Tag Archives: creative writing

Resurrection (Cento)

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rocks and fog


Resurrection (Cento) 

Everything we love
returns to the ground.

Each syllable is the work of sabotage,
a breeze seeping from the heart of the rocks.

They are my last words
or what I intend my last words to be.

I think just how my shape will rise,
a miracle, anywhere light moves.

*****

A cento is composed of lines borrowed from other poets. “Resurrection” owes its existence to the poetry of Tishani Doshi, Paul Auster, Antonella Anedda, Sean Hill,
Emily Dickinson, and Ruth Ellen Kocher. I urge you to seek out their work. It astounds!

 
ladybug

The Ecstatics

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chimney


The Ecstatics

Divisions and separations, a summing of consequences,
the brother whose ashes remained forever lost. Two cities
and their survivors’ shame. The loud, kind young man
whose words fell to the restaurant’s floor, unbidden.
What came next in the drift, untoward and misspent,
in the grammar of between? Darkness, suppressed.
Smoke. Pleasure and fear, unclothed.


sorrow bw

Katharsis

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“Katharsis” was among my offerings for the Tupelo Press 30/30 Project last August. Many thanks to Plain Jane who sponsored and provided the title.

KATHARSIS

The questions, as always: which rocks to ignore, who will
place them, and how to defy the laws of mathematics.

Note: you will create two separate walls to build one.
You will measure length and depth. You will weigh consequence.

Dig a shallow trench, and set your first two foundation stones
at a slight angle, high points on the outside, low ends meeting

in the middle. Count your failures and multiply them by 100.
Let gravity share the burden, then discard every one. Take

care in selecting your stones. Scorpions lurk in the dark,
underneath. Wear heavy gloves. Use leverage. Seek balance.

Avoid the smooth and rounded, as they too readily relinquish
their footing. Select hard-angled, rough pieces. Accept

faults, and work with them. Stack carefully — the two walls
should lean inward, touching, each bearing the other’s

weight. Work alone, but think to the future, with strength in
mind. Be deliberate. One stone, followed by another. Repeat.

pen

Nocturne with Flame

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Closeup of campfire.

Nocturne with Flame

Not imposition, but welcome.

Another’s stirred embers, banked
and forming the kindling’s base.

Thus the licked paper curling with smoke,
stars shooting into the blackness,
and finally, exploding light
transformed to heat.

From one’s loss, another’s gain.

The flickering on my cheek.
Inhaled bitterness and memory.
The wait, the period before.

Like the owl in the live oak,
or the mice under our floor
returning, I celebrate the cycle,
and grow warm.

mouse

Bowls, Emptied

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bowls

Bowls, Emptied

I picture them always separate, unfilled, never nested among the others.

In descending order: yellow, green, red. The missing blue.

Concave, hollow, hemispherical, freed of conscience.

Other images – the skies, denser with age.

You stirring with a wooden spoon, cigarette smoldering nearby.

Or the itinerant smell of new sod and wet soil.

My knee aches whenever I traverse stairs or turn quickly.

Which holds more grief, these vessels or memory’s lapse?

Inverted, their capacity remains constant as the heavens, dark or light.

The paling dome, a memory of freshly pulled onion.

Squatting, you would patiently pluck weeds.

I bite my tongue and kneel to place the flowers.

Near this stone, where the crickets chirr and dew worms burrow.

By this mound and these blades of near-silent grass.

Where I accept this moment’s offering. And you do not.

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Two Poems in Kindle Magazine (Kolkata)

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egg

The link to my two poems appearing in Kindle Magazine was damaged and readers were unable to access them. Kindle Magazine has kindly corrected the link to make them available again. These poems, with two others, also appear in the print collection Gossamer: An Anthology of World Poetry, published by Kindle Magazine this past December.

cloud

A Cheese Omelet at Midnight

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cracking eggs

A Cheese Omelet at Midnight

You can’t ever leave without saying something,
no matter how insipid. That sweater looks good
on you. It’s supposed to rain tomorrow. I’m sorry
I burned the omelet. Nasdaq has plunged 3% 

since last week. And I, in return, can’t let you go without
replying in equal measure. It matches your eyes. I love
to smell rain in August. That cheddar was delicious.
Maybe I’ll start a savings account. Next month.

So I wash dishes when you’re gone, wipe down the
counters, pour salt into the shaker, grab a book, join my
cat in bed. This tune’s been overplayed, the grooves’re
worn down. Maybe next time I’ll say what I mean,

tell you what I want: It would look better in a heap
on the floor. How about a shower here, tonight? Kiss
me and I’ll never think of it again. I don’t give a rat’s
ass about the stock exchange. Step away from that door!

I’ll make your lunch, butter your 7-grain toast, assemble
your IKEA furniture, balance your books, even dye
my hair pink, tattoo a pig on my thigh and drink light beer
in your honor, if you would agree to say what’s on your

mind. On second thought, don’t. Tell me, instead,
what I want to hear, but make it heart-felt. Truthful
and direct. Poached but earnest. Hard-boiled but tender.
I’ll cook your eggs. Invest in me. You’ll earn interest.

This originally appeared in August, as the 25th offering in the Tupelo Press 30-30 fund raiser. Sponsored by Pleasant Street, a recording may be found at her blog, In My Parlour.

Asparagus omelet MGD©

 

 

Nights at the Magdalene Laundry

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cemetery

Nights at the Magdalene Laundry

Waiting, as if it could
be foreseen, as if influence and love
and truth could ease into the conversation,

she pours water into the night’s
mouth. A little longer, says the voice,
and the wind bends the grass,

reaching, without apprehension, a conclusion.

Which is not to claim verity, nor the patience of stone
crumbling along the ledge.

She leaves when nothing remains.

washtub

Two Poems in the Inaugural Edition of MockingHeart Review

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bird

I’m delighted to have two poems appearing in the inaugural edition of MockingHeart Review. Many thanks to editor Clare Martin for her efforts in assembling this publication.

broom

Year’s End

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Year’s End

If I lose myself in breathing,
will the air forgive my forgetfulness?

This oak, too, will stand long after
the last train exits the tunnel.

I worry that my friend may never
clamber past his lowest ambition.

Different and unabated, our words
now stumble over themselves.

Every night forms a morning somewhere:
each year, combined in our shared darkness.

night