Source

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Often while reading,

I scan the words,

turn the pages,

and then the book

vanishes, and I vanish,

aware of nothing.

 

To hold nothing,

and have nothing hold,

I desire this freedom–

a breath unnoticed,

as it is

ubiquitous:

 

Radiant, without center,

I cannot name

my discontent.

A wind, at my ear,

stills as I turn;

yet, still’s nearby.

 

(November 4, 2018)

Leaf Fall

7811

 

Somewhere, not here

A field lies open,

Unframed, without

Mind, as if lost,

Waiting on ritual.

 

In Increments,

I have changed.

Each day dawns

Into itself;

There is no other.

 

Hear, and here

As well, I

Still seek

Her across

These echoes:

 

She followed

A fragile winter

Ice across a lake.

I am cold; the wood

Grown dark.

 

(October 30, 2018)

sculpture

Stone-carving-gwlalior-960x598

 

“chiseller of inaccuracies”

–Fernando Pessoa

 

I would not speak

if I knew what to say.

There would be no need

to form words around

an unrealized dream.

It is the unsaid

which must be given

shape; which calls us

from its shapeless dark

to speak into existence

what we cannot know.

Yet, I know so little

about so much, I must

speak about it all.

I start where I am

which is always here.

First, I must listen,

discern the shapes

before I can speak.

My words carve out

what is there

from what is not

as the silence unfolds

a new kind of truth.

 

(August 23, 2018)

History’s Ground’s in the Dead

RoodeHoek21

 

Thus another pattern

is laid into a palimpsest,

like cities built on cities.

New iterations of schemata

entangle with the old.

Roots strangle roots

turning paths away

from any intention’s form.

 

The urgent surge searches,

like blind fingers flutter

across dead faces,

invoking ghosts to rise

darkly, to saturate the air

with earthy thickness.

 

(May 28, 2018)

Among the Wreckage

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 “. . . . . . . . . . I want in the heaps of rubble

at last to hear my voice again

which was a howling from the very start”

–Ranier Marie Rilke

 

The flailing screams

have been left behind;

most days now, I speak

with a calm bitterness.

My anger’s directed inward

toward my personal failings

more than to worldly disdain.

No longer like the nascent shock

of a newborn’s confrontation

with the air, I write now

in a desperate determination

to witness the insidious lies

I tell myself to survive

the language of the ruins.

 

(May 3, 2018)