Poets need to find a way
past their watchdogs
you know the ones--
the mouthy mutts who yap
in your mind's ear as you write
not good enough
you have captured nothing but dust motes
you need to take a nap
a powder
a long walk off a short pier
this is not good enough
you're not good enough
to be spending your time scratching
on this page
leave the scratching to us
we're dogs and we're good at it
Poets need to build strong kennels
with dog runs constructed
away from their hearts
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Missing the First Day of School
Missing the First Day of School
A corner bobbing with backpacks
and parents standing sentinel
a brood of not-quite babies
bounces aboard the yellow school bus
Mothers and Fathers,
cross-armed, lips pressed,
walk in a pageant of pride
and tears back to their homes
In six primary hours
the children will return
hungry, tired, talking
of teachers and crayons
new friends and lunchbox
treats: home again
safe and sound
In a different town
another mother
hides behind drawn curtains
sits with a cold cup of coffee
imagines her missing boy
how tall he might be now
and, somewhere, another father
takes the route that doesn't pass by
his missing daughter's school
he cannot bear to see her classmates
stepping with joy into
new books, shiny hallways
the treacherous fraud of tomorrows
The missing children play only
in their parents' nightmares
in a schoolyard of vacant slides
and sad swings that sway
into the forever empty future
A corner bobbing with backpacks
and parents standing sentinel
a brood of not-quite babies
bounces aboard the yellow school bus
Mothers and Fathers,
cross-armed, lips pressed,
walk in a pageant of pride
and tears back to their homes
In six primary hours
the children will return
hungry, tired, talking
of teachers and crayons
new friends and lunchbox
treats: home again
safe and sound
In a different town
another mother
hides behind drawn curtains
sits with a cold cup of coffee
imagines her missing boy
how tall he might be now
and, somewhere, another father
takes the route that doesn't pass by
his missing daughter's school
he cannot bear to see her classmates
stepping with joy into
new books, shiny hallways
the treacherous fraud of tomorrows
The missing children play only
in their parents' nightmares
in a schoolyard of vacant slides
and sad swings that sway
into the forever empty future
If Love Were a Bead
If Love Were a Bead
First
Index finger
tap, tap, tapping
on an urgent knee
over a swinging foot
oncology waiting room
Later
My brother, bald, in silhouette
against the setting sun
outside the window on 6-West
My father,
beside the wheelchair
holding his son's head erect
They stare
toward the horizon
Backlit in fiery orange
luminous
suspended in glowing gold cloud
each the wing of an insect
captured forever in a teardrop of amber
If love were a bead
I'd wear them always around my neck
First
Index finger
tap, tap, tapping
on an urgent knee
over a swinging foot
oncology waiting room
Later
My brother, bald, in silhouette
against the setting sun
outside the window on 6-West
My father,
beside the wheelchair
holding his son's head erect
They stare
toward the horizon
Backlit in fiery orange
luminous
suspended in glowing gold cloud
each the wing of an insect
captured forever in a teardrop of amber
If love were a bead
I'd wear them always around my neck
January 5PM: Central Time
January 5 PM: Central Time
Between the worlds
of daylight and dusk
there is a sudden stop
a dot of time
when Hope
tenderly tending the fluid silver light
pulls herself up short
to ask:
Is it too late?
Am I dying with the fading sun?
The question shivers my soul.
Brilliant disk drops
pearly yellow
pink
red-rimmed
behind the darkening shadows of woods.
My fearful heart reaches toward the horizon
declares itself in a leap of Faith
surrenders to the clarity of winter night
and moonrise.
Between the worlds
of daylight and dusk
there is a sudden stop
a dot of time
when Hope
tenderly tending the fluid silver light
pulls herself up short
to ask:
Is it too late?
Am I dying with the fading sun?
The question shivers my soul.
Brilliant disk drops
pearly yellow
pink
red-rimmed
behind the darkening shadows of woods.
My fearful heart reaches toward the horizon
declares itself in a leap of Faith
surrenders to the clarity of winter night
and moonrise.
Communion
Communion
For the soldiers
Because I read
the soldiers
cannot carry enough water
to slake their thirst
I stand at my tap
thinking of them
under poundage of kevlar and metal
and me here
in cotton nightgown
barefoot at the sink
palming a moist glass
drinking
beyond my kitchen window
watchful yellow eyes
of raccoons huddle
beneath the bird feeder
desert ghosts glide
their dry tongues go begging
under the cool, white moon
For the soldiers
Because I read
the soldiers
cannot carry enough water
to slake their thirst
I stand at my tap
thinking of them
under poundage of kevlar and metal
and me here
in cotton nightgown
barefoot at the sink
palming a moist glass
drinking
beyond my kitchen window
watchful yellow eyes
of raccoons huddle
beneath the bird feeder
desert ghosts glide
their dry tongues go begging
under the cool, white moon
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Midnight Walk Back to the Cabin
Midnight Walk Back to the Cabin
Tree shadows
dark lean ink strokes
on a smooth blue canvas
under the icy Yule Moon
Meteorites streak
across the smudge of Milky Way
December's diamonds
flung from Diana's ears
Cornstalks stand
curled brittle poised
a frieze of wind-dancers
in the drift sheltered field
Tree shadows
dark lean ink strokes
on a smooth blue canvas
under the icy Yule Moon
Meteorites streak
across the smudge of Milky Way
December's diamonds
flung from Diana's ears
Cornstalks stand
curled brittle poised
a frieze of wind-dancers
in the drift sheltered field
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