My dream trip will blow me
into a moon lake
and girls pant as
they lie under the summer sky
while hot winds moan lightly.
—
#9 for NaPoWriMo — a puzzle piece for another poem sometime. Have had a very low energy, inarticulate day. Partly angry with a slight chance of depressed. Feh.
Poor Nineteen
I did it because I could not sleep,
had not slept for several nights.
The air was cold as plate glass;
breathing, like death by garrote.
Clouds hissed and spat oblivion.
He lingered a few feet down the aisle
by the hair products. I did it because I was laid off
from my dead-end job.
I promised myself that I would only do it this once.
In a world where I had nothing, felt smothered.
The bleat of the register kept time to the whine of Muzak.
A clerk rang up my purchase: a can of mousse.
In my gut, a tingled warning; he materialized
a few feet from the door, sidled up to me, pressed
his hand on my arm:
“I believe you put something in your purse. Nytol.”
I did it because I was choking.
Rains Unceasing
The rains unceasing fatten
streams into rivers, choke
the planted fields. Satiated
earth burps a sinkhole on
Highway One at Devil’s
Slide. City streets become
quickwater, and black
umbrellas weave over the
sidewalks like vesper bats
veering toward home.
Panhandlers carry their
soggy lives in shopping
carts; even the homeless
cling to commodity. In
broad gray daylight a
man pisses on an
overpass pillar, heedless
of those stoics waiting at
the corner for the next bus.
—
Poem #8 for NaPoWriMo
A gorgeous vision
behind the sordid picture;
stare only at love.
—
Poem #7 for NaPoWriMo
(not feeling verbal today)
Monopoly
Mother loves games so much children at
the playground hang from her arms and
legs. She plays Monopoly at the Cosmo
Club, jockeys hard for a few good
properties, not just the purple ones.
She hitches rides from her gentlemen
friends, then hides her thimble for them
to find. Mother’s got friends at the jail
because sometimes she uses her needle
too much. I keep waiting to hear she
slipped the knot and snipped her last
finespun strand of thread, falling past
Go, not stopping, collecting way more
than she bargained for.
—
Poem #6 for NaPoWriMo
Isn’t It Enough?
To feel a chill as you rise from a warm
bed, stumble to the bath and with
nimble fingers tend to your body’s
needs, button your shirt, balance
as you put pants on one leg at a time?
To hear the morning news, the coffee
maker gurgling as you eat your
Wheaties with skim milk, to listen in
the comfort and illuminated safety of
your kitchen as rain rattles the roof?
To inhale the earth’s perfume of wet
dirt, worms, roses and jasmine blooms,
to smell even the faint fumes of the
world’s morning commute as you join
with humanity for the day’s business?
To taste the fresh tender day and
savor the strong bitter brew from
your steaming paper cup as
you wait for the train under the shelter
with the others, huddled like pigeons?
To observe the blur of cinderblock
fortresses adorned with graffiti, the
lonely artifacts of life strewn across
anonymous backyards, to notice the
window cat watching the morning?
—
Poem #5 for NaPoWriMo
Chained
Her finger smears black rain
across the day as
languidly singing mothers
with lazy stares lie chained
to smooth diamonds and irons
always watching the void
while aching to live.
—
Poem #4 – NaPoWriMo
Missing Central New York
Where I come from the
sky’s gravity weighs like
a jury bringing verdict,
earth sings arpeggios
of green,
apple trees wave blossom
scarves to woo suitors,
and Hades’ breath
strips trees of
their russet ochre shawls.
Where I come from it is
possible to walk
away from
this concrete madhouse,
to encounter a heron
startled into flight.
—
Poem #3 (or the beginning of one) for NaPoWriMo.
For Diana
At sunset at the edge of the world
in San Francisco the fog crawls in,
a pillow for the sun.
The day drowses in diaphanous
light, a lullaby light dressed in
the caress of silk tucks in.
At dawn the sun sneaks back,
ambushes the hills with sharp,
vanquishing droplets. Clarity
wears a uniform, scrubbing cobwebbed
corners clean. The city stretches awake.
—
Poem #2 for NaPoWriMo.
At Bedside
The leather diary, the abandoned crosswords,
the clock aglow with red digits,
tarot decks nested together,
the magazine pile, blue plastic earplugs,
scattered coins mingling by a dusty tissue box,
one lone domino, a low-lit lamp, the
small spiral notebook with a black-capped pen,
like admission tickets for an underworld ride
or runes rich with portent.
—
Poem #1 for NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month).
One Thin Line
I knelt on the damp soil, my knees
dimpling black loam made tender
by winter rain. Lacy green hemlock
waved on the dunes, red stems alluding
to a lethal power. This day it was my
foe to banish. Gloved fingers burrowed,
sought unseeing, with gentle tugs I
eased the pale taproots out. Hours
passed. Piles of conquered plants
multiplied. One lone ladybug hiked
across a tangle of stems, a cheerful
red button contrasting the gunmetal
sky. A pause. Resting, I observed
her journey, noting that she traipsed,
tumbled on her back, legs waving,
for every completed step forward.
Chill wind scoured my mind. I
looked up. A red kite strained
against a taut and quivering tether.
The soul, connected by one thin
line to the body. A gust of wind
strong enough can snap it. Where it
lands I cannot guess. Where do
snowy plover feathers end their
journey after dancing across the
ocean? Sighing, I turned my mind
back to the truth of the earth.
Despite
Under stacked magazines,
A floor made of wood
Echoes faintly
The breath of ancient trees.
Man, the despoiler,
Cleaves and plunders the earth.
Under the dim canopy
Of towering redwood,
Seeds germinate
Daily, cell by cell.
Nature, objective,
Regenerates life.
A miracle of chaos
Flows forth
Despite human machinations.
This incredibly trite poem is built off of Under the Harvest Moon. For whatever reason, even though I love Sandburg, this poem inspired me least of the three I’ve used as scaffold. It could be the raging headache that hindered me. It could be I’m tired of the exercise, taking the form too literally as I build. However, it’s all good practice (I suppose). Time for something else (and to stop comparing myself negatively to all the poets whose works I’m reading of late).
Unable
The cherry trees weep
tissue paper petals.
Crows shout at each other
about nothing. And here
I sit alone in my car
parked at the Boys & Girls Club,
softened by sadness
heavily hopeless
unable to look spring in the eye.
Impermanence
A dead man’s photo peers over my bed
The silent witness who lives in my blood.
Absence is the soul’s starvation diet.
I have been hungry since before I was born.
Plan for madness to heal you.
Plan for sadness to fly.
Plan for hope estranging your happiness.
It surely will.
The finite hours and days,
The years,
Dissolve with relentless measure
And apathy.
This will grieve your heart but release it.
You must not pull back: too late too late to stop.
You carelessly left your spirit alone,
Now seconds plunder its secrets
And take all.
Life perpetuates a feeble trick
on the frail mind:
A creation of memes
Moved by predestination
To obscurity.
The clock lightly ticks and then cocks its gun.
Aims between your eyes.
Are you ready?
—
I found this poem a nasty wrenching process. I was using James Galvin’s Post-Modernism as the scaffold. It was an abstract poem, slippery. I seem to be focused on mortality of late. I don’t set out to write it. It’s just what comes out. But this one felt like harder than most. Words tested, words discarded. I tried to follow the syllable and word structure of each line. I succeeded except for the first stanza and the last two lines.
Only The Emptiness
With civilized tones we said good-bye,
as his face drained white
his still fingers chilled.
It was a hard labor
his leave-taking, punctuated
by lung fluid gurgling,
eyes rolled upward,
breath stopping, pausing long.
We sat vigil and held his hand all night.
Still the stomach growls, eyes grow heavy,
the crematorium must be paid.
I whisper his name,
feel no answer, sense no presence
of spirit, as some people do.
Only the emptiness.
Another poem written using this exercise, and built with Jane Kenyon’s The Blue Bowl as scaffold.