mother and father
sit at the head
of the table
one day I suppose
they will come
to my house instead
and I will
take their place.
wrapping paper (tsunami in 2004)
I … just … don’t know what to say about Japan. Heart-breaking. I cannot write about it right now, but I did want to share a piece written back in 2004 during the “Christmas tsumani” in Thailand… I’m still not sure about this, so please leave your comments.
Wrapping Paper (2004):
There is wrapping paper at my door. In black, the headlines:
A tsunami in Thailand and a hundred
thousand lost souls.
In red are the ads, the last great sale at Sears.
I crumple the paper to wrap
red swirl
martini glasses I’m giving this Christmas;
We tear the paper, litter the carpet–
the piles of red and black wrappings, they
begin to lay like bodies.
Oh God, the bodies!
“and the earth quaked mightily and shook down the houses,
wrapped them in dust.
and the sea rose and wrapped its mouth round the children,
swallowed them whole.”
Flotsam litters the carpet. There is nothing left to do here
but pick up the pieces. But there,
there –
God be with the people in Japan, and all those still dealing with the effects of natural disasters from someone who literally cannot imagine it.
night without glasses (haiku)
hazy halos form
everywhere like a sky of
angels, still blurry.
quietly approaching storm (haiku)
clouds are a soft grey
zibeline scarf choking the
neck of the city.
it’s OK to talk about death
like meeting a Grizzly
on a river bank in Alaska —
inevitable
that he will
out run
out swim
out climb
you
but has he decided?
has he felt a similar fear?
what Sunday night feels like
like the slow
melt of muscles into bed
first shivering
then slowly
toes on up
warming, letting go
the couch (haiku)
soft leather, pillows
reach, wrap, magically take me
as their own – day ends.
like pea soup
I feel like I’m dying in these fog filled mornings,
that one orange streetlight a fuzzy eyesore and my mind is buzzing
with the lack of memories.
Somewhere in the daze of the morning drive, listening to the song
the same I heard before I left you last night. The last time
lingering your scent
it freely dances across my sweater and into my nose
Could we go back there and figure things out? I think
the heavy rain makes a beautiful sound when it hits the glass
and slides on down;
I think we might have a chance if we could only take home
the hazy clouds, lay down, and sleep a little
finally sleep a little
[circa 2003?]
cast-off
she says
“i’m sorry
i disappeared, it’s just
i felt that i had been cast-
off, i always feel
that way”
he can’t look her
in the eye
having already
cast his line
downstream.
reading Robert Bly’s "Morning Poems"
Doesn’t matter
How many times
The letters cross my eyes
It remains –
Why this curly mouse?
Why those poems about
Poets,
Those oceans
Filled with rain?
Why those farms, shocks,
That
Conversing with a
Soul…
Come, let’s meet
In a cafe in Maine
I’ll buy the coffee,
You bring the
Letters.