hazy halos form
everywhere like a sky of
angels, still blurry.
-
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
youbut 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
-
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 scentit 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.
-
view from an airplane
What causes us to
Rush?
Whole lives spent harried, hurried,
I too have always felt
Rushed
To get to this point yet
I’m not old enough yet
To understand why
Look at the cars in traffic
Snaking their way to and from
In a steady stream
Rushing, rushing
Unaware of this view.
-
like climbing vines of ivy
long graceful fingers
naked
and growing like ivy
up pale cheekbones
leaving only the eyes
intentdo you ever
look in the mirror
and feel that fear –
climbing vine of panic
chokingwhich hands are real?
the longer you stare
the more those leaves of
nerves pressing
belong to someone else
the more those eyes
grow sparkling in wicked
suspicion.
Poetry by JC Snyder 