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” (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)
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)
