What do you do?
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Posted:May 13, 2021 4:14 pm
Last Updated:May 18, 2021 4:20 pm
8548 Views
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Trigger warning. Proceed with caution if words can be upsetting for you. Not a happy poem.
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6
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I write myself
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Posted:May 8, 2021 7:13 am
Last Updated:May 10, 2021 9:18 pm
7638 Views
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I write myself
written March 29th, 2021
around the cracks in a window
through the looking glass
reflected in a tarnished mirror
sideways and from a distance
right onto the page
I write myself
in every tree and golden hawk
every person seen with my soul
every poem read and reflected on
I write myself
re-membering the dead
and secrets long kept
that I now declare out loud
I write myself
the lost-forgotten-sleeping
the denied-angry-hurt
the joyful-sexual-loving
I write myself
my present - my world
my head - my heart
that I hope nobody will understand
(or that I want them to understand?)
I write myself
a future healthy and whole
that I am scared to imagine
afraid to hope for or want
I write myself
connections to the world
physical - spiritual - natural
me reaching out to touch you
I write myself
My blood - My beating heart - My breath
all of my all
all that I am - was - might be one day
I write myself
I write to make solid
all those nebulous things
floating around and about and in me
I write myself whole.
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2
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Blaze
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Posted:May 5, 2021 1:29 pm
Last Updated:May 9, 2021 6:28 pm
7402 Views
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~Life looks like a white desert, a blaze of today in which nothing distinct can be made out, seen.
—Marvin Bell, "1. About the dead man", Gift of Tongues
Blaze
written May 2nd, 2021
I long to blaze
to be white hot fire
burning fiercely
without limit or restraint
take as kindling
all these collected seconds of tedium
the moments of curling into myself in pain
the flares of white hot passion
the kisses of comfort on the forehead
spark my soul
start the fire
watch me blaze so bright
you have to look away
wait until the coals cool
so you can sift through
the ashes that were me
looking for treasure
I am no longer there.
I have moved on and am
collecting the kindling
for the next
glorious
blaze.
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6
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Walls
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Posted:May 4, 2021 5:13 am
Last Updated:Aug 13, 2021 1:44 pm
7739 Views
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Walls
written November 27th, 2020
I have built walls
rigid strong and nearly impermeable
forming this fortress around me,
nothing gets in or out.
Every sortie against them
leaves them a little stronger,
and me inside
a little more isolated.
Over time I have
grown into and through
my walls safe
from a war
that is long over.
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6
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Brave
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Posted:Apr 26, 2021 2:11 pm
Last Updated:Apr 27, 2021 5:25 pm
8145 Views
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Brave
written January 20th, 2021
What is it like
to see the world
through your eyes?
to actually
live
in the world
the way you do?
I ask you, green beret and swat,
about your experience of fear,
and we are so different
you don't even understand my question.
"It's not brave to jump out of planes
if you aren't afraid of it," you say.
(A small voice inside me asks
does that make me brave?
Because I am afraid all the time,
or is it only what you accomplish
in spite of being afraid
that counts as bravery?)
You face the world head on
walk through heaven and hell,
air and water part for you
and you know that they will.
What is it like
to own the world like that,
to see the world
and not be afraid?
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4
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Just write
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Posted:Apr 26, 2021 6:09 am
Last Updated:Apr 30, 2021 6:22 am
8163 Views
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Just write
written April 25th, 2021
The first
is relatively easy
just get thoughts on the page.
I repeat to myself - no past -
no future - no pressure -
just write.
Coming back
can be more challenging
to words that flow and stumble
down one side and up the other.
I reassure myself - it is ok -
it will be ok - there is time -
just write.
Some poems
seem so weighty
I don't want to start them
or work on them once started.
I tell myself that
one day will be the right day
to work on that poem
but for today -
just write.
Many days
I want to make excuses.
I say I just wrote yesterday,
or I will write tomorrow,
or I will read someone else's poems,
but my work is my self
and I find my self writing poems, so -
just write.
It doesn't have to be right -
just write.
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9
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Pieces
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Posted:Apr 25, 2021 8:12 am
Last Updated:Apr 26, 2021 6:00 am
8105 Views
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Pieces
written December 5th, 2020
_______
things broken
in pieces
not finding peace
________
shattered glass
shards reflect
the sun
________
minnows dart
through shallow streams
as bright sun pierces
_________
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6
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One of these
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Posted:Apr 23, 2021 6:20 am
Last Updated:Apr 26, 2021 6:53 pm
8436 Views
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One of these
written March 7th, 2021
One of these
is not like the others.
That one flower off to the right
in the field of flowers.
Do you see her
aglow with a quiet intensity
among all the others?
Always different-alone-apart
holding so many secrets.
What can she say?
What should she not say?
Can she really say
anything at all?
So she holds inside
all the things that burn
in the sunlight and the starlight,
buried so deep in her soul
even she doesn't know
some of them.
One of these
is not like the others.
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7
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Jane Kenyon
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Posted:Apr 22, 2021 1:11 pm
Last Updated:Apr 22, 2021 7:39 pm
8765 Views
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Jane Kenyon lived and wrote poems from 1947 to 1995.
Jane Kenyon
written April 17th, 2021
I want to ask her
so many questions,
like why she chose
to put that one
word
alone on that line.
But she has gone
where I can not ask
so I will have to find my answers
in the spaces between her words
in the pauses at the ends of lines
and in the silences between her stanzas.
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4
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With wings made strong
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Posted:Apr 19, 2021 5:08 am
Last Updated:Apr 21, 2021 7:55 am
8749 Views
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With wings made strong
written April th, 2021
I sit in the back
while you sit in the front
the favored seat
next to your father
you so icy and cold
he could have reached out
and touched your body
but not your soul
which was flying out over
the fields we drove by
desperately straining
to get as far away as possible
with wings made strong
before having to return
to this body of yours
to walk down halls
filled with students and teachers
who did not see
you or the others
with wings made strong.
Today do you still
fly out over the fields
wondering if
you will ever
take residence in
this body of yours.
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4
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How to build a fire
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Posted:Apr 13, 2021 7:57 am
Last Updated:Oct 29, 2021 12:39 pm
8741 Views
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voluptuous words hang volcanically
—Jane Miller, "Oh Pioneers", Gift of Tongues
How to build a fire
written March th, 2021
The weight of her breasts
fill my hands
the heat we both crave
hangs volcanically in the air
our bodies
come together
then part
keeping
the simmering air
between her skin and mine
the near - the far - the almost
yearning for all at once
my wet tongue
starts little fires
moving from breast
to belly
to thigh
always returning to
her voluptuous breasts
my hand between her legs
her leg between mine
we kindle the flames
with the friction of our bodies
until orgasms erupt
in the now tropical air
the flames we so diligently nurtured
with skin and tongue and touch
are now quenched as
our bodies meld together
all distance-space-separation gone
laughter fills the air
as the sweat evaporates
off our spent bodies.
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7
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Depression sales into bay
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Posted:Apr 10, 2021 8:56 am
Last Updated:Apr 12, 2021 9:21 am
8986 Views
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Depression sales into bay
written April 5th, 2021
Depression sales into the bay
our little town is built on
it is a frequent but unwelcome visitor
ominous, malevolent and stifling
Often it arrives in the night
creeping in on panther's toe pads
its sails blocking out the sun
Plants and people sit
in suspended animation
trying to carry on
Some boldly
give depression the finger
as they walk by
While others withdraw
to the sanitarium
dishes are left undone
and run wild in the streets
Scientists are researching a vaccine
the librarian searches in books
soldiers plan attacks (which fail)
the priest prays and does exorcisms
the green witch burns toy ships in effigy
all hoping to find the answer
Until that day
we fight
we submit
we carry on
waiting
for depression
to sale out of
our petty little bay.
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4
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Not a haiku
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Posted:Apr 8, 2021 7:18 am
Last Updated:Apr 9, 2021 4:08 pm
8044 Views
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Not a haiku
written October 18th, 2020
crisp fall leaves
crunch under foot
moss roses furl open
___
Crisp fall leaves
crunch under my feet
giving their final sacrifice
while moss roses tightly clenched
wait for the sun
to unfurl their beauty for the day
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4
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