Tag Archives: Poetry

i’ve a new name for it

8 Nov

–the vast neutrality.

 

what glorious lonely can do

4 Nov

how many years did i run and cover over the hole?

not able to know the wholeness

until I stopped

and felt it–

empty,

nothing there,

alone.

 

leave me to it.

don’t soothe me,

it needs to be seen–

i’m lonely for —

union.

lonely aches

behind the sternum,

and leaks out of my eyes.

i’ve the courage now to feel it–

lonely,

and I’m pressing into that bruise.

-letting it be there.

letting is

composting me

letting is

squeezing out juice

yet here i am,  still asking lonely

grant me

courage without aid

without aspirin

without the phone

without the tubes (You and cathode ray).

hobby callings

flattened.

i am headed to flatline

daring  defribulation when

either side of death

is now okay.

the pulse is not mine to keep or lose.

ha, never was.

ARGH,

the tone is way too serious, here.

from lonely comes

hilarity

this serious poem is a

belly laugh!

but first i seem to be

leaning into whatever

had me running

to begin with.

for years.

good god

what!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

night walker

7 Oct

There is a small blooming algae

that has come to the creek

that I walk over,

that I cross in the night

carrying my little baggie of bread for the turtles of all sizes.

The blooming has covered the surface in chartreuse

which swirls now as the turtles swim beneath.

Oh, the mystery of a turtle’s mouth as it lunges

beneath the psychedelic dance of green.

Where to toss the bread becomes a guessing game

of chance. How can this night so much the same

as every other night be a world transformed yet again?

No sky is ever the same;

no tide rises to the exact same spot, ever;

all pleasure is solitary and small and everything.

There are so very few who could understand

how secretly happy I am, in the dark,

so alone,

at last no one to tell about my small, singular,

exploding life.

A woman is a powerful being

in her blossoming

which comes long after

anyone can see,

yet her fragrance

is a potion

blessing invisibly, generously

behind her gypsy grin and laugh,

she, a twirling skirt of ascension.

windexing the back wall of the cave

24 Sep

There are no other caves besides the personal one.

There are no other shadows but my own.

Aloneness at last reflects back to me a clue in separation

that togetherness can mask

for now I see my own puppet story skills

for what they are.

I put on a wicked good show.

This cave seems to lack an exit

so the way out appears to be in —

into the muck of my own waste.

Submerged and miserable,

there are only two options—

drown here or

stretch for breath

and reach untainted ease, at last.

Perhaps i’ve grown so old that the shackles no longer hold my wrists

or the flattery of the shadows is no longer true enough

to hold me sway, awaiting impossible union.

The drying out of this body

a time bomb that I ignite.

The eyes that meet beyond the bomb

do not shadow play anymore,

and once the cave is left

the dark draw has no pull.

 

 

 

the turkey and the chef

17 Nov

In the pan

browning on all sides of

my cubist self–forward, back, and side at once.

edge living

is hot!

 

at times I try to jump from the flame,

my own juice

basting over my head

a humiliating baptism to the one

who has forgotten

the agreement of what’s for dinner.

the hairs on my arms seek like radars

trying to read the flames’ intention; even though,

I signed a waiver.

 

veins pulse while

the heart is in its throws–

 

with or without me along.

I’m  cooked so long

falling off the bone

tender

tender

who sees the anxious fingers

slip into the pan

to satisfy the longing

for a preview bite

of this upcoming feast?

 

 

 

 

 

pain and joy got married

14 Aug

 

Can pain and discomfort glove the hand of plenty bearing gifts?
Joy exists not in spite of but because of obstacles – I assert this morning.
What do we have in the end, after bouts of illness and love, but just ourselves?
And the gift of this self is won in a simple marathon.
Outlasting our every thought, we still exist –
and in the ending miles,
we learn to be there in whatever way we are,
accumulated skeletons,
in need of nothing,
ready for any errand,
sitting in dull evening light,
a raging sunset escaping in rays between our ribs.

brita with legs

3 Apr

the water coming out is pure (sweet even)

some days,

no matter what goes in,

you might have started to notice.

such is the goal; even though,

the process is not understood.

it’s felt,

allowed.

we’re charcoal,

filters of fine mesh,

pulses of electricity,

forward momentum and reversing, too,

which can at times be experienced like plumbing problems

-street elbows full of hairy regret, sludged up, huh?, valves corroded with Why Me?

until it can be felt

deep in a body of an advanced engineering

of nerve pipes dumping

into muscle-sadness storehouses

long ago designed for purification,

yet decommissioned until the managers could awaken

in these Holy Water Manufacturing Plants.

the debris cleared out is not even our own.

the pain

processed

is not personal.

the tears the shudder

the retching

our service

at last,

just working it through

trickling out pure water at times.

thank you and you’re welcome.

 

 

 

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