LEAVES
The years
Fall like dry leaves
From the top-less tree
Of eternity.
Does it matter
That another leaf has fallen?
- Langston Hughes
LEAVES
The years
Fall like dry leaves
From the top-less tree
Of eternity.
Does it matter
That another leaf has fallen?
12-12-2016 |
WINTER FIELD
The winter field is not
the field of summer lost in snow: it is
another thing, a different thing.
"We shouted, we shook you," you tell me,
but there was no sound, no face, no fear, only
oblivion— why shouldn't it be so?
After they'd pierced a vein and fished me up,
after they'd reeled me back they packed me under
blanket on top of blanket, I trembled so.
The summer field, sun-fed, mutable,
has its many tasks; the winter field
becomes its adjective.
For those hours
I was some other thing, and my body,
which you have long loved well,
did not love you.
11-12-2016 |
WHAT I WANT TO DO MOST OF THE TIME
It feels like I need
To go to my dad's house
And when I'm at my dad's house
I want to go to my mom's house
I want to be at both houses
- Jo'lene Dailey
11-12-2016 |
10-29-2016 |
11-02-16 |
UNTITLED
Lord,- James Baldwin
when you send the rain
think about it, please
a little?
Do
not get carried away
by the sound of falling water,
the marvelous light
on the falling water.
I
am beneath that water.
It falls with great force
and the light
Blinds
me to the light.
10-29-2016 |
MAD GIRL'S LOVE SONG
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
The starts go waltzing our in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
- Sylvia Plath
10-28-2016 |
10-16-2016 Site A/Plot M |
10-2-2016 |
9-28-2016 |
HOUSEKEEPING
We mourn the broken things, chair legs
wrenched from their seats, chipped plates,
the threadbare clothes. We work the magic
of glue, drive the nails, mend the holes.
We save what we can, melt small pieces
of soap, gather fallen pecans, keep neck bones
for soup. Beating rugs against the house,
we watch dust, lit like stars, spreading
across the yard. Late afternoon, we draw
the blinds to cool the rooms, drive the bugs
out. My mother irons, singing, lost in reverie.
I mark the pages of a mail-order catalog,
listen for passing cars. All day we watch
for the mail, some news from a distant place.
9-28-2016 |
9-15-2016 |
RICE
To you you eat a lot of rice because you are lonely
To you who sleep a lot because you are bored
To you who cry a lot because you are sad
I write this down.
Chew on your feelings that are cornered
Like you would chew on rice.
Anyway life if something that you need to digest.
- Chun Yang Hee
8-29-2016 |
AND THE DAYS ARE NOT FULL ENOUGH
And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass
8-21-2016 |
August 15th, 2016 |
MY DOUBT
I wake, doubt, beside you,
like a curtain half-open.
I dress doubting,
like a cup
undecided if it has been dropped.
I eat doubting,
work doubting,
go out to a dubious cafe with skeptical friends.
I go to sleep doubting myself,
as a herd of goats
sleep in a suddenly gone-quiet truck.
I dream you, doubt,
nightly–
for what is the meaning of dreaming
if not that all we are while inside it
is transient, amorphous, in question?
Left hand and right hand,
doubt, you are in me,
throwing a basketball, guiding my knife and my fork.
Left knee and right knee,
we run for a bus,
for a meeting that surely will end before we arrive.
I would like
to grow conent in you, doubt,
as a double-hung window
settles obedient into its hidden pulleys and ropes.
I doubt I can do so:
your own counterweight governs my nights and my days.
As the knob of hung lead holds steady
the open mouth of a window,
you hold me,
my kneeling before you resistant, stubborn,
offering these furious praises
I can't help but doubt you will ever be able to hear.
August 13th, 2016 A concert with a view |
June 11th, 2016 |
FOR MOHAMMED ZEID, AGE 15
There is no stray bullet, sirs.
No bullet like a worried cat
crouching under a bush.
no half-hairless puppy bullet
dodging midnight streets.
The bullet could not be a pecan
plunking the tin roof,
not hardly, no fluff of pollen
on October's breath,
no humble pebble in the street.
So don't gentle it, please.
We live among stray thoughts,
tasks abandoned midstream.
Our fickle hearts are fat
with stray devotions, we feel at home
among bits and pieces,
all the wandering ways of words.
But this bullet had no innocence, did not
wish anyone well, you can't tell us otherwise
by naming it mildly, this bullet was never the friend
of life, should not be granted immunity
by soft saying–friendly fire, straying death-eye,
why have we given the wrong weight to what we do?
Mohammed, Mohammed, deserves the truth.
This bullet had no secret happy hopes,
it was not singing to itself with eyes closed under the bridge
like the exiled lady in her precious faded hat.
August 4th, 2016 |
GOD SAYS YES TO ME
I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic
and she said yes
I asked her if it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
or not wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
she said you can do just exactly
what you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it okay if I don't paragraph
my letters
Sweetcakes God said
who knows where she picked that up
what I'm telling you is
Yes Yes Yes
Anderson .Paak July 28th, 2016 |
My stepdaughter and I circle round and round.
You see, I like the music loud, the speakers
throbbing, jam-packing the room with sound whether
Bach or rock and roll, the volume cranked up so
each bass note is like a hand smacking the gut.
But my stepdaughter disagrees. She is four
and likes the music decorous, pitched below
her own voice–that tenuous projection of self.
With music blasting, she feels she disappears,
is lost within the blare, which in fact I like.
But at four what she wants is self-location
and uses her voice as a porpoise uses
its sonar: to find herself in all this space.
If she had a sort of box with a peephole
and looked inside, what she'd like to see would be
herself standing there in her red pants, jacket,
yellow plastic lunch box: a proper subject
for serious study. But me, if I raised
the same box to my eye, I would with to find
the ocean on one of those days with wind
and thick cloud make the water gray and restless
as if some creature brooded underneath,
a rocky coast with a road along the shore
where someone like me was walking and has gone.
Loud music does this, it wipes out the ego,
leaving turbulent water and winding road,
a landscape stripped of people and language–
how clear the air becomes, how sharp the colors.
July 23rd, 2016 |
BEYOND RECALL
Nothing matters
to the dead,
that's what's so hard
for the rest of us
to take in–
their complete indifference
to our enticements,
our attempts to get in touch–
they aren't observing us
from a discreet distance,
they aren't listening
to a word we say–
you know that
but you don't believe it,
even deep in a cave
you don't believe
in total darkness,
you keep waiting
for your eyes to adjust
and reveal your hand
in front of your face–
so how long a silence
will it take to convince us
that we're the ones
who no longer exist,
as far as X is concerned
and Y, that they're forgotten
every little thing
they knew about us,
what we told them
and what we didn't
have to, even our names
mean nothing to them
now–our throats ache
with all we might have said
the next time we saw them.
June 3rd, 2016 |
I WISH IN THE CITY OF YOUR HEART
I wish in the city of your heart
you would let me be the street
where you walk when you are most
yourself. I imagine the houses:
It has been raining, but the rain
is done and the children kept home
have begun opening their doors.
July 3rd, 2016 |
TIRED
I am so tired of waiting,
Aren't you,
For the world to become good
And beautiful and kind?
Let us take a knife
And cut the world in two -
and see what worms are eating
At the rind.
June 26th, 2016 |
NOT BAD, DAD, NOT BAD
I think you are most yourself when you're swimming;
slicing the water with each stroke,
the funny way you breathe, your mouth cocked
as though you're yawning.
You're neither fantastic nor miserable
at getting from here to there.
You wouldn't win any medals, Dad,
but you wouldn't drown.
I think how different everything might have been
had I judged your loving
lie I judge your sidestroke, your butterfly,
your Australian crawl.
But I always thought I was drowning
in that icy ocean between us,
I always thought you were moving too slowly to save me,
when you were moving as fast as you can.
RITES
Bearing gifts of flowers and sweet nuts
the family came to watch the eldest son,
my father; and stood about his bed
while he lay on a blood-sopped pillow,
his heart half rotted
and his throat dry with regret.
And it seemed so obvious, the smell so present,
quiet so necessary,
but my uncle prophesied wildly,
promising life like frantic oracles;
and they only stopped in the morning,
after he had died
and I had begun to shout.
Lounge Town 6/13/2016 |
BEAR LAMENT
You once believed if you could only
crawl inside a bear, its fat and fur,
lick with its stuffy tongue, take on
its ancient shape, its big paw
big paw big paw big paw
heavy-footed plod that keeps
the world-wide earthwork solid, this would
save you, in a crisis. Let you enter
into its cold wise ice bear secret
house, as in old stories. In a desperate
pinch. That it would share
its furry winter dreamtime, insulate
you anyway from all the sharp and lethal
shrapnel in the air, and then the other million
cuts and words and fumes
and viruses and blades. But no,
not anymore. I saw a bear last year,
against the sky, a white one,
rearing up with something of its former
heft. But it was thin as ribs
and growing thinner. Sniffing the brand-new
absences of rightful food
it tastes of ripped-out barren space
erased of meaning. So, scant
comfort there.
Oh bear, what now?
And will the ground
still hold? And how
much longer?
6/3/2016 |
TOUR
Near a shrine in Japan he'd swept the path
and then placed camelia blossoms there.
Or—we had no way of knowing—he'd swept the path
between fallen camellias.
May 26th, 2016 |
PRACTICE
To weep unbidden, to wake
at night in order to weep, to wait
for the whisker on the face of the clock
to twitch again, moving
the dumb day forward—
is this merely practice?
Some believe in heaven,
some in rest. We'll float,
you said. Afterward
we'll float between two worlds—
five bronze beetles
stacked like spoons in one
peony blossom, drugged by lust:
if I came back as a bird
I'd remember that—
until everyone we love
is safe is what you said.