Still Life with Silence
Not two, but one,
invisible
and stretched between
stump and fence,
filled with
time, defining
implication. Empty
the pitcher. Accept
its limitations.
Listen to what is not.
“Still Life with Silence” first appeared here in October 2016.
I have four poems included in Purifying Wind (now available as an Ebook for $4.99, and in print for $12.00), an anthology of pieces about or mentioning vultures. I’m proud to have these poems published alongside those of fellow poets Sudhanshu Chopra, Stephanie L. Harper and Jim LaVilla-Havelin, among others. Thank you, d. ellis phelps, for taking these poems.
Staircase at Fifteen
Ascending, her centrifugal
influence captures me
and I follow,
breathless,
witless, wordless,
despite all longing
and shared
discretions, in spite
of the thundering
pulse
and the incessant
demand to act
or run.
She pauses, looks
down, sees
nothing.
Suddenly freed,
spinning off
and slowing down,
shrinking,
far below, on equal
footing but so
apart,
never to meet
in truth, unable
to define direction or
motive, I remain
fixed as she moves
higher, far away, close
but up,
always up.
Nothing More Than Everything
Even the Sotol Believes
If we must discuss logographic systems, let us begin with fish.
And how might one mistake an entrance for a perch?
A movable rod for a desert spoon?
Today’s lesson excludes a poorly rendered door.
Hinges are merely mechanical joints, the origin of which means to hang. Concentrate there.
D is the tenth most frequently used letter in English.
Depicted on rock wall paintings, the sotol has provided food, sandals,
blankets, ropes, tools and spirits for millennia.
Slow cook the roots for three nights, crush, then ferment for seventy-two hours in
champagne yeast. Distill, then age in French oak.
We shall neither open nor close, nor mention those things that do.
Like bivalves. Bottles. Eyes. Shops. Caskets. Books. Mouths. Circuits.
Its flower stalk rises up to fifteen feet. Its leaves are long, thin and barbed.
Surrounded by orange ochre flames and black smoke, the sotol spirit appears.
Dalet will not enter our vocabulary today.
Originally published in Otoliths 41 (October 2013), and most recently posted here in June 2018.
Dreaming That My Legs Won’t Move, I Think of Debts
And all of our losses,
fallen like acorns to be gathered and
buried for safe keeping in the hours
when laughter fails and eyes close.
My blood is a tense whisper
and I remain half, which is of course
false. You drift across the scuffed
boards and light the candle,
snuffing one darkness, sparking
a second, opening a new quiet behind
yet another shade. What blurs
yesterday more than tomorrow?
Accepting my place, I observe the unlighted
corner, look for movement, wait.
“Dreaming That My Legs Won’t Move, I Think of Debts” was published in October 2019 at Mason Street Review’s Community Room Page. I’m grateful to the Newark Public Library and the editors of Mason Street for taking this piece.
Requiem II
To say what becomes: this word
bends in the wind of our
breath. Is this too simple to
say? Our bodies gather yet retain
nothing. Numbers, phrases, the way
the ocean rolls. Once I saw
a whale at dusk. Or rather I saw its
tail part the water and disappear
into darkness, an answer too complex
and sweet for tongues to comprehend.
But waves seldom explain. Imagine
something nearby but beyond reach.
Think of clouds and shrines, consider light.
“Bittersweet” Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com)
Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 License
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/
The Fullness That Precedes
it is not
the moon but
rain that attracts
me to this
place no faint
light no shadow
but the fullness
that precedes its
history that of
magic from nothing
to nothing by
which one may
discern perfection a
cloud the solitary
note of distraction
Written in the 80s, “The Fullness That Precedes” first appeared here in May 2015.
His Softness
What name would survive
had you not stepped into the water
that day? Memory assigned
a separate word, another given,
and the face I’d placed with you
appeared in front of me
fifteen years later, in another
setting, miles away
and still breathing. How
may I honor you
if not by name? I recall
the gray ocean and how
umbrellas struggled in
the wind, and reading
in the weekly newspaper
a month after
that you had never emerged.
Now your name still lies there,
somewhere, under the surface,
unattached yet moving with
the current, and I,
no matter how I strain,
can’t grab it. Time after time,
it slips away. Just slips away.
.* * *
“His Softness” was published in January 2016 in the inaugural edition of MockingHeart Review.
Ode to Being Placed on Hold
The music rarely
entertains,
but I find
peace between
the notes,
sometimes,
and embrace
the notion that
I’ve been inserted
in that peculiar
capsule between
speech and the
void, imagining
myself somewhere,
floating, free
of care and
gravity,
beer can
satellites
orbiting my head,
with bites of
pungent cheeses
and baguette
circling in
their wake,
a gift, you see,
like rain in
August or
a warm voice
saying hello.
* * *
“Ode to Being Placed on Hold” was drafted during the Tupelo Press 30-30 marathon in August 2015. Many thanks to Mary “marso” of the blog “marsowords” who sponsored and provided the title. The poem has also appeared here several times.
O at the Edges 