The Garden
But what of this notion
of the romantic?
It rained last night.
I could smell it
before it fell,
each drop a perfect
sphere until the final
moment. This
is fact, impractical but
lovely for its truth.
* * *
Initially posted here in January of 2014, the poem was published many years ago (30?) as a poetry postcard offered by the literary journal Amelia. I admit to being wrong about the shape of raindrops. But hey, they start out spherical…
A History of Particles: Ash, Wood, Shrimp
Unsettled and predisposed
to flight, they
rise. Or, awaiting the process, receive
the glow as prelude to transformation, a
nocturnal exegesis inscribed in flame
and black swirls. Death in the air,
settling upon us. The bitterest
taste. But how to explain
the tongue’s sweet tremor? And the narrow
margins between the transition
from wood to smoke?
At 250 degrees
their pale shells redden,
become vessels of radiant
heat and its attenuated function,
moisture retained so as
to delay and heighten the
delectable flesh, once freed, become
virtue, become fate
sliding down the throat,
the course of deterioration hastened
and endured in perpetuity.
This first appeared on the blog in June 2015.
I’ll Turn But Clouds Appear
You gather and disperse and nothing I do salves my hunger.
Where are you, if not here among the roots of dead flowers
or inches below the window’s opening
in the leaf-filtered light. Or spread across
the ceiling, caught in filaments of expelled
hope. Savoring motion, I look up and address the Dog Stars,
longing to catch your attention. But clouds muffle
my words, and instead I turn
to the fragrance of tomato and garlic and spice
wafting into the night. What could bring you back?
Not love. Not wine. Not solitude, nor the sound of my voice.
I spoon out the sauce, cautiously, and wait.
* * *
“I’ll Turn but Clouds Appear” first appeared in Bindlestiff.
Nightmare Charm
To awaken undisturbed
or at all
I unclench my fist
freeing darkness.
How to transcribe the dead’s tune?
They float
within they float
within,
fear’s cascading grip transcending sleep
“Nightmare Charm” first appeared here in May 2016.
The Echo is Neither Sound nor Hope
empty trees
a darkened
window
the void
between chairs
unchanged
as if you’d never spoken
* * *
This first appeared in April 2015.
And to Sleep
and what we
sense if not
of our selves
or within this
space we contain
may be of
no thing touched
by one’s fluttering
eye as if
awake we see
even less the
dreams of course
real though we
hold them only
in our sleep
Another poem from the 80s. “And to Sleep” first appeared here in February 2015.
Painting
But completion
arrives in the most
limited sense,
outlines enriched and
filled with lush
darkness, the red of
an accumulated passion
for texture, for subtlety in
shade, the tactile being
one facet shared with
odor and the black hand
on the wall, the
staircase spiraling
upward, resultant desire,
body of lust, this wall, our
doing, the gathered home.
“Painting” first appeared here in December 2015.
Scarecrow Listens
These silences I hear, are they not
music? Interspersed with sunlight and
air flowing through fragrant grasses,
insects ticking in the leaves or burrowing
towards moist darkness, and my friends
cawing from their perches, if I arrange
their presence in sequence, perhaps
around the day’s bones, will you
know my spirit? And when I interweave
these tunes, independent and unrelated,
shaping them into one separate melody,
will you recognize its heart and shiver
to the beat? Ornette Coleman freed
his playing, celebrating the territories
of the unmeasurable, the unnamed. The
real is, no matter what you call it. Take
this leaf and place it atop three others.
What have you? And what am I if not
a gathering of the unwanted, scraps
melded to serve a thought-free purpose,
another’s need. Fleshless, boneless,
breathless, bloodless, I know only
that I am; having no ears, still I listen.
“Scarecrow Listens” first appeared with two companion pieces in Eclectica in summer 2016.
Having Survived Myself I Lean Away
You know that
but not
why
the mockingbird mocks,
or how one note
marries others,
forming blissful
chords. And the skies
flaring each night
betraying your willful
ignorance,
while you paint
the words for love
in seven languages
you can’t
speak.
Where are you now,
whose bodies
have you denied,
wrapped in linen,
bagged or boxed,
arriving unseen?
Sagging, I observe your
counted victories, the
smirk claiming
exceptionalism
and destiny or
nobility of purpose,
as even your own shadow
recoils.
This first appeared here in October 2015.
Every Wind
Every wind loses itself,
no matter where
it starts. I want
a little piece of you.
No.
I want your atmosphere
bundled in a small rice paper packet
and labeled with strings of new rain
and stepping stones.
I want
the grace of silence
blowing in through the cracked
window, disturbing only
the shadows.
Everywhere I go, bits of me linger,
searching for you.
Grief ages one thread at a time,
lurking like an odor
among the lost
things,
or your breath,
still out there,
drifting.
* * *
Music: “Gymnopedie No. 1” Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com)
Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 License
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/
“Every Wind” first appeared in The Lake in July 2016, and is included in my chapbook, From Every Moment a Second, available for order via Amazon.com and Finishing Line Press.
O at the Edges 