Like the swamp that holds its secrets low
under layer and layer of mystery and natural history,
killer quicksands and balance lost in bitter-smelling bogs,
the brown beaver worrying a jagged line on a log
is the hidden truth (the proof of kidnapped life),
that lies in the Cherokee word for Fog.
The still winter ground crested by a crust of ice.
From september to march chill days
are founded on a hard premise of frost.
We question our own decisions
wishing for just a ghost of a chance
for revision...am I this cold when I hide
what I am feeling beneath heavy layers of cold?
The warm air is aflame with sunlight
reflecting off the diamond drops of dew
on new green leaves, small bits of green
lost in the gray of a new-born spring day.
Am I as thick as this bank of low lying clouds when
I refuse to see the bad in myself, or the good in you?
Maybe one day long ago it came in on the little feet
of cats, but now the fog just quickens into a deadly white
while it thickens against the hell of hail and sleet.
The storm cannot even drive it away....
and I am buried in this intangible avalanche
of mist and I am at the fulcrum of this balance
of warm air and cold ground,
and what the fog reveals is surprising, like being
kissed on the cheek by a whisper off the lips of a ghost.
This is what the fog reveals...
This is the love unfound by us, but it ended
up being what we depended on the most.
4.4.2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
cost
what she sees most clearly
is a wide white line in the sky
stretching from end to end
more than just a horizon, but
something closer than that...
something that she owns:
her horizon...a herizon.
and as she sees the line
she thinks of him and
of how she once called him, 'mine.'
Once their hearts' soft surreal sadness
mixed with grief and made a mud
that morphed into
a recipe for catastrophe:
one part blood, two parts madness.
And though she mourns for the lies
and the love,
the numb sockets holding hazel
will not cry anymore.
Like clouds that cover a graveyard
no matter how many services,
call them funerals or memorials, or whatever,
the sky will not cry anymore,
and the clouds will not let rain
loose upon the land again.
no. never
no more showers...
Then she, like the other mourners
will disperse:
some in cars,
some in a hearse...
And as the last note of the bell
fades into the stunned
silence of a summer afternoon,
she will unlock the door
and enter the empty house.
march 2002
is a wide white line in the sky
stretching from end to end
more than just a horizon, but
something closer than that...
something that she owns:
her horizon...a herizon.
and as she sees the line
she thinks of him and
of how she once called him, 'mine.'
Once their hearts' soft surreal sadness
mixed with grief and made a mud
that morphed into
a recipe for catastrophe:
one part blood, two parts madness.
And though she mourns for the lies
and the love,
the numb sockets holding hazel
will not cry anymore.
Like clouds that cover a graveyard
no matter how many services,
call them funerals or memorials, or whatever,
the sky will not cry anymore,
and the clouds will not let rain
loose upon the land again.
no. never
no more showers...
Then she, like the other mourners
will disperse:
some in cars,
some in a hearse...
And as the last note of the bell
fades into the stunned
silence of a summer afternoon,
she will unlock the door
and enter the empty house.
march 2002
she hears
the unseen wind whispering
though she struggles to see the effect
of the blustery breeze on trees
blurring the edges of the branches rocking
back and forth as if life had come,
had come at last.
cumulus puckers pouting lips
spouting a drizzle
celestial spittle
flies in the face of the slightly less than perfect
reflection in the window, her face.
the uncertain rain on the glass is an echo
of the tears she still cries for the past...
2.27.2002
though she struggles to see the effect
of the blustery breeze on trees
blurring the edges of the branches rocking
back and forth as if life had come,
had come at last.
cumulus puckers pouting lips
spouting a drizzle
celestial spittle
flies in the face of the slightly less than perfect
reflection in the window, her face.
the uncertain rain on the glass is an echo
of the tears she still cries for the past...
2.27.2002
Daring Great
If only I had wings, I could rise above
Get out from under this sky that weighs on me heavily.
Sometimes I find it difficult to breathe when
Freedom feels too precious, too Paris,
Like a dream of falling only to wake
In the middlenight and look out the window
And see the snow gently fade to rain
Like the book that shows you how
To live up to your promises and be a man,
Shows you how to love again.
If only I had wings, I might smile, while I
Met people on the street, hiding my wings under
A sweatshirt and a baggy overcoat.
The ground could say goodbye to my feet, as I
Soar up through the clouds that hide stars
During Day.
I think I must have been a bird in a past life,
With a brain the size of a fingernail, and feathers.
I would need more postage to send myself hatemail.
But every season I could shed the loathing
I have for myself. Maybe that is why
I am a man now. With opposable thumbs
I can weild a knife and cut
Away the bitterness from my heart
That clogs my spirit's circulation like sausage grease, a
Disturbing Fate.
Maybe that is why my heart is heavy,
I have always been more concerned with How
While sadness filled me slowly,
Like water from a broken dam filling a valley...
And I am full now, but still oddly hollow,
Whatever threshold I had has been reached.
My bowed head casts a long shadow along the beach
And I ache, as with hunger at lunchtime on Sunday
When the sermon is still being preached.
I have asked politely for the world to share
When the world does not even know how to care.
I know this.
I have known this all along, but still I wish
For a narrow way through the
Darkening Gate.
If only I had wings I could walk
Among men with my comfortable secret,
Flight, my sacred consort, guiding me higher,
Past the place where Eagles cry and dive,
And I would be the one who wondered Why
My past cannot be changed. Though I
Stretch and pull and push, not one second or minute,
Day or hour can be rearranged. All the more
Reason to walk among men, follow the strangers to the gate.
Walking, something between standing and running,
Because I do not want to be late, and I cannot wait.
The house becomes a home becomes a house again
When terrified tenants are on the outside looking in,
Defining Wait.
Easy to see why the well is full of wishes and
Nickels and pennies. I fall asleep waiting for
My wishes to come true. Waiting for someone to
Tell me what to do. I grow old waiting for friends to
Show, when their absence is all I have ever known.
Once my search took me to a hundred churches
Looking for answers to unasked questions,
Healing for my hurts:
catcalls for short skirts that flare at the waist,
Daring Great.
If only I had wings, I could fly
Eyes burning with cold
Hair blowing in the wind. And
If you let some of my sins slide, I just
Might win heaven,
And ride my horse and carry my sword
Like Teddy Roosevelt and his rough riders,
Ready to die, just give the word,
Just give me the world...
I expect no less for daring greatly
Having been so blessed lately.
12.18.2001
Get out from under this sky that weighs on me heavily.
Sometimes I find it difficult to breathe when
Freedom feels too precious, too Paris,
Like a dream of falling only to wake
In the middlenight and look out the window
And see the snow gently fade to rain
Like the book that shows you how
To live up to your promises and be a man,
Shows you how to love again.
If only I had wings, I might smile, while I
Met people on the street, hiding my wings under
A sweatshirt and a baggy overcoat.
The ground could say goodbye to my feet, as I
Soar up through the clouds that hide stars
During Day.
I think I must have been a bird in a past life,
With a brain the size of a fingernail, and feathers.
I would need more postage to send myself hatemail.
But every season I could shed the loathing
I have for myself. Maybe that is why
I am a man now. With opposable thumbs
I can weild a knife and cut
Away the bitterness from my heart
That clogs my spirit's circulation like sausage grease, a
Disturbing Fate.
Maybe that is why my heart is heavy,
I have always been more concerned with How
While sadness filled me slowly,
Like water from a broken dam filling a valley...
And I am full now, but still oddly hollow,
Whatever threshold I had has been reached.
My bowed head casts a long shadow along the beach
And I ache, as with hunger at lunchtime on Sunday
When the sermon is still being preached.
I have asked politely for the world to share
When the world does not even know how to care.
I know this.
I have known this all along, but still I wish
For a narrow way through the
Darkening Gate.
If only I had wings I could walk
Among men with my comfortable secret,
Flight, my sacred consort, guiding me higher,
Past the place where Eagles cry and dive,
And I would be the one who wondered Why
My past cannot be changed. Though I
Stretch and pull and push, not one second or minute,
Day or hour can be rearranged. All the more
Reason to walk among men, follow the strangers to the gate.
Walking, something between standing and running,
Because I do not want to be late, and I cannot wait.
The house becomes a home becomes a house again
When terrified tenants are on the outside looking in,
Defining Wait.
Easy to see why the well is full of wishes and
Nickels and pennies. I fall asleep waiting for
My wishes to come true. Waiting for someone to
Tell me what to do. I grow old waiting for friends to
Show, when their absence is all I have ever known.
Once my search took me to a hundred churches
Looking for answers to unasked questions,
Healing for my hurts:
catcalls for short skirts that flare at the waist,
Daring Great.
If only I had wings, I could fly
Eyes burning with cold
Hair blowing in the wind. And
If you let some of my sins slide, I just
Might win heaven,
And ride my horse and carry my sword
Like Teddy Roosevelt and his rough riders,
Ready to die, just give the word,
Just give me the world...
I expect no less for daring greatly
Having been so blessed lately.
12.18.2001
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