These Days

my language
is a diminished shape

repeated
more than breaks

and when alone
none at all

Blue Angels

Those hard engines
and sharp wings,
they are flying in

low and steady
above our heads
then whoosh -

climb into the sky,
cold hard blue
and gleam of light.

Word Counts

Words: 2
Lines: 2
Characters 31

Words: 8
Lines: 6
Characters: 65

Words: 13
Lines: 10
Characters: 102

I will get there eventually,
working my way towards you

Words: 31
Lines: 17
Characters: 197

Words: 37
Lines: 21
Characters: 234

Words: 43
Lines: 25
Characters: 271

Words: 49
Lines: 29
Characters: 308

From a distance, getting closer

Words: 60
Lines: 35
Characters: 377

Words: 66
Lines: 39
Characters: 414

To find you,
almost,
almost,
here.

something died inside the wall

died something

wall the inside

    /\  

   e d

For A Story to Become

For a story to become
the story in your mind,
not much is needed to be.

Four walls, a door or two,
a window that looks out,
and outside, it is night,

The dead hour, quiet
but for the desires
swimming in the room.

As such these are called -
spikes of pain
and dulled emptiness,

Oh, the things you'll do
to make them go away.
The things you wish to do...

A Polaroid

A long match box.
Inside, a cocoon
gestates metamorphosis

While you watch
with chin on arms,
willing life at your command.

But in the night,
while you sleep,
the cocoon silk is broken.

A long match box.
Inside, a cocoon's
mystery stays hidden.

A Broad Stroke for Living

I cannot write my way back to your good grace,

the line is cut, the words returned, undeliverable.

And if we were to believe we are born just once,

will die just once, and all the choices in between

are ours to make the most of what we could,

choose then, with all the love and care,

to give entirely - in whatever ways that we felt best,

above our fear, shame and pride - ourselves,

so to live the questions that will be asked

as we crawl and skip and stride and shuffle

across the years - not to find the answers,

but to realize a life in all its possibilities

fully lived, never with regret, never be alone.

Sunday August 28

A lazy Sunday, twenty minutes drive
between ranch homes, dry hills,
trees with their branches swaying
shadows on the hot afternoon road,
and I have arrived. Or,

One doesn't arrive at all, but rather
like the way things enter a house,
neglected and gathering dust,
fall between stacked boxes,
a hard to reach corner, and settled there,

In the days of not remembered,
without you, and you, and you,
without the sins of give and take,
just days passing without measure,
blending into the next, dissolving

Into scenes on repeat -
Solace in music in car,
solitary walks down crowded streets,
feelings in the colors of sky and water,
changing seasons and changing lights,

Memories fleeting, and going nowhere.

The Yard is Bordered with Roses

The yard is bordered with roses
where once there was a fence.
The branches rose to form an arch
opening into the neighbor's.
And my mother is alive again,
trimming and weeding.

I do not know the significance
of the message in my dream,
a caution, or an assurance
of what I have done or will do.

I yearn for a compass,
not the constant forgets, bickers,
made up rules, made up reasons,
decisions questioned over and over.

The circle is worn to a trench now,
but I'm still fighting my way out.

The securities of fences, the limitations,
the roses bloom, possibilities open.
I know the answers to my own questions,
but why do I still fail at living?

Smooth

the sea                      rolling us                
rushes over us -             over and over
wild shards of magma -       in the frictional waves

rolling us                   from the sea floor
over and over                out of the tides
in the frictional waves      onto the shores

from the sea floor           scattered about
out of the tides             in all shapes and sizes
onto the shores              now smooth as glass

scattered about              pieces of us
in all shapes and sizes      reflecting light
now smooth as glass          to be picked up

pieces of us                 pieces of us
reflecting light             reflecting light
to be picked up              to be tossed away

June

Here are two poems, but the same. The first is an earlier version. The first is more condensed, while the latter was expanded upon. I thought some choice words in the first may create images that distract rather than help with the flow of the poem. Maybe I'll keep working to come up with a final version.


Don't think of the road ahead,
you'll walk that way soon enough.
Ponder the sicks caught in the now
over lunch - full plates, cold Sprite;
dig in your fork, plunge in your straw.

Our cousin's virus ran amok,
but that will all end soon enough.
And the uncle, lucky man,
snipped the cancer in the bud,
knock on wood, the curse is broken.

Would you like a cup of tea?
Have the last of the custard tart,
shrimp dumpling, chicken feet.
Morsels of flavors on your tongue
burst in the mouth, fill your belly.

Don't let them plug me with the tube
depriving me all pleasures of scents.
Shoot me then, while I'm still breathing,
before feebleness reduced me
to a diminishing of nothing,

Handed on a platter, all skin and bones.





No need to look at the path ahead,
you're already on the way.
Think of the sicks caught in the bind
over lunch - full plates, cold Sprite;
dig in your fork, plunge in your straw.

The cousin's seizures ran him down
but now at last he's on the mend,
give or take six months or less
to smooth out the l's, uncurl the r's
back to their straight and proper rhythms.

And our uncle, what lucky man,
unlike his mother and his brothers,
sister and cousin in rested peace,
snipped the cancer in the bud,
knock on wood, the curse is broken.

We should drink a cup of tea
in honor of family and good health,
eat the last of the custard tart,
empty the plates, down the pop,
savor the flavor in our mouths.

The day may come to us yet
when stale air and tap water
are the only food we taste,
and what is left of life
is fed in slow, narrow drip

Straight to our bellies
in bodies slaved to the bed,
all skin and all bones.

From

From dis-ease,
bring me ease.

From dark days,
bring me light.

From a thought,
to a breath

Besides me,
love.

You Got to Toe the Line

You got to toe the line,
anticipate the falling off,
go there, the edge -

Sound footing is your enemy,
so are the familiar drones
of sorrow, ecstasy, pain.

Speak devil with your words
whisper in their ears,
be the eyes in the walls.

We should all live in a jitter
loosen from our skins,
shaken out of our cores

Like the violence
from which we were born -
explosions, acceleration,

Kill, no compromise.

On Writing

Everyone is going to read this poem
then ask, may I? They will take
these words bore out of nothing,
will added to, rearranged,
crossed out and replaced,
this won’t be mine, anymore.
Take it. Meanings
are nothing, can mean
a thousand things,
but not a single word here
will mean what I just said.

I’m just a mind, waiting.
Let this take life in your universe -
purposeful, and full of filigrees.