New Old Poems

10 03 2015

Beyond repair

Broken clouds in a broken sky,
still as a hobbyist’s landscape.
Watch it

                         Fall

Slivers appear, fine threads spidering then
pieces of the sun drift down,
sizzling rivers right up
into the dark, beyond.

Stars at daylight. The sky’s gone –
dropping into your upturned palms –
as cool and blue as you imagined it
that one spring day,
lying cross-legged on the lawn,
right sandal dangling,
happy as orange juice,
the smell of your mother’s cooking
bearing you toward eternity.

Your presence is a mystery

Yesterday I saw you by the corner store.
The lamp light cast your shadow long for me,
and I remembered being young in your eyes
when we went places wide and green.High fields rushing past our windows,
storm clouds unfurling on the skyline,
darkening the sunset – that mortal light,

your lips on my neck, murmuring of flight

Some nights I still fall towards the black.

Vacancy

the empty room
the untenanted space,
the features blur
that formed her face.

Three lines meet
to make a corner.
Cornered, my memory
gives no quarter.

The sun’s turned down,
the sky’s boxed in,
when you have no faith
is believing, a sin?

Children scare me

Children scare me.
Their too-solid bodies and
eyes full of expectation.

The quick-silver flicker
of their affection.

Children scare me.
Especially the little ones
who look like tiny bald men,
and possess
a similar affinity
for breasts.

I do not like myself
when I am around children.
I am reminded
of how urgently
I needed
them to like me in school
back when I didn’t know the rules
for being liked.

Mostly though,
children scare me
because I can see myself
someday, holding the hand
of my own little girl
on a Sunday lawn,

the two of us
building castles
out of clouds.

Flowers

That spring day when I had a measure
of joy
or mad energy
I brought these flowers home.

They hang perpendicular.
Fat slobbers of pollen dribbling toward the table.
Chrysanthemums so expired
they could be floating
in a swamp of tea.

That woman in the mirror.

Garlanded with empty bottles,
wreathed in unpaid bills,
she’s an excretion
left on the wall.

They have me.
They’ve always had me.
They’ll always have me.

These broken flowers.
These dry, sapless stems.
I’ll fill the world with them.
I’ll stick them in every corner.
Until she’s choking on the pollen,
subsumed by calamity..

The Last

I remember them,
those late-summer showers
interlaced, with the horizon
all afire – the last
sweet set of summer
how it whispers behind my eyelids.

It is strange
to remember being young
while being young,
but still.

Still. These days,
I am set upon by worries.
Soft pillows, down filled,
each of them pressing down on me.
Pressing the joy
right out of me.

Harried in the morning
I examine my face.
(Lips) parenthesized.
while the exclamation mark
on my br!ow proclaims
the inevitable, but

It is easy to lie
                         down

                                         up
But more satisfying to rise

To jump,
and feel beautiful still.


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