Tag: poetry

ink trees pour
down quilted
aluminum
sky
into a
black river
rib-cage morning
of salt spray
and white
peach
bruises on
the tattered
end of the
last bright
dream of
winter.

February 23, 2021

pretty angel
in white robes
sitting
styrofoam on
green bough
glitter
gold
tinsel
crown in
a mouth of
pins and
silver.

pretty angel
in falling
dust a
deep breath.

in
silence.

pretty angel
under
glass. wings
of steel
in clockwork
motion
arise

and
greet the sun.

February 22, 2021

the gator go
getter playing
husband and
father
old sage from
a twenty-year
old scars and
broken bones and
arthritis and
those beautiful
deep set brown
eyes when he says

i don't know if
they love me

and my heart
breaks in my
old ugly narrow
chest because
i can't make it
right,
because
i can't make him
see
the grace of his
words and his actions,
the power he has
to comfort, to
be an example, to
sacrifice, to
step up as a
husband, a
father,
blindly
to be a man in
an era of
exploited
manhood.

i can honor
him only
by listening.

i can honor
him only by
remembering.

February 22, 2021

dancing bear wants
your eyes
she whirls in
her tutu
on her
tip toes
her cheeks
full
between
teeth
half-lidded
gaze
mesmerizes
look, look
the entertainer
the sooth-
sayer
the giddy
girl
the priestess
the princess
shake, shake
lips split
spilt
never ending flow
fills the sound of
a voice a
caress a
cascade of
never ending
spin, spin
look, don't
look, don't
look away
your eyes
she needs
they can't
fill the
void.

February 22, 2021

friends become strangers
at a party with
booze and weed
and unfamiliar laughter
and thirty years
of dust trembles over
a shallow grave
as a yawning
mouth swallows
a scream
without air
to speak
only
sixteen years
old now
with no blood
under her nails
on the carpet
beige carpet
clumps of hair
and glister of saliva
I sat for
so long
I say goodbye
to friends
who are strangers
and walk home
alone
for another
thirty
years.

October 5, 2020

two caged birds.
and i wanted to ask you
how were the dogs?
and you told me a woman
came to clean your house
and so i was replaced.
(i never could abide birds.)

December 24, 2017

it happened the first time i saw you
in the rain
beneath the terror
of thunder
and the unknown.
your smile
as bright and broad
as warm and welcoming
as a secret sunrise.

December 22, 2017

bran meal donuts
like inflatable rafts
taste better with
frosting

2015

i cannot help you
she says
and holds up a hand like a wall.
a wall between me and you.
between what was and what will be.
between the past and the future.
between the pain and what I must do.
i stand for a moment, suspended.
my bags clutched in my hands,
what little i could take with me
of what had been,
what could never be again.
severed. split. undone.
i tremble. unable to breathe.
i cannot help you she says.
i turn away. frantic.
between one flight and another.
i run.

2015

if you're going to hit me
do so at speed
and without
hesitation.

don't brake
don't swerve
don't look back

proceed without caution
along the path of the machine
into me
through me
to your destination

as if I was not
and had never been
here.

2015