I want to wear your warmth
like a robe and feel it brush
against my numbing skin.
Better yet, empty your golden
barrels down and let me drown
a beautiful bouyant burning.
(I think I was cold when I wrote this, remember when I promised poems I was enjoying the very loose definition of the word and at no pointdi I add any evaluative adjectives)
Thursday, August 6, 2009
March 30, 2009
The swallows that spin like
ashes down this long
green valley are brave and do
not need my weak poetry
to sustain them.
They are instead just
the weightless product of some
avian fire, burning crows by the murder.
And my poetry is no more wind to them
than they are breath to me,
my featherless lungs still waiting.
ashes down this long
green valley are brave and do
not need my weak poetry
to sustain them.
They are instead just
the weightless product of some
avian fire, burning crows by the murder.
And my poetry is no more wind to them
than they are breath to me,
my featherless lungs still waiting.
March 29, 2009
The thunder i thought I heard
is nothing more than a passing plane
and the storm I hoped for is still
patient in the wings.
Perhaps I can coax him onto stage
with a short prologue about precipitation
or a well-written intorduction
from the chorus.
Maybe the old Broadway hook can
pull him from his cloudy dressing room
assuming his thunderous vocal warm-ups
have made him miss his cue.
is nothing more than a passing plane
and the storm I hoped for is still
patient in the wings.
Perhaps I can coax him onto stage
with a short prologue about precipitation
or a well-written intorduction
from the chorus.
Maybe the old Broadway hook can
pull him from his cloudy dressing room
assuming his thunderous vocal warm-ups
have made him miss his cue.
March 28, 2009
Catch and Release
I have tried to write this poem
oem many times. It is
about a girl I know who
walks the walls of
and old cabin, looking
for resting moths.
Once found she captures
them by the wings and flings
them into the open sky.
She says she loves to watch them fly.
I have postulated in earlier
drafts that she throws the
creatures as she herself
wants to be plucked and thrown.
I think instead, though, it is I
who needs the heavy hand hand
to take me from this ancient wall-
throw me into a fluttering oblivion.
I have tried to write this poem
oem many times. It is
about a girl I know who
walks the walls of
and old cabin, looking
for resting moths.
Once found she captures
them by the wings and flings
them into the open sky.
She says she loves to watch them fly.
I have postulated in earlier
drafts that she throws the
creatures as she herself
wants to be plucked and thrown.
I think instead, though, it is I
who needs the heavy hand hand
to take me from this ancient wall-
throw me into a fluttering oblivion.
March 27, 2009
The southeastern city of Lyon
smells of gingerbread and cigarettes.
Standing at it's airport terminal
(named for some famous French author)
I wait in English for a mountain bound bus
to carry me and my luggage far from here.
Waiting with me are a gaggle of boarders
sure to have marijuana in one of their many pockets
a Midwestern couple whose orthapedic shoes reveal them
and a quiet businessman who's been sittting on his suitcase like a stool.
As the bus pulls up they line up
like migrant workers and feed their tickets
to the nameless driver.
Before closing the door he steps outside
to smoke a cigarette.
I can only assume his wife is at home
baking gingerbread.
One Lyonese couple just doing their part.
smells of gingerbread and cigarettes.
Standing at it's airport terminal
(named for some famous French author)
I wait in English for a mountain bound bus
to carry me and my luggage far from here.
Waiting with me are a gaggle of boarders
sure to have marijuana in one of their many pockets
a Midwestern couple whose orthapedic shoes reveal them
and a quiet businessman who's been sittting on his suitcase like a stool.
As the bus pulls up they line up
like migrant workers and feed their tickets
to the nameless driver.
Before closing the door he steps outside
to smoke a cigarette.
I can only assume his wife is at home
baking gingerbread.
One Lyonese couple just doing their part.
March 26, 2009
And I am back,
now far from home and
its ever-closing walls.
Now far from the tree
and all the apples who fell so close.
now far from home and
its ever-closing walls.
Now far from the tree
and all the apples who fell so close.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
March 25, 2009
And here on the top shelf of the world
between stones that have never moved
and the mountain cactus that flowers
like some unworn corsage,
I have come to sit and write this
unwritten poem.
I am sure that I am not the first
to poetically describe the snaking stream
that leaps halfway down the mountain.
And I am sure that I am not the first
to pen a short heroic couplet about
the snow that crowns the regal mountain's peaks
and how like chipping paint it peels away.
The sky ahs long now been a subject
of admiration and the prima donna
that is the sun, with her grand exits and
entrances will no longer earn my ink.
I think, instead, the poem I am
here to write is of a small ant
who has with his sticky legs been
climbing in and out of my Alpine landscape.
My poem will not begin or end with
him, it will only graze him as a tangent
does an arc, as I am sure his eyes have noticed
and unnoticed me, a small god
sitting on a rock that is the world.
between stones that have never moved
and the mountain cactus that flowers
like some unworn corsage,
I have come to sit and write this
unwritten poem.
I am sure that I am not the first
to poetically describe the snaking stream
that leaps halfway down the mountain.
And I am sure that I am not the first
to pen a short heroic couplet about
the snow that crowns the regal mountain's peaks
and how like chipping paint it peels away.
The sky ahs long now been a subject
of admiration and the prima donna
that is the sun, with her grand exits and
entrances will no longer earn my ink.
I think, instead, the poem I am
here to write is of a small ant
who has with his sticky legs been
climbing in and out of my Alpine landscape.
My poem will not begin or end with
him, it will only graze him as a tangent
does an arc, as I am sure his eyes have noticed
and unnoticed me, a small god
sitting on a rock that is the world.
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