from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
A door blows open;
I wake to a storm.
A familiar room whirls
in disarray. Fear dares
for someone to speak.
(May 17, 2019)
The Arousing (shock, thunder)
Tag: poetry
half empty, half full
1.
I cannot hear America
singing– the sun
descends, and the moon
is dark. Hell’s gate
swings wide. I fear
I am lost.
2.
I worry the world,
and am wrong
about so much;
yet, the sun still rises
each morning,
despite all of us.
(May 15, 2019)
Oppression (exhaustion)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
If one can accept
the slow rain, one
must acquiesce
to the flood. I do not
know what to say, or
what to believe
between the lies
which bear down
daily like a press.
Yet, even exhausted,
I still step out
singing the sun.
(May 14, 2019)
Pushing Upward
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
I write as I have
for years—I have,
through time, come
to understand:
I write to write,
doubting praise, I write
in silence to silence.
(May 14, 2019)
One’s End’s Ambiguous
The labyrinth
bends into itself:
one thought feeds
bits of fear to the next;
until, teeth crack
on broken bone,
and it ends
without a beginning
to begin again.
One’s end’s ambiguous
as one’s beginning.
Indecisive and vague,
the end’s no different
than any contingent.
The end ends
with a flailing
of the mind
through a stark
unawareness
of where we are,
where we have been,
and without a why
to justify
the confusion
of the scattered pages
across the floor,
and the ash in the air.
(May 12, 2019)
Gathering Together (Massing)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
There is no center to hold;
no story of violent gods
to tell while drunk
around a fire.
There is no fire.
Yet still, we turn
to one another
with what words
we have, and begin
again to speak.
(May 8, 2019)
Marginalia
The ghosts in his forest sift
between the bramble, collect
momentarily in clearings,
and compare notes on their
unconsummated affairs.
His apparition slips along
her edges, begging the margins
she ignores. Annotations,
without context, entangle
his thoughts, growing a life
of their own, a meaning
of their own, as blooms
of moss on the forest floor
disguise the broken trees
in a green effulgence.
He try to trace her designs
within her fractured words.
Each turn he takes leads away
form yet another possible exegesis;
until, he falls into a clarity
forever uncertain and voiceless.p
(May 5, 2019)
