020)

even now I hear them (a reading)

even now I hear them

from a work in progress: process, not a journey (72)

“Sea, I am like you, filled with broken voices”

—Guillaume Apollinaire

insistent demanding attention

soft whispers curl at my feet

like cats they claw at me

with their sharp reminders

lightly pulling at my skin

until the ground is awash

in the blood of memory

and then slightly below the surface

small phrases embedded in dead

conversations rise like tattered faces

from the sea to mouth their silent

vowels like fish dying in the sand

until the raw scraps of language

in which I am tangled 

are cast out in a storm surge

far out among the dark waves

and I drown choking 

with nothing to say

(July 6, 2020)

A Disappointing Session at the English Teacher Conference

I am here

I am here abuzz on coffee

I am impatient with the speaker who is reading her power points to us

I am a reader, as is everyone in this room

this is an English teacher conference after all

the power point is structured like an academic research article

I only know this because once

I was, or wanted to be, an academic

I am a teacher

I understand research and its power

I want my students to feel this power

The presenter has stopped reading her power point

a student of the presenter has stood to witness

he was successful, he feels transformed

so he is transformed

another student stands to witness

she too was successful-

and transformed-

Bless Us Jesus-

which no one said, but they could have

or did say without being religious

or calling on Jesus

this presentation is a sales job

not just for the class on research

but for the presenter’s new book on research—

your students can feel this way too

BUY my BOOK

I’ve had too much coffee

and leave to find a restroom

(December 6, 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)

in explanations explanations

in explanations explanations 

that happens

to him to her to us

the story starts

well before this

then as now

more unfolds

within the seams

than seems

then as now

contexts inculcate

like wisps of mist

dampening fields

as god not us

speaks from silence

(February 11, 2019)

Seeds

writing_main_visual

Morning light’s enough,

As my students quietly write—

How we change our world.

 

Young trees grow to provide shade,

As the old begin to fade.

 

(September 14,2018)

vivisection

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We peel back skin’s layers

as if caressing a book’s

tissue thin pages,

each bit of viscera

detailed.

 

I tell a story

to make myself whole—

so many revisions to go.

 

In corners,

the old murmur softly,

placing the past

back into an order

extent only in dream,

which none of the young

care to hear.

 

(May 8, 2018)

either/nor: another lesson in how to read poetry

of course there exists
an I within my words
which does not mean
it is me who you see
anymore than now or ever
when you place a toe
within the stream
which runs through
these troublesome words
anymore than there is
a you who lurks
upon the nether shore
tangled in the lines
with all the slippery fish
(October 8, 2013)