from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (29)
the mirror reflects
a person I cannot see
.
familiar yet
not
.
a ghost
that is me
(February 19, 2020)
-
first word last word interrupt
by
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)
-
life’s ritual stutter
by
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (27)
days copy days
as if life stutters
what’s to be said
until finally
one’s last word’s
spoken
(February 16, 2020)
-
Today’s Lesson
“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 three 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.
-
storm surge
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)
-
belied by circumstance
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)
-
contrapuntal
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (24)
in the turn of dawn and dusk’s
vague half-light night becomes
neither herself nor the other
but a transitory beast slavering
wildly ahead or at the heels
of the raging sun
shadows pulse
through me with celestial fire
each rock leaf flower
each grain of sand vibrates
in resonance the textures
of the world
I am all I am
and all I am not a conduit
for violent streams which fall
silent into a churning sea
(February 6, 2020)
-
Daily Prayer
“we are our own prisons.”
–Joel Brouwer
barely audible
tumblers click
into place
–
words turn keys
jam snap off
and trap us here
–
telling the same tale
confident the end
will change for us
–
confident the end
will not end for us
as it always has
–
forever and ever
amen
-
constellations
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (23)
starlings turn a double-helix into themselves
their poetry drifts through dark clouds
–
I murmur my admiration
still stunned after years
of seeing them dance
like calligraphy through silent air
–
what’s written into our veins
century by century
flows darkly
in a continuous reel
beneath these stars
(February 2, 2020)
-
then and now
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (22)
once I was cynical
now I’m just defeatist
–
once I was sarcastic
now I’m just bitter
–
once I was happy
now I am just old
–
like the earth I decay
a slow spiral into the sun
(January 31, 2020)
-
days proceed to the end of time
by
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (21)
the moon hangs on the horizon
a waterdrop waits on a leaf
–
we are on an edge
–
like acrobats along a wire or
a knife at our voiceless throats
–
I don’t know where we fell away
(January 30, 2020)
-
nets are made of holes
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (20)
she remembers the future
he slips through the past
–
she watches patterns within
patterns unfold like ice
–
he reweaves strands
unravelling on the floor
–
the difference lies
in the holes between
(January 28, 2020)
-
nothing much
by
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (19)
Cashel, Co. Tipperary several years ago
for several years
nothing came to entrance me
–
more specifically
doors entranced me
the emptiness of doors
–
the simple lack of existence
led me further to rooms
and bowls cups and spoons
–
it wasn’t the rooms the doors
the bowls cups or spoons
but the pure embedded absence
–
nothing was useful
nothing was transcendent
the absence the lack the emptiness
(January 25, 2020)
-
disambiguation
by
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (18)
I’ve been here before
floating adrift frightened
the water is cold
–
a door opens
I walk through an emptiness
to arrive in another
–
I’ve been here before
this time the people are blue
and the music hasn’t started
–
a door opens
air rushes in
to fill the space
–
I don’t want to repeat
but no one is listening
and patterns are seductive
–
years later
the same song plays
I dance alone
–
I’ve been here before
a door opens
I step through
–
there is no dream
there is no metaphor
the wind is silent
(January 23, 2020)
-
how poetry asserts itself
by
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (17)
he alludes to a poem as if others
know what he thinks about before he can
speak which in this case means before he can
think his thoughts being like Rube Goldberg
devices clacking along tripping springs and
traps which propel the odd idea along
tangential routes until finally falling
into its assigned slot and everything
stops and silence expands like waves of water
rippling across the surface of a lake
eventually lapping the far shore
where a small boy plays with a wooden boat
never once thinking about poetry
(January 23, 2020)
subtext 