Self-Portrait as Smudge
Being this cloud on the otherwise
transparent pane, I resist removal,
smearing myself in thinner layers,
still shrouding the angry sky
or the fence post’s sagging
doubt, which is to say
my appearance may lessen
but spread, that you may rub me
out, but I’ll return, always,
beginning with that one small
and delicious obscure point.
“Self-Portrait as Smudge” first appeared in October 2019 in Backchannels. Many thanks to the editors for taking this piece.
Water Witching, We Hear
The rattle of stalks
along dirt roads,
whispery days
sifting through
parched
light,
you say
patience, my
friend, and again,
patience.
* * *
“Water Witching, We Hear” first appeared on the blog in April 2017.
Where the Word Begins
I end, or so it seems.
Small comfort
in the light of that lamp
reflecting from the window,
a low, interior moon
subject to whim and
circumstance.
And how do we retract
those unsaid lines,
heartfelt and meant,
but never expressed?
The hoot owl voices my response.
“Where the Word Begins” was first published in December 2018 at Amethyst Review. Thank you, Sarah Law, for accepting this poem.
What Happens Next
Another night with the frost,
she says, and you’ll know
the half-life of cold.
Which is not to say enjoy,
or pity, or pretend.
It is the sheath of God’s
gaze, an unsuspected lump.
The harvested curse.
You grasp what happens next.
“What Happens Next” first appeared here in November 2017.
Diverting Silence
Wren canyons down the morning’s edge, proclaiming dawn.
Unpapered, unfettered, fearless, he abides.
I say “he,” but sexual dimorphism is not apparent in the species.
Accepting signals, we process and choose, freighting gender aside.
Listening requires contextual interpretation, as does belief.
Shrilling to the porch screen, he spears a moth, veers outward.
An acquaintance claims birds are soulless, existing only to serve God.
As temple bells exist solely to announce, and rain, to water lawns.
Faith’s immensity looms in the absence of proof.
Spherical and hollow, suzu bells contain pellets.
The search for truth without error does not preclude fact.
Even tongueless bells ring.
“Diverting Silence” was published in Taos Journal of International Poetry & Art in February 2017.
Night Smoke
Incomplete, it rises
only to dissipate
like the griefs we shape,
somehow unnoticed,
beyond reach but felt.
Last night’s moon, the glance.
Forgotten stars, a withheld
kiss, words we never formed.
How difficult to be lost.
So easy to remain unseen.
* * *
“Night Smoke” last appeared here in February 2019.
With Guitar in Hand
for Stephanie
With guitar in hand I observe the green beetles bumbling about,
the way they careen and crash and flail aimlessly, but to a purpose.
Sometimes I attempt one note, only to strike another, or plucking
three strings simultaneously, focus on the discordant one,
which is, of course, me. How do we live the right song?
Which casual arrangement sends us plummeting to the grass,
hearts racing? I recall thinking “this cannot be,” yet could not,
would not, turn away. I bang out a minor seventh, sing a few
words, adjust my arthritic grip. Yesterday I couldn’t form
the chord shapes I desired. Today the hands float along the
fretboard, unimpeded. I wish you were here. I wish
I could shift time signatures with neurotransmissions,
that we were somewhere else, out of the way, alone
but for birds chirping in the branches by the window.
I wish my flawed tunes could merge with moonlight
and compose pearlescent pieces, and that you would
sing them to me from the threshold of our shared lives. I want
everything, but cherish what we can hold in these wondrous
times. I think of your hair and eyes, how my heart
flutters to the floor and refuses to rise until your smile
unwraps the day’s gift to me, defying Newton’s third law,
offering unheard chords. I listen to your silences, as I do
your words, knowing the value of each. Gazing at your
photo, I speak your name, set down the guitar. Make music.
“With Guitar in Hand” was originally published in the print anthology Epiphanies and Late Realizations of Love in February 2019.
Letter from Insomnia
Accepting Li Po’s tragedy,
apocryphal or not,
we embrace her imperfect
reflection
rippling in the breeze,
but manage to surface.
I once thought I would name a child Luna
and she would glow at night
and like Hendrix, kiss the sky.
But that was whimsy
and only candles light this room
at this hour
on this particular day
in this year of the snake.
And what fool would reach for a stone orbiting at
1,023 meters per second?
There are clouds to consider, the stars
and the scattering rain
and of course wine
and the possibilities within each glass
and the drops therein.
We must discuss these matters
under her gaze, where smallness gathers.
* * *
This originally appeared in Middle Gray in October, 2013. It was written in response to a poem my friend Michael sent me, replying to this poem.
While Walking My Dog’s Ghost
I spot a baby rabbit
lying still in a clump of grass
no wider than my hand.
It quivers, but I pretend
not to have seen, for fear
that the dog, ghost or not,
will frighten and chase it
into the brush, beyond
its mother’s range,
perhaps to become lost
and thirsty, malnourished,
filthy, desperate, much
like the dog when we
found each other that hot,
dry evening so long ago.
This first appeared here in September 2016.
In Praise of Darkness
Night falls, but day
breaks. A raw deal,
no doubt, but fairness
applies itself unevenly. Who
chooses weeds over
lies, flowers over truth?
Last night’s rain fell, too,
but didn’t crack the drought.
Again, we think injustice!
Again, we consider falls.
“In Praise of Darkness” last appeared here in March, 2016, and is included in my chapbook If Your Matter Could Reform.
O at the Edges 