I am not being
listened to means
you are not being
submissive enough
do not speak
simply act
on my desires
do not question
questions cause doubt
I must not hear
as insecurities
rattle like chains
for me to be free
you must not be
(June 8, 2018)
-
Minnows
by
Metaphor turns all
to itself. I am no more
the subject, than I
am the object. Like Delphic
seers speak god’s voice,
the poem moves through me—
changing itself like air
moving slowly across grass.
As a child I’d dangle
my feet in Clark’s creek.
Minnows nibbled my toes
cautiously; I’d sit still
as god listening to prayers
happy in my boredom.
(June 6, 2018)
-
Familiars
“Proust had a bad memory,
the only kind worth having
Beckett argues: there’s no remembrance
and so no revelation,”
–Denise Levertov
Like stray cats cautiously
patrolling the periphery,
memory haunts the present.
Even small transgressions
resonate into horror,
for there is no possibility
to repress, a form
of forgetting
inherent with silence,
abused children,
and broken lovers.
The details blur and slip
from one to another,
unfolding their lines randomly
within a new context,
until you realize
what it is
you have done,
and that it cannot
be undone.
(June 5, 2018)
-
We Walk to the Witch’s House in the Wood
by
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)
-
As a Child Everything Cohered
Everyone seemed to know how
to dance along the surface
with grace and decorum.
I move now through water
leaving a minimal wake
to mark my passage.
The water gliders slide by
unimpeded; I’m not enough
to disturb the tensile strength
of their static universe.
What music I hear resonates
a dissonance in distant
storm surges far from shore,
where I am without consequence.
(June 1, 2018)
-
Dark Interior
I sat on the beach
watching the sun rise
across the waves—
and wrote about the forest
as my metaphor.
(May 31, 2018)
-
age’s descent
by
as if suspended
in air by a string—
separate for a moment
from my body— I watched
myself fall suddenly
to the stair’s landing
like a broken puppet
into a bloodied pile
(May 31, 2018)
-
A Confession Must be Heard
by
Much of what I write these days
sounds like a rote confession;
yet, I am no savior, even to myself.
So to hear the nuance thicken
around a verb in my own ear,
I must speak a native tongue;
and like all true stories I tell,
I shape myself to a form
which best suits my desires.
I collect what is at hand,
charting all my little failures
as profound, as if the paucity
of my life could ever be enough
to transcend these humble clichés.
(May 31, 2108)
-
History’s Ground’s in the Dead
by
Thus another pattern
is laid into a palimpsest,
like cities built on cities.
New iterations of schemata
entangle with the old.
Roots strangle roots
turning paths away
from any intention’s form.
The urgent surge searches,
like blind fingers flutter
across dead faces,
invoking ghosts to rise
darkly, to saturate the air
with earthy thickness.
(May 28, 2018)
-
A Stumbled Fall
by
Static allowed no pauses
to slip his supplications
into their conversations.
Filled with honey, his mouth,
spoke too slowly, too low,
to be heard over the swarm
of bees infesting her ears.
The tea cup had no depth
beyond the damp leaves
he fingered metaphorically.
It was too late to go back,
to be what he was not,
to grow his silent desires
from the salted earth.
(May 28, 2018)
-
This is a Portrait of Me
Despite my resistance,
or perhaps as a result,
I live within boundaries,
yet am unable to discern
clean edges, as all walls
fall into grey on approach.
The poem is dark, as you,
who like a peeping Tom,
slip through these words,
hoping to glimpse more
at the window frame open
before you than can be
imagined on your own.
This is a portrait of me
within a frame, a simple
frame, not minimalistic,
certainly not ornate,
for either would provide
far too much that is not
a part of me as if it were;
and, you would believe
these thick lines to be
exposing more to you
than I could possibly
reveal on my own,
as if I do not know
what it is I write.
It is arrogance to think,
on my part and yours,
without blinds one can
see all that exists
within a well-lit room
while standing on the street,
as if life were a simple
sentence tucked neatly
in a proffered book,
like a love letter
marking a certain poem
lovers shared in secret.
Oh, do not tell me how
to see the lines I write,
nor open my words
to finger a wound,
probing for pock marks
to read like Braille
along bloody bones.
Yes, this is me here.
Yet, it is just as much
not me. My borders
extend like language
blurring dialects
with familial tongues.
I refuse to speak
Into the silence
simply to speak,
as if any sound
by itself could be
enough to save us
from our muffled
dread always near.
(May 27, 2018)
-
unrequited
I never answered
the question you did not ask
but I wanted to
(May 26, 2018)
-
one way always remains behind
With each choice
but a shadow,
rhyme’s echo
adds confusion
to the forest tumult.
Do you see
you are lost
in the leaves?
Or like the mantis
do you pray
to a different god,
bending yourself
toward some shade
of urgent green,
which could be you
as no other?
Where one begins
and leaves off
is indiscernible;
the coherence
of patterns
ripple like wind
across wild grass,
fluttering light
into shadow,
mimicking starlings’
murmur in the sky.
(May 22, 2018)
