subtext

My Poetry and Commentary on Life

  • This Writer’s Beginnings: EarlyYears
  • Bread Loaf Influence
  • Rock and Roll High School
  • About

Designed with WordPress

  • winter’s bones

    by

    beauty, poetry, ways of knowing


    winter’s bones
         McKinney Falls, Texas
    in a static dance
    bare limbs writhe
    ecstatically between
    dead leaves’ clatter
     *
    like a jilted lover
    the trees’ gnarled fingers
    grasp after grey sky
    *
    water grinds grooves
    through the rock
    before falling
    into the curved silence
    beneath the trees
    *
    like disembodied legs
    of a prehistoric beast
    the trees’ roots
    clutch the shoreline—
    eternal children
    dangling their toes
    in the water
    *
    as if in a glass
    display case—
    beneath leaves floating
    upon the water’s sheen
    a skeleton of a deer
    rests as if running
    on the river bed

    (January 5, 2017)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • no shattered violence beyond a domestic fissure

    by

    borders, broken, interrelationships, poetry

    I find edges and openings
    like crevices in tree trunks
    as places to hide
    breaches to slip past
    the violence sitting calmly
    in the open air
    as if fangs snarling
    hungry for blood
    were common place
    bones cracking and
    snapping beneath
    domesticated jaws
    like plates dropped
    from slippery hands
    into fragments
    fragments of me
    and you scattered
    across the floor
    (January 4, 2017)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • miracles must be believed to be

    by

    change, definition, fear, poetry, sonnets

    “to complete a portrait is to learn to like your likeness albeit miraculously….”
    –Anne Carson
    often these days I hold my face
    in my hands rubbing my hand down
    my forehead and into my eyes as if I
    didn’t my head would snap off
    my neck or fragment into shards
    so I struggle to keep my head
    straight and held together tightly
    between my anxious fingers
    simultaneously out of fear
    that what I imagine and
    what I am will coincide
    toward a point where I vanish
    yet continue as if I am
    what I have become to be

    (January 2, 2017)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • carrion

    by

    attention, choice, poetry, thinking, ways of knowing
    What do you think,
    when, crumpled
    in the sand, and
    with a parched vision,
    you see:
    the vultures drop
    nearby, then amble
    toward you with stutter
    steps and hops?
    (December 31, 2016)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • pluperfect

    by

    definition, fate, interpretation, life, memory, poetry, sonnets
    He sits beneath the tree,
    and conjugates his personality.
    Each syllabic shift and modal
    savored like time:
    no more who he was,
    than who he is to be,
    a mark in a book
    as a reckoned form.
    Yesterday, still ongoing beyond
    his memory, struggles to leave
    a single clear line
    as a gesture of farewell.
    As most, he too forgets
    which part of speech he’s become.

    (December 31, 2016)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • prayer, a fragment

    by

    alone, chant, poetry

    part of a life other than
    your own other than alone
    part of a life to atone

    (December 29, 2016)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • Love’s an Anomaly

    by

    hope, love, poetry
    Reason’s an emotion;
    as mysterious as love,
    or anger, or lust.
    Reason’s a comfort,
    an assurance, a hope
    life can be codified,
    can be explained, if
    one can be convinced
    to listen, then all
    will fall into place
    like the neat tulip fields
    of Holland, colors following
    colors, row after row
    outside the train’s window,
    until the unnatural
    seems natural, and my heart
    no longer must explain itself.
    (December 29, 2016)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • about, and beyond (love)

    by

    communication, conversation, interrelationships, poetry, sonnets
    little is said about what goes unsaid
    his chagrin coupled with her bitter laugh
    creates a barrier neither of them
    can cross without learning to speak
    honestly without subterfuge or guile
    before such simple things as love slowly
    fall away as the seasonal changes
    slip unremarked like sparrows through the trees
    little is said beyond what goes unsaid
    the ritual comfort of daily talk
    allows small space for either to find love
    within the stories they believe they must
    believe in order to find some solace
    in their world of misunderstood silence

    (December 29, 2016)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • Study for a Self-Portrait, 2016

    by

    aging, definition, erasure, identity formation, irony, life, memory, poetry, sonnets, ways of knowing
    He takes measured steps
    within the boxed spaces
    he has allowed himself
    to live. These people, scattered
    like furniture about the room,
    know him differently than
    the person he set out to be.
    He must remind himself
    to forget, to remember
    memory’s a tattered cloak
    to be rewoven into stranger
    patterns, where all possible
    hopes tangle into disarray
    beneath his worrisome tread.

    (December 26, 2016)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • an interrupted narrative

    by

    erato, eros, life, love, memory, metaphor, oblivious, poetry, traces
    how long before
    a narrative interrupted
    falls, unfinished, out of memory
    like a book mark from a book of poetry
    left on a bus seat—he has nothing
    nothing but guilt
    heaved like a sad walrus
    up onto the beach bellowing
    a song of love, unrequited
    and joyous—even now
    not much is left to rescue
    to lift into metaphor
    like a place holder at table
    for a guest, a friend
    who never knew she was invited
    who do you think she was,
    a manifestation he muttered
    into himself, a description
    of another life—like honey
    poured from a cold cup
    a slow infatuation
    slid like an echo through him,
    a storm’s destruction
    in her path, unintended,

    unnoticed by all but him
    (December 21, 2016)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • Epistemological Problems

    by

    communication, desire, erato, eros, love, perspective, poetry, sonnets, ways of knowing
    he was uncertain he told himself
    between what he thought she knew
    and what she did which judging by
    her reply was little if any at all
    for he was obscure enough
    in his slow unfolding toward her
    coupled with the patience required
    of her much less the decryption skills
    once all the hints and deflections
    were finally cobbled together
    made understanding what was
    said problematic at best especially
    since his narrative desires were
    tangled within his uncertainty

    (December 19, 2016)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • mimesis

    by

    abstract, erato, identity formation, poetry, sonnets
    No mirror to a truth,
    I hold out these words
    to you, whose laugh devastates
    any attempt at closure;
    no reason left to believe
    that salvation will arrive,
    waving glittered blue fans
    beneath tumultuous balloons;
    no grace exists beneath insult
    layered into my bones
    with the fine-toothed precision
    of jackals cracking jokes;
    no hope for some other
    to shape itself into me.

    (December 18, 2016)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • Like

    by

    abstract, definition, language, metaphor, poetry, ways of knowing
    I like—
    a metaphor?
    of course, I like
    as well
    an affection,
    an affectation.
    a difference
    between:
    this as this—
    like this:
    I like this,
    not that,
    difference.
    I like you,
    a simile—
    a difference, an affection
    like you.
    I like
    like
    you
    like
    the difference,
    and similarity.

    (December 14, 2016)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • Ground

    by

    abstract, chant, interpretation, poetry, truth, ways of knowing
    I stand
    I stand under
    I’m under
    I under stand
    I’m under, standing
    I am
    I am here
    I’m here
    I hear
    I’m here-ing
    on this ground
    below
    under
    below here
    here not there
    here is
    nothing
    nothing below
    there is nothing
    below here
    I’m here
    here I understand
    (December 14, 2016)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…
  • status report

    by

    borders, dissatisfaction, life, poetry, sonnets, tension, tired, worn
    if I disappear
    as is my desire
    I would dissolve
    into air without
    even dust to dance
    in morning light
    yet I am here
    solid as clay
    a presence remote
    from my shapeless day
    an indecipherable lump
    clotting my throat
    with cold blood
    too dry to spit

    (December 13, 2016)

    Share this:

    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window) Bluesky
    • Share on Threads (Opens in new window) Threads
    Like Loading…




«Previous Poem Next Poem»
  • Subscribe Subscribed
    • subtext
    • Join 407 other subscribers
    • Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
    • subtext
    • Subscribe Subscribed
    • Sign up
    • Log in
    • Report this content
    • View site in Reader
    • Manage subscriptions
    • Collapse this bar
%d