(five of pentacles, reversed—Rider-Waite)
I stand outside a frozen circle;
the sun shatters the air here.
I still use crutches to lean upon;
yet soon, they too will collapse.
My walls have fallen to ruins,
no need anymore for exits.
The world is a door locked inside.
There is no way back.
(August 15, 2023)
by
(page of cups, reversed—Aquarian)
Someone knocks. I go.
No one is there,
except for a mirror.
As a form of seduction,
I lie to myself
again, then again.
I dress the wound
with doubts and desires;
it opens wider.
Like a fish on shore
gasping for breath,
unable to move,
I tell myself
everything’s okay;
knowing, it is not.
(August 13, 2023)
(ten of cups, reversed— Marseilles)
Each morning now,
the heat rises
like an angry bear
savaging
the humid air,
as the earth cracks
beneath wisps
of dry grass.
Last night’s
wine glass
lies broken
melodramatically
near her chair.
Beneath the table,
bits of feathers
languidly
blow past
the sleeping cat.
(August 8, 2023)
(the magician, Aquarian)
to Isaac, age 6
a wind chime hangs
in anticipation
beneath an arbor
a workbench arrayed
almost casually
with a circular motion
he scoops balls of air
into the swirling clouds
like galaxies fleeing
from each other
he flutters about
after each sparkly bit
all of the elements
all of the senses
all the myriad disciplines
swarm within and without
in an ever-expanding horizon
which binds him in time
between the bluest sky
and the spinning earth
(August 5, 2023)
by
(Page of Cups, reversed, Rider-Waite)
as a boy I believed
my self-deceptions
and hid within them
I wrote, seducing
myself with lies
of happiness
like thin snakes
my doubts curled
within each cup
each what-if cut
a new line
through old flesh
until I stood
a lacework of blood
upon a silent shore
(August 2, 2023)
by
(three of swords: reversed , rider-white)
As I started to leave work last spring,
storm clouds darkened the afternoon.
Then the rain and hail hit.
I couldn’t see the lanes,
nor where the exits were.
Traffic slowed, but did not stop.
Lightening flashed, trees fell.
I tried to see beyond the rain.
This morning, the summer sun
leaches any remnant of water
from the cracked black clay.
There are no clouds on the horizon,
only the relentless sun. Soon enough
ice will spread over the dying fields.
(July 27, 2023)
I mistrust my poems
when people say
they understand—-
as if I failed
to open a space
for an emergent
thought— the sentence
extends like a hand
to help an old man stand
why say what could go
unsaid, easier to stay silent,
to allow them to stay
within their thoughts
without my re-inscription
of a belief they had forgotten
(July 25, 2023)
(seven of cups, Rider-Waite)
As when one steps suddenly
from a darkened room into
the mid-summer sun, I wake into
the dream, stunned that I forgot.
My cup overflows into this day,
and I drown beneath its visions
of desire and fear. Not my dreams,
but the ones which are allowed.
Do we forget our self each night
when we fall asleep the way
we forget our dreams when we wake?
Or do we linger within each?
I see myself shuffled upon a table,
waiting for an easy interpretation.
(July 24, 2023)
by
—(Ace of Wands, reversed, Rider-Waite)
Even in spring, leaves fall without
being symbols of death or decay.
As I began to write today,
my pen ran out of ink.
I found another, and began again.
I have floated mostly on a slow river
meandering through a tended forest.
This acceptance is a form of agency,
like being a teacher or a suicide.
I determine the shapes of the clouds.
On a hill in the distance sits a castle.
From here, it’s hard to tell if it’s in ruins.
I don’t know what I’m going to do,
other than not what I have been.
Happiness doesn’t come with clarity.
(July 18, 2023)
by
Figs grown fat with flesh
split open offering up
themselves like ripe lips.
Words quickly noted
hint toward more than a meaning
that memory can know.
Hunger drives us on
to speak, to savor the fruit,
to trust the mythos:
a date, an apple
a fig just beyond our grasp
which we cannot name.
Seeds cling to the sticky flesh;
a warm undulant silence.
(July 16, 2023)
by
–seven of pentacles, reversed—rider-waite
The ground you stand upon
shimmers like leaves
at an approaching storm.
In this moment fruit hangs
ripe before you. It took years,
decades, to be happy
at your work; to then turn
away. Did you ever know
where you were going?
Does anyone?
(July 14, 2023)
by
—five of pentacles, Rider-Waite
With nowhere to go,
we stumble past the church.
My crutches sink into snow,
your tatters clutched close.
The only warmth is within,
not here. The glass stained
roses bloom, and apples
ripen just out of reach.
Compassion for yourself
is not enough. Be happy
with our fortunate life,
but be aware, beware:
snow falls over the city;
night grows ever nearer.
(July 6, 2023)
by
—three of staves, Rider Waite
You are here
on the rock
of yourself.
You pause
at the break
of three roads:
one brought you
here, one leads
across the sea,
and one
to the far
mountains.
You lean on
a flowering staff,
indecisive
for a moment,
then stumble
into your self:
The world dizzy
as grackles
rise into the air.
(July 4, 2023)
by
He had no stories
to tell, no reason to speak:
what he was was not.
It did not matter.
All those years simply vanished
like day into dusk.
The day’s regrets rose,
a wealth of embarrassments,
to trouble his nights.
His sense of purpose
(marginally important)
Spun away like stars.
Until there was nothing left,
but blank pages to be read.
(July 2, 2023)
by
If I hold cliché in my hand
like an apple, will I fall
to its seduction? Dare I bite
the peach, perhaps an avocado,
or pursue the nubile temptress
dancing a bare finger’s tip
out of reach? It’s laughable
to think I might escape it.
The original roots still leach
the metaphor from the soil,
while I root about like a pig
snuffling for elusive truffles.
Each word I speak is mine alone;
each word I speak has been said before.
(July 28, 2018)
Source: subtextures.wordpress.com
