Transformed

wallup.net

after GBW

 

My veins are vines—

my arms, branches—

lips, soft moss:

 

Instead of sorrow,

I sing songs

of wind and rain.

 

(July 31, 2018)

parallax

a3dab9f7d6907c2d74418ebb3328ed08--moving-photos-exposure-photography

 

“they go forwards past

the inclination

darkening corners to form”

–Clark Coolidge

 

you turned without seeing

the I half-a-step behind

 

you turned without seeing

the more obvious direction

 

the direction more obvious

to others standing apart

 

later this now blossomed

angles to bend new visions

 

you saw without turning

for they were all yours

 

ahead of you stumbling behind

the direction more obvious

 

if only the now could hold

despite its dark form hold

 

yet edges form corners

and corners form edges

 

as any form of redemption

turns and then turns again

 

(June 27, 2018)

We Walk to the Witch’s House in the Wood

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It was a place to go.

It promised us more.

The past had nothing,

but anger and fear.

 

The witch smiled,

because we knew

she was a witch,

but entered freely.

 

Compliance, not cages,

held us to her.

It was easier to

submit, than not.

 

We live in fear

of a better world.

 

(June 2, 2018)

My Son Explains My Poetry to Me

Unknown-1 

One does not want to find

the body on the floor,

bits of brain and blood flecked

in patterns on the walls.

 

After decades scribbling

these poems to the page,

reading hundreds if not

thousands of others ,

 

apparently, I just needed you.

So, please, tell me, my child,

what my poetry means

to an ignorance like mine.

 

Keeping in mind, the reader

finds what he wants to find.

 

(May 16, 2018)

My Life a Broken Gun

023yQ

 

“without—the power to die”

–Emily Dickinson

 

An ephemera scattered

like thoughts in dreams;

I am no longer subject.

I am object,

acted upon— chaff

allowed to fall,

disregarded,

indistinguishable from dust.

 

Yet, I must respond,

must go on.

Despite dysfunction,

despite predicate’s lack,

I stand here

to mark an empty space.

Go Along, Get Along

large_The-Hole-In-The-Fence

 

“Good answers are wasted on a fool”

–Ann Carson, Dionysos, Bakkhi

 

Often when I look up from my work

lost in thought, I can suddenly see

with a transformed clarity. I shake

my head as if I could align my

thought with the banal world around me,

like a child peering through a knot hole

in a fence tries to see the wider

world beyond his parental control.

I have no answers for the questions

I am too slow to ask. I’ve wasted

days disentangling the tedious

explanations of fools who believe

if they plod through their expositions

one more time, stopping along the way

to dissect each obvious point, then

I will arrive at the mistake they

metastasized into long ago.

But I don’t, and I am way too tired

to answer why, too worn from shaking

the same tree to find the exact fruit

they will refuse, once again, to eat.

So, I shift my eyes and go along,

blithely humming my discordant song.

 

(April 4, 2018)

magic

 

red-leaf-frost

apologies to u-t-l

 

 

silence surrounds,

it spins, it grows.

 

beings sprout

in silence.

 

the secret’s

hope;

listen:

 

a snowflake

kisses leaf’s tip

at forest center.

 

 

(December 26, 2017)

before words silence



we did not know
nor if we could
no tense to time
no thing defined
no I nor you
no we nor me
no other other
to disagree
all was peace
all was light
no one knew
dead of night
I could not say
For all was grey

(October 25, 2017)

What’s Left

I hold nothing
But your absence,
An empty shell
Dry and chalky.
My words fracture,
Then flake like plaster
Cast fakes decaying
Over time into dust.
Residual layers formed
And held under pressure
Coat the landscape
In an amniotic cowl,
As love’s stark remnant
Lingers in the dark.
(October 15, 2017)

Drowning

A secret swimmer,
She resurfaced the dream,
Face first, hands aflutter.
With a patient disregard,
She waited on answers
He was unable to give.
As dreams are funny things,
He hid within language,
The danger used as camouflage
To his intent. He held her
In stasis, a thought no more
Relevant than water:
The air so pure,
And so remote.
(July 27, 2017)