The Sky Withholds
night. In this event I breathe alone, one entity hoarding
space. And to where do shadows retreat under moonless skies?
I sit among the cedars and mourn my life’s dogs. Dark memory,
raven nights layered upon days, trailing more memories, white
after black. We regard their appeal, their limitless reach into
other systems and the fissures between thought and action,
dawn and closure.
“The Sky Withholds” was first published in Bright Sleep in July 2017.
As Blue Fades
Which defines you best, a creaking lid or the light-turned flower?
The coffee’s steam or smoke wafting from your hand.
Your bowls color my shelves; I touch them daily.
Sound fills their bodies with memory.
The lighter’s click invokes your name.
And the stepping stones to nowhere, your current address.
If the moon could breathe would its breath flavor our nights?
I picture a separate one above your clouded island.
The dissipating blue in filtered light.
Above the coral. Above the waves and ocean floor far below.
Above the space your ashes should share.
Where the boats rise and fall, like chests, like the waning years.
Like a tide carrying me towards yesterday’s reef.
Or the black-tailed gull spinning in the updraft.
“As Blue Fades” first appeared in Underfoot in October 2017.
Who Will Know
If I drip like snow from the roof who will know?
When I throw stones at dead men who will know?
The mother’s ghost rests in a razor-filled moat.
He purses his lips, laughs, says who will know?
You are the night sky above the red-cloud horizon.
When I fade like twilight, tell me who will know.
Which vein traces love, which proffers denial
as our blood starts flowing, and who will know?
Unanswered prayers line his frozen pockets.
When he unclenches his tiny hands, who will know?
This man’s tongue repels truth no matter the hour.
If we hear only what he allows, then who will know?
* * *
“Who Will Know” made its first appearance in May 2019 at The Local Train Magazine, a publication out of Bangladesh.
Better Than Drowning
As clouds leverage sky and the wind scours each night.
Surrounding the spiraling strands. Wherever I am. And am not.
Over the crushing waves, suspended between air and matter.
With the earth in taproots drilled through stone.
Under the layered fog, dampness upon dampness, differing by degree.
I see you where I don’t look. You live in the mirror.
The night conceals nothing, not even my guilt.
Not even my pleasure. Nor your smile.
I shake the quilt and spread you everywhere.
Though no door existed, it closed behind you.
Which is the point of absence, the fulcrum on which I balance.
You turn and join the light, casting no shadow.
* * *
“Better Than Drowning” first appeared in Underfoot Poetry in October 2017. Many thanks to Tim Miller for taking this piece, and for his enthusiastic support of poets and poetry.
In This Shack a Cold Wind Blows
In this shack a cold wind blows,
shuffling papers and ideas before settling
on the floor. Leaves rustling. Tea,
cooling. You recall the peace of near
death, fear circling the drain,
giving in to breath, labored but certain,
one exiting another and again,
then laughing at the improbability: you
are nothing. You were nothing.
Nothing will come of you. You say
yesterday, and think tomorrow. Today.
* * *
“In This Shack a Cold Wind Blows” was first published in April 2019 by The Elixir Magazine out of Yemen.
Scarecrow Calls Out the Man
These things I cannot name: that finger of night
between fear and peace, in which darkness both cloaks
and hugs the wide-eyed. A snake, in the open. And that space
behind the watcher? Perhaps it is easier to call it something
else – a gasp, or the immeasurable measure. A presidential
folly. My friends, ever cautious, swoop in and away, taking
with them only those grains they need, unlike you. What use
is a hoarded larder if it rots? How does one come to want
everything and nothing at the same time? A gilded house
spotlights wealth, not right. Is this edifice your legacy,
your monument to self? The heart monitor’s blip paints one
forever, your pursed lips, another. But even the concrete
you cringe behind lacks permanency; regard your hands
and all they can’t stuff into your pockets. Loosen that
coiled tie lest it choke you. Accept what the mirror sees,
and await karma. Though you will not hear my voice,
I offer this: may the combined weight of your lies and
larcenies, your unpaid debts and power plays, rapes,
casual racism, privilege and coarse, childish taunts, merge
into one fist-size bankroll placed upon your chest, and
fueled by the gravitational forces of forty-four black holes,
slowly, with each turn of the earth’s axis, press down and
down and down in search of that shriveled organ, and finding
it, pluck out and replace it with one resembling that of a
genuine human, one honoring respect and love, empathy
and humility. I am the sum of integrated, discarded
pieces assembled to observe and warn, collecting only
diminishment and the means to become less. Wanting
little, the world welcomes me. It arrives free, honest, on
wings, bringing wealth beyond your reach, your greed.
I own nothing. I know nothing. But this: I name you
Scourge, and laugh at the smallness of you. I name you
Farce. I name you Empty. I name you Gone.
* * *
“Scarecrow Calls Out the Man” first appeared on Vox Populi in August 2017.
I’m delighted and honored that my poem “My Mother’s Ghost Scrubs the Floor at 2 a.m.” has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize by The Indianapolis Review.
Many thanks to editor Natalie Solmer for accepting this piece.
Click on the link to read the poem or listen to a recording of it.
My poem “Which Name Cautions the Tongue” is live in Issue 3 of Little Dog Poetry. I am grateful to editors Samantha Finley & Lauren Taylor for taking this piece.
Landscape
Utterance
within the parameters set
by form
expressionless
save motion
the lone branch
brought to the fore
and in the distance
stock ponds collecting rain
the word is
forget, as in the imperative
as in function, as in
you must have
This first appeared here in December 2014.
My poem “Nothing More Than Everything” is live in Issue 1 of The Raven Review. I am grateful to editor-in-chief Rachel Strickland for taking this piece.
O at the Edges 