“Can’t you fucking see they’re waiting for us?
Can’t you see the light is green,
but the van refuses to move?
Why are you just standing there? Here?
We can cross!”
I rush my legs to catch this thought—
The light flicks red against the hood of some other car
and I feel my heel trip in air but escape the oncomer—
Mom walks, some paces behind, within the traffic,
head held high and I begin to realize
I’m not the only one on this road.
Posts published in “Poems”
I tripped
while retrieving this,
letting my thoughts,
like a calling,
stumble my way
as I
forgot the hamper was behind me.
Prior, I
shaved clean my
soul patch
and began to ponder,
“what should be written?”
The stalling of a parking lot’s progress
mimicked me for a second—
the fidget of eyes—
and, within that epiphanic second, I
found solace in the ruled-blue pages
of this draft.
for all i’ve done, i know you wouldn’t know
how many cells in this brain hold memories of
you and not of being there, not being able to
unlock these chains of in-security, obstacles i
never thought about all that much until you
brought freedom to this servant of thought
unlit and shining with reflections reflecting from
you,
you,
you,
i blame the sun for breaking one day as all;
i blame the moon for showing change can come,
go, come, go, wax, wane, wax, wane, rise, fall;
i blame the breeze for showing tranquilities are
commonplace, daily, forgotten until left or leaving;
still, i blame the trees for waving without welcoming
the birds, the squirrells, the nests unfurled and grounded
without hands around to clasp them closer to a beating
that drowns the world in
second-
silence-
second-
silence-
second-
silence-
there was an attic
limping/lifted, i crawled the stairs
to find the memories forgotten yet there
yet in this mind’s eye they will never leave for i know them too well;
the roundness of the plastic,
the bucking of the horse,
the little lamb’s words so comforting still
in this attic,
this compartment box opened and sprawled with heat,
in this attic laid all my dreams once given, now taken-placed from view;
is it right to forget that which was so once wanted,
so lived ’til forgotten in fore-given’ess?
these sweat’d flakes of ice fall prey to finger’s tidyngs,
making art in art so clear,
pushing from place ’til image nears
and fallen these eyes become,
as relenting thought’s forcings
break ‘part the ‘cicles,
paving way for unpump’d heart
in journey from fill’d to froze to molten start.
with these
whisper-wing’ed,
lacklust’ words
i find nothing
is as safe
in breeze
as mind.
Within a thousand shining/smiling days, your rays find way to lay upon air, upon cloud-less sky of eyes in ‘guise, fallen-razed along ‘rizon’s edge, stretched-stretching ‘yond the view of you.
i have no goals,
merely
fallen logs
not yet fashioned into bridges.
Though made of holly bush a maze may be
— with tower’d slopes on leaves haze’d green,
and darken’d nests of space laid seen
‘tween the branches hunched in lean —
one may find this twisting root unsheathed
to be but gentle Atlas of ‘Rachnid’s silken’sea
from mind of mine to you,
Ocean, my
Mother Waving
within this sphere of light upon the surf
in broken lines shining
shining upon the shadow’d crest of edge of tide;
as flow these crashes, tumble’d, come
lightning caught in fever’d gulp of wave
as though
as though
as though breaking to be broken from the breeze of buoyed, blister’d Moon