from “process, not a journey” a work in process (5)
always the fear waits
along the edge
of the trees
the casual phrase
the unsheathed knife
it waits
for you will come
unbidden
(January 7, 2020)
-
metaphor’s logic is like you know
by
from an untitled serial poem (4)
yet you know
we are alone
together
only in our common
solitude
I assume you are
like me a simile
if you will
like
an understandable analogy
a cat is to a dog
as a rabbit is
to a stellar singularity
I fear the wind
in my fur
is a tell a fox is near
a trap is set to drop
I am aware
because somewhere
some other thought
and told some other
who eventually
inscribed the pattern
along a random strand
like now
(January 6, 2020)
-
the illusion of narrative fragments
from an untitled serial poem (3)
and nothing specific is ever learned
it’s more a pervasive atmosphere
an inescapable context which traps
us in a web woven and rewoven
moment by moment knitted from our flesh
and residue left from this dark frenzy
*
daily we fall deeper into the tale
yet there is no white rabbit to follow
only desire to ride us like harpies
the news the neighbors our friends all screaming
into a discontent none can escape
nor explain enough to be forgiven
*
as if there could be a strong enough god
to save us from our own stupidity
(January 5, 2020)
-
Fairy Tale Endings
by
from an untitled serial poem (2)
tufts of dark fur
scraps of red cloth
broken glasses pools
of wine the remnants
of someone’s meal
are splashed across
the cottage like blood
on a butcher’s apron
she is not here
neither is he
one fled
one’s dead
birds hop and sing
on the window sill
a family of rabbits
nibble grass
along the path
the door lies shattered
on the ground
dry splinters of wood
punctuate the grass
with unvoiced cliches
(January 3, 2020)
-
Start the Way You Intend to Go
by
from “an untitled serial poem”
grey and cold all day
the year begins again
cedar pollen drifts wildly
I can feel the shredded bark
deeply behind my eyes
trying to cut a way out
I’m not surprised but fear
all that has changed enough
to become a normal day
as wolves claw and slaver
at the door
(January 2, 2020)
note: I am starting a series of 140 poems, the length of each poem will be a set number of syllables determined by a random number generator. each poem/stanza will organically arise from the previous poem/stanza in the series in the manner of a renga without following the traditional renga’s syllable parameters. Additionally there is another requirement put upon every tenth poem/stanza in the series which will connect it to another “ten” poem/stanza following abstractly the traditional rhyme pattern of a Shakespearian sonnet. This is the second time I have written a longer poem following this self-imposed system. The first was called “Sonnet: a renga” This is the beginning poem/stanza of the new series.
-
Another New Year
by
Another cold night flows
into yet another dark day.
For more than forty years,
I have spoken to silence
unvoiced presumptions,
unvoiced expectations.
Why do I still presume
tomorrow with change?
Why do I still expect
that day will come?
I’m tired of talking,
pretending some one will hear.
(January 1, 2020)
-
shadows are consequence
I swim toward a room.
The door is open, yet dark.
Someone is there, hidden.
I shout out vaguely
like a toothless dog
growling at shadow.
*
In this dream, I am other;
not the dream where I see
myself as some other:
I’m a mobius strip
made of my flesh
rendered to a game
where dice clack quietly
into the thinning air.
(December 31, 2019)
-
of course
by
aging, chance, change, life, meditation, middle-age, poetry, process, sonnets, truth, ways of knowing, words
a presumption that all
falls into place as if
metaphor were truth
as if anything
we could say
will lead us home
words are tangents
to themselves
too fast to follow
so I plod along
content with the detritus
I stumble upon
making a trail
wherever my foot falls
(December 30, 2019)
-
Mistranslations
by
My past imperfections intercede
to lay claim to what I can see.
The air between thickens in time
like delirious veils in the wind.
Each word she spoke I heard
as if her fingers on my arm
traced a secret in braille
I was too blind to read.
*
Now too tired to transform time,
I watch myself as if dead;
the chill pushes through my flesh,
like a rat gnawing in the wall.
Time’s translations fill my silence
with the words neither of us spoke.
(December, 20, 2019)
-
Surrender
by
He bends to a shape
he can manage. One
he can fit into
a pocket and ignore
the blood clots
and broken bones
that brought him here.
He knows his mistakes;
yet, decides to stay–
one place being the same
as another he finds
after so many years
pushing along his edges
like a bird in an egg.
(December 14, 2019)
-
Dispersion
by
When we scattered mother,
the ash swirled about me
like a cape. I breathed her
in, then spit out what
I could into the winter grass.
Metaphor’s bitter aftertaste
lingered between my teeth
for years. Now, left with
a handful of ash to toss
to the wind, I resist this
final gesture, and begin
again. Life’s easy without
thought, or a nearby pattern
to hold one together, despite
death’s constant push to contain
the living who remain.
(December 12, 2019)
-
Lightning Ignites the Core of a Tree
All around him, the forest burns,
uncontrolled, beautiful.
The warmth reassures him
with its certainty.
His fingers burn; the flesh
chars as on a spit.
He turns, searching;
but she is gone, if ever
she were truly there.
He stands alone,
arms outstretched.
Flames leap through the trees;
smoke swallows the sky.
(December 10, 2019)
