Category: poetry

the mornings are the hardest.
i wake with thoughts of you
weighing on my chest
more heavy than pneumonia.
your name has crawled its way
into every corner of my lungs,
and each morning i must cough it out
into muffled pillows,
with slow deep breathes,
until the chest burns
and eyes water.

We called men like him cowards,

Because he refused to fight

And murder civilians.

Because he shot his officer in the back.

Because he came home and shot himself

Instead.

We call men like him cowards.

Because the rest of us could never understand:

The pain in his heart;

The sinking gut;

The explosions in his head.

We didn’t get the joke:

That cryptic clarity

That needed to be

put to rest.

We call them cowards

We call them

We call

We.

Cowards.

My heart is the furnace,
That feeds on my blood,
My lungs are the bellows,
Stoking the flames,
The mere act of being,
Is all consuming,
With life and death hidden,
Throughout the veins.
Heart as furnace,
Lungs as bellows,
Pull the blood through,
And burn it away,
Transfusions are needed,
To prolong the process,
Yet finding the outcome,
Is always the same.
Heart of furnace,
Lungs of bellows,
The heat of living,
Is what we have gained,
We carry it with us,
In the guise of knowledge,
Yet fearfully speaking,
It’s smoldering name.

I’ve decided to stop speaking,

and I feel it’s a wise decision.

–

I still move my lips,

but no sounds come out,

and no one seems to notice.

–

I still smile at friends,

buy a round of drinks,

and I am always cordial.

–

I still go to the bars,

drink down my drinks,

and we are always happy.

–

Yes, I’ve decided to stop speaking,

and I feel it’s a wise decision.

–

Why speak at all when there’s nothing to say?

I’ll see you tomorrow.

It’s 2 for 1 Tuesdays.

1. Autumn, and with it the dead fruit bloody with the life of yesterday, spilled over, awake through the leaves, the apples, the fallen piecemeal, people strolling through the yellow memories of childhood; sepia toned against the decayed umber shadows in their complacency. The raw earth, through tones of yellow, red and bone harvest speaks of flesh and the closing rhythm of the sun; staccato of the moon. The air pleads for ice.

2. The young man stands on street corner concrete dreams coercing the pale earth of his heart; aquamarine desert at sunrise. The scabs of the city writhe, scrape by with the blaring of car horn, muffler spoke and wheel; everyone moving. The moon and the ancestral star stare down wide-eyed over the neon emblazoned night; his heart is weeping, peeled back, horn shredded his own hands owning the scraping tool. Concrete dreams covering the pale earth of his heart; ocean over the desert at sunrise.

the

perfect

sunrise spreads

like a warm blanket

wrapping around

a lover’s face –

with the

mist

and

mysteries

of the night,

burning off

at first

light.

Two rivers converged,
Their contents combined.
Giving birth to a swirl of life.
From chaos came order,
from void arose form.
A new being danced into the light.

It started so small,
It could barely be seen.
Surroundings and self intertwined.
But the pattern grew larger,
A whirlpool formed.
And with that was its selfhood defined.

As water flowed through,
It twisted in bliss.
Its soul was the cool summer rains.
But its vigor diminished,
As autumn approached.
And the cyclone’s source waters soon waned.

Then the whirlpool said:
“What’s it like to be dead?”
But the water which asked this had gone.
As new water flowed in,
It asked yet again.
But it realized the question was wrong.

“If I’m always changing,
My life but a flow,
How can there be hope that I’ll last?
“When the self that I was,
While pondering death,
In this moment, already has passed?”

As its channels dried up,
It felt itself fade.
Going back into that which it came.
Without fear. Without sorrow.
As it was born again.
Resurrected with each spring’s new rain.

~r

Peace – impossible,

Health – understated.

Movements – powerful,

Inflation – accelerated.

Breathing – essential,

Stress – overrated.

Politics – mental,

Life – calculated.

Soon,

Fate will let her hair down,
falling like
a golden fleece,
to wrap us in the warmth
of unobtainable dreams.

Soon,

Fate will let her hair down,
falling like
a gentle snow,
to help shed new light
on the dead and dying.

Hopefully soon,

Fate will let her hair down,
and with a grin,
let something good shake loose
from behind her ears.

In the garden, children play,
Fresh petals tease unblemished skin.
Young eyes create the universe,
Unbounded by memory or anticipation.
Wordless but for laughter,
Without definition all is possible.
Stomach full and mind empty,
All is blissful.

In the fields, the young toil,
Backs grow strong with life’s labor.
Deft hands cary the load of old and new.
Love is made to a world of named things,
Children born and cared for,
Tired bodies sleep soundly.

In the forest, the old travel,
Laden with possessions, unknowns regarded with fear.
Patterned behavior flows from patterened minds.
Clinging to good with eyes on salvation.

On the mountain, death sits,
The world illuminated in blood and fire.

~r

A December sunrise over New Mexico brings an end

to the embryonic slumber of this strange girl’s earthen hovel.

Stepping outside to piss,

a stream splashes gorges through the frosted ground as

steam rises to the occasion.

On the eastern horizon,

the sun pokes his golden thorns over

the tattered edges of the Sangre De Cristo Mountains. Shadows disappear

as the glowing aura sprinkles a dash of tangerine below,

soft like baby’s breath. Bashful stars mill about

in the violet currents to the west.

Tipsy-toed, they curtsy and laugh

and kiss their farewells

to midnight’s glistening dew.

The bitter cold encapsulates, breathing deep to

suck with scorched lungs just

for a taste of something so sweet,

so frigid,

that it breaks the skin on morning teeth.

A coyote caterwauls to the dimmed moon, crying for her capitulation

to the onslaught of day,

the beast’s cackles ring of freedom’s waking revelry.

But nothing else.

No words,

no catch phrases or wasted breath from those

who buzz or whiz or clamor or curse.

All are frozen dead in their beds

as the wind whirls and gusts scatter dust

from brittle sagebrush needles.

Breaking trance,

her subtle call from the squatty shelter shatters lonely silence,

as this desert maiden before me

paces barefoot on sandstone steps.

With eyes that sparkle like winter jasmine

her whisper nibbles on my ear,

“Coffee?”

The simplicity is overwhelming.

“Absolutely.”

“Hello everyone, how you doing tonigh?
I have something interesting planned…
My poem for you is unique, and here’s why:
…I’m not sure just when it began…

I came into this place a short while ago,
and was struck by a strange de ja vu…
And I feel it. Right now, as my words fill this space,
And I gaze out and see all of you…

This really is strange, but I think I know why,
This poem is set, well… right now.
This poem consists of this poem itself,
And myself as I read it aloud.

And all of yourselves as these words cross your mind,
which invite you to subtly feel…
That this is the moment this poem belongs.
The moment this poem was real.

As soon as I’m done, these words will return,
To just ink on a page of this book.
They’ll wait there like stones for as long as it takes,
For some reader to give them a look.

And when that reader reads, they’ll project themselves here,
As far as their imagination allows.
They’ll have their own image, but they’ll never know,
How we all feel being here now.

I’m still not so sure when this poem began,
Or if it will ever be through…
But I’ve come to a place where I’m moved to extend,
A humble and heartfelt
Thank You.”

~r

1.

two men finely dressed

for each other take their time

stepping past photos of middle america.

on the wall hangs a photo of a man

with no front teeth . his daughter

wipes her eyes in the doorframe of a trailer.

the two men move away considering each other.

their coattails dripping rain water across the floor.

2.

two lovers stand facing away from the walls.

they bicker gently over which room

to enter first. she is much prettier than him.

he must have a heart of gold or pockets lined with it.

there is no other way she could love him, not with all that

bickering.

someone has just farted wearing 200 dollar

cowboy boots in portland.

3.

Every man in this town wears grey.

the women flirt with their eye glasses

like old maid librarians cooking

single meals in single pans

late at night waiting for the phone to ring.

Tell her of sunshine always

tell her of how you rushed to find the words

and put the book back on the shelf

and the vicious sanctimony that arose in that moment forever

darkened the shadows of yourself against the emblazoned tomb of the world

Tell her of sunshine and

the juxtaposition of those intrepid words will incite the violence of love within her.

tell her of sunshine

and she will hear within it the sorrowful moans of those in airplanes overhead

begging in silence to the stewardess for water.

tell her of the cracked pebbles beneath the shadows of crows overlooking the stoplights and of the those with the tongues blackened with the questions of tomorrow

tell her of sunshine