Sending poetry to the world
i want to be like so many
rows of seeds planted
over hard long years, who
now in the light of new sun
carefully test a path.
i want to be groomed to grow
tall, like a tomato plant up a rod.
but i am a poet, a seeker.
a dandelion unplanted, unplanned,
so ruinous to fields
but joyous to winds.
Man in boat, alone with book,
Sighs mightily. Looks skyward.
Mallards, in pairs, sail close,
Circling for bread, expectant.
Clouds above, seek resolve, then
Resoundingly, give their load a rest.
Humble water leaps, so tickled, and
Time, meanwhile, whispers advice to
Cattails: souls who look, circle, seek
Should rest, content with the rustling.
Kiss my hip bones if
you want to know me.
Stubborn mouth, a lack
of venture grounds you.
Hip bones are grave lovers.
If you kiss mine, you’ll
taste certain ash and stars
promised again, so soon.
some people say
“the die is cast”
when they should say “I have taken my turn,
I have made my bed,
and must now lie down to rest
with all these decisions.”
each minute my hair greys, I can either
believe the earth spins in dark space alone or
expel hot air into a spring blue sky with purpose.
Soft bed of snow in a dark forest, two bodies breathe.
Inhale –
we feel the cold burden, the dead weight,
it presses for answers as our chests fight to rise, rise, rise …
Exhale–
gratefully, audibly. When it’s over, snow settles
on our eyelids with the lightest touch. We, in ancient silence,
lay breathless.
Finally~
you say as night settles
for the progress of the day.
as soon as you’re born
all the blood of daily pin pricks pile like so many dried leaves
tossed by a breezy blood orange moon with eyes like a wise old owl.
Finally, you say.
Wipe a finger
across a dusty bookshelf full of old photographs
to feel the only truth
known to owls, and moons.
all these ghosts whisper –
do not be afraid.
all is happening for a reason
this winter cold does not last
and the body, eventually,
turns back to ash.
hi all – I felt like featuring some poems from my great-grandmother’s earliest text – Silver Threads (Alice B. Johnson, Layren Press: 1938). This one goes out to my cousin tonight. i love this poem (and hope you read it someday JRB)
Forget the Past
“Forget the past,”
A small voice said,
“Bury it deeper
Than the dead.
Bury it deeper
Than the dead,
A ghost of fear
Might raise its head.
Shades of remorse
Regret has fed,
Bury them deeper
Than the dead.”
“Forget the past,
The past is dead,
To-day is yours!”
The small voice said.
thrown on a canvas
and left to dry
one green streak remains
living beating paint
indomitable
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