May 2013
23 posts
1 tag
the darkness forms
context to me
immensity —
the sea,
a boundless repetition played
upon infinity.
time seems
to scarcely matter
(no clock — contains
the world)
the sea is
in relentlessness
creating
her own shore
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a hotel, halfway
the view from here is
one of stucco covered steel,
but we’re getting there.
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even memory has greying head
naught can hold the raven black of youth
nor in contrast find simplicity
like that we found at seventeen
when reckoned ourselves close to God
so close, we might dare force his hand
even prime numbers multiply;
in math the hand of God will win
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after noon and after storm
a flutter comes of wing
alighting on the ground below
absent almost of weight
a stranger in a foreign field
suspicious look around
a quickened and a cautious step
a thrust of beak - then home
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little hands have fed the feeder of the birds
then for the songbird scattered bribery
i’ve tried to be content with ‘daily bread’
with portion that’s enough to fill my beak
i’ve tried to be content with songs that pass
a quickly as the morning comes of age
and hope that like migration they return
but one can never tell with things with wings
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leave Moses to the mountain
to negotiate with God
these daisies in the field
sufficient prophecies proclaim
such yellow-faced apostles
leave the congregation awed
whose sermon is no longer than
the pinnacle of May
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i do not seem myself aright until i’ve waded in to pool you’ve spilt to puddle — a Being’s evidence still now, undisturbèd sequestered by a lid with silver glass for glaze atop a mirror, reflective
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i read the ending
skipped ahead
undid plot at the seam
awoke, but couldn’t morn discern
i’d had the sweetest dream
i found the site where secrets crept
away from ear, dislodged
near to the place
where is interred
most every fallen star
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could you prove to me ‘immensity’
with certainty, tonight
i’d gather every doubt amassed
concede, at once “you’re right”
expelling ‘frame of reference’
as lens through which flows all
and heresy the feeling
unshakable — ‘so small’
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there is impending loneliness
as Day slips ‘cross the field
bartering the loveliness
that nighttime kept concealed
brought into smaller focus
amid a spill of stars
horizon echoed ‘lonesomeness’
being both near and far
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the boats that bore our shame
back East from whence it came
to older lands
i hear have ne’er arrived
wherefore the sin inside
a sea shan’t span
swallowed the record be
of sin up by the sea
expunged — the night!
therefore if sea exists
to testify of it
it’s in your eyes
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like heaven — ere old fashioned found and way too hard and long like that forgotten impulse that preceded siren’s song or once tasting the restlessness that pulls a heart to sea and trying to recall the taste’s evasive memory the placement in a quiet room upon a quiet shelf of such a tested tether to an unquieted self when judgement falls upon us regardless whether...
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lafonna:
A Thousand Poems
Between car rides and snapshots, Dickinsian funerals were herded; the coffee changed the tune. We heard lullabies, amidst clamouring for Thai food; the pencil had begun to sway. And so, a tumbling of miracles, against a verdant expanse. Words slipped beside words, fell along like monsoon rain, humming drizzles, rapid storms. You wrote, snake-charmer like, ...
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enter the versiraptor: I can’t end this poem on a... →
lafonna:
I can’t end this poem on a good note. I’m going to crack it open, and if it bleeds, so it will. I don’t mean it to pay homage to any time of the day: the morning (with its promises), the noon (cat-like, indolent), the nightfall (tainted with romance), or midnight (sirens and…
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whisper me into a song
for by your quiet voice comes Spring
late though no one’s waited long
perfectly timed, everything
if only known by hindsight vision
gentle, now trust all we’ve seen
welcome autumn’s low division
parting almost everything
as did days before we noticed
just how short a day’d become
or how long some night unfolded
before silence became numb
before certainty defeated...
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i’ve circled numbered columns
there cautiously approach
but timid, and with downcast eyes
lest i should stand too close
and by an interference
unwittingly offend
therefore i stand awed — quite nearby
where holy ground begins
and if mine eye’s a brave one
if could my heart be still
i might a glance or one step dare
to perish in the thrill
of finding banshee’s silence
of focus...
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i count hand’s breadth between us
i know that days aren’t long
nor memory abiding
even now, the fading song
is dim like tear-soaked vision
is sweet — i’m told — like wine
i imagine, as narrow as prison
no more true to the senses than time
our years, they have doubled between us
life is not long, i know
so, mustn’t a memory fade, then
why then must one do it so slow
giving...
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legacy, legacy (left behind)
i’ll be timid with the marks i leave
timid with my praise
i’ll meek with pencil shy approach
and — tender — mark my place
embrace with small parenthesis
the thoughts we turn in mind
but never brazen be enough
to ever underline
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Tonight I held your daughter for longer than you know, thinking of all those stories on the news and how we could become any one of them, any one at all - or else we could be something entirely different; something that never makes headlines but is nevertheless altogether newsworthy.
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i fumbled for a pencil
as a brain does for the thoughts
that have entertained the ages
silencing the gnaws of doubt
and traced the line of faint graphite
back just for one to see
a secret safe if not forgot
faith’s base — identity!
April 2013
40 posts
1 tag
there is rain upon the cedar house for birds
who silent have retreated to the trees
but shall return ere long to source for worms
such muddy, giving ground yields everything
today the air is heavy, cold and dense
befitting of an early turn of Spring
the warmth, indeed the sun, seem ages hence
just for today let gray be everything
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i am awakened from the nightmare
and i hear the sound of birds
i see clear the face of friendship
feel the warmth and weight of words
shake the haze of too much sleep off
rubbing bleariness from eyes
put away the darkness thick and deep
the day is new but it is bright
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sunset poem posted in the early morning because...
i’ll set tonight with such a sun
as — sleeping — drips from sky
and colors wildly as she does
with her prismatic sight
and maybe if a passer blinks
a swatch of bruise — will fade
and maybe if my fingers reach
horizon, it will ache
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r e t ro s p e ct
. I fear falling asleep — afraid when i awaken it will be 1986 again; everything an endless repeat — just the same, same, same, same save the multiplied sense of Dread. The boy on the playground, dead two weeks after graduation. The parents, doomed even in this world of ‘free will.’ The...
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storm before the calm
it falls in quiet semblance
an evidence of Days
a piece machined to fit just so
time’s opportunity
it goes in silent variance
passes, as things will
delayed by naught but entropy
‘til even that is still
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the dead must have the steady heart seems God requires for prayer the certainty we wish in faith to outline Spectacles like ones we feel when answers almost easy, cringe with doubt or worse — when faith lies comatose but resists dying out
“My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.”
– Virginia Woolf (via iamdeeplyrooted)
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“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say...”
– Fred Rogers (via themightierthor)
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e n o r m i t y
whose heart doesn’t ache for the meaningful sound of the ocean whose soul doesn’t need the enormity found in the sea who isn’t made small when the breakers let go of their roaring who here could not think that engulfed’s what existence should be
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gray like the world when behind veil of fog dim like the heart with its numbness towards spring low like the sun when reluctant to rise spent like the shell of a once living thing gray like a hemisphere going to sleep dim like the brightness of thought weighted down low like a quiet regret in the grave spent like an echo of measureless sound —
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the sky it comes in layers
like the onset of a dream
innumerable divisions
imperceptible between
the yellow gilded golden
turning early morning green
the west, now grey with jealousy
resolves to ‘make a scene’
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A Victim of Convenience: Love is a line I heard... →
victim-of-convenience:
Love is a line I heard once in a dimly lit theatre uttered by a harlequin but coveted by a queen and all around me eyes were damp with honest sentiment rows of tender spirits knew exactly what it meant I thought the lighting didn’t suit the scene Love is a song someone sung once in a crowded cafe
Maybe it is the fact that it is finally Springtime, or perhaps Fridays...
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what was it that first graced us fuel by which the fire came? i’ve never thought to question whether spark, kindling or flame we burned! — what else could matter? else inflamed result betray — a little fire’s sufficient we’ve enough warmth for today
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one can tell a traveler by the distance in his eyes
predict a season by the scent of forest after rain
enclose within a heartbeat every secret, not just mine
divine the past by what at mere suggestion causes pain
one may know the blessed by the way they speak of home
or measure through the rings of trees and thereby know the snows
one may confuse for lost the found when such a sum has gone...
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i will not speak it — not aloud though sometime in my heart where not a whisper’s heard by crowd it’s settled as the weight of that presumptive knowledge like heaven — like a fear and like familiarity falling upon the ear
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divine — for me — locations where the morning might — be hid with its warmth with its light with its new promises
find for me the precious spot where “they” have stored the light but ne’er forget one undisclosed where we have laid by night
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traffic bleats a lullaby of morning the sun is indecisive yet to warm those who still teeter upon ‘awoken‘ but still have taken morning by the arm resolved to wade another day of doings letting some tender coffee fill their cup how can that some still dream not be a true thing? spin quiet, World — lest we are woken up
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A Victim of Convenience: He told you he was... →
victim-of-convenience:
He told you he was magic and a thousand other things the puppeteer sings to his hollow toys while tightening the strings so you practiced the illusion till you learned how to believe and hid your eyes behind the handkerchiefs he pulled out of his sleeve Now your wooden heart’s grown heavy and…
“and you love it ‘cause it breaks you
and you fear it for the...
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it’s doubtful there are better days than this when simply be April sudden decides already i’ve forgotten March exists forgotten Winter’s paralyzing kiss or that a day than this could be besides all’s quiet as the sun slips off the world as in her wake is left a lilac sky and cycles old — how many set before? the thought is more than evening ought have borne how...
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oh preacher, i tug at thy cuff! for mustn’t a heaven be long an infinity ample enough for measuring all that has gone? oh sainthood, i pull at thy sleeve i want the white robing — and yet are we certain eternity be long enough for a heart to forget?
