Here

Spring is here
and everywhere,
and though an annual visitor,
              her song, this year,
                                  is new.
Here,
                                  surveying the back-
                                          yard assortment
                                                       of all
things abandoned...
here, amidst
the fat, fallen
      fruit

and too many bikes,

where, in
                                      postponement,
                                                     my
                                         pencil scratches
                                                unpolished,
preliminary daily plans,
                I discern
                  an unfamiliar wind.

It seems the
                          typically, perky ruby
                                                      budding
                                                      bush,
cut back
for last season's sterility,
                             is waiting,
             unpersuaded even by the rival,
wailing infant buds, proclaiming their
   arrival by her side.

Perhaps she's watching for a modern miracle
but already, an incense rises from what she knows,
       and I drink, ready for
              the harvest.

              The children's voices carry story
               through the window,
and in
      instants becoming
                      moments becoming
hours,
the
    climax advances
                            steady.

This home is aging, less loudly
                               alongside
her inhabitants, modest,
                 but reminding with
                the steady dripping of the
bathroom sink to which
                            we wake

each

morning,

and here, under sweltering sky,
         where, I've returned to all familiar,
                     I am finding mystery.
                                                There's a
promise spanning beneath
                                      this soil,
and I suspect
                  that all along,
                  the ground has
                                      savored
                                      secrets,
understands what the
     beloved
                   shrub does not and knew
those crimson climbers
                never stood a chance.
   

Poetry Jam
Carry on Tuesday
                                         
           

repudium

Is it wicked to hope that you, like me,
can no longer see?
To wish this ailment upon you, from which I suffer?
      What do you see?
You've left, and since,
my
vision's weakened.
 I no longer
                                             recognize myself,
the colors blurred.
Thanks to
                                                               you,
my skin is jumpy, my breath
less steady.
I'm peeling.
Thanks
to you,
my hearing is far too keen,
and my mouth is dry.
I'm empty
like the dusty
vase
    stored, high on the top
     shelf of the closet
                  that is now all mine.
                          I've kept it too
                                      long.
You left, but your power stayed, and so
how
can I rightly know myself?
                                 You've stolen words and time,
and for weeks and weeks,
I've stifled
screams
stuffed
with all enigma.
           
        All lack.
Everything's gone, returned and turned away.
                                                                   Your face draws nothing, nor
                                                                                   does mine,
blank,
                                                                                                    bereft of essence.
The shape of behind
won't fill
pages,
and I wait for God knows what.
             The lemons have over-ripened here,
to fat
and freakish-
       fair-worthy.  They pummel themselves, greedy
       for attention
          onto
               the porch roof, and I start
                  every single time.  It's like that- constant
                                                                     catching,
                                                                         the nerves, taut and pissed, restive.  So, look
                                                                                            again,
                                                                                             at me,
at you,
grasp
for impression.
I hope your reflection
        reveals the trauma
of singularity, and
when you smile it cracks.
No...
really, I only want my certainty back, the purpose.  I want
                               a life undivided.
                                 I want to
know
       where it goes from here,
and how I've come so far.

the mag

Existence

I've never escaped the middle, though I've fought my entire life.

                                               They speak of my beauty, my 'spirit' -
fiery, my mother calls it -
but of my pain,
   they restrain.
   They
can't
      touch it, nor understand it,
                                  so stuck
                                      as I am here in between
                                       and close,
they stay away from certain mysteries.
                                                        If
                                                        I had a choice, so would I- but I own it.
Pretty as a
picture, they say, the ones like me on either side,
                                           less
                    sincere, I fear,
but maybe I can't quite comprehend their actualities either.

         A doll, I'm told,
so I bat my eyelashes - work it while it works,
until the rage
                    is more than I can bear,
and crowded,
I try and push my way into existence of name.

                   Screams are silent since
                                       I've settled, but
                                                             they
form still - voiceless.
And yet, love, I know, so, though still fixed in destined order,
                                        I've found my proper frame.

dverse

Once,
paradise, I knew on earth- a promise vowed and a view within
                                                                     where

wind

stilled
and hope grew wild.
                         I wandered
                                      Eden as a child, unalone and unafraid.

We spoke in grove of citrus, and when I woke, I wept, still craving
                                for then I understood my soul.
                                      There,
in safety,
            you gently warned of coming chill.
The
trees, I imagine,
frost gnawed
                 now, foliage, foiled.
                                         I've not returned,
but daily vied - for your eyes
                  eternal and kind, your words forgiving.  I saw you better then.
                                     I turn in sleep where
comfort blooms anew, groping, grown,
            to see the
            tears you've stored, at last released.
            This need
unparalleled.
Once more, the sight.

 

Listen

I am listening to how I sound-
my pitch,
savoring
  all I cannot say, at present...the delicacy of aged thought and clarity
forming even
            now.
Your own voice, a reflection.
Strange, how the hope granted
causes
pause,
and I am witnessing what
                I've wanted.
                       Wound, still tight, but comparatively less shrill,  I've
                                                    been very busy tending drafts all these years, of how this ought
       to go - to feel,
                           losing
                                 sleep
but not
                                              the memories,
which
                                                have built grander
                                                  as time's gone by.
                                                      The sun sags,
weary yet impatient, but I've got all day
                                  because
    against what seems to be, there just may be a chance-
for reconciliation, for
            fire and renewal.
             I am ignoring, for now, the splat I hear
of bitter
                                      blots of recall.
                                      Bring me billows of shame and blame - I'm stronger now.  Are you?  I've stood
long at the
door,
                 deciding, equipped at last with fiery sight.  So, remind me of your suffering,
                      I'll remind you of seduction-
                                         of the why.  Give me your reasons,
pure and simple- they're
                           true.  Just wait - I'll
                              free you from the cage you waver in, though your key, the
same as mine, and really, you've bound yourself.  My eyes are sharp enough
                                                                       for two- I'll make you mind.   Behold with me, beyond the
         distance
of the misty past,
the green in hold,
             the waiting ripe,
             the wonder, thickening, floating, slowly rising.
                            Ruminate in absorption of
                                                absence.  You know
                                                                             why you
came.
All you thought you couldn't conquer,
but a vapor
and I heard you say my name.

Write at the Merge

Routing

It seems I have no choice;
plagued
by an
    abiding need to voice
                  each
    and every ailing inclination.
An outsider,
always middling, doubting worth,
debating aim and motive.

So, I stand, hungry but paralyzed,
stuck somewhere
                                                                                               between wit and
                                                                                                    wrath,
in
                                                                                                              indecision,
rendered helpless.

But, now the ground is shaking, and I'm no longer asking,
because infected,
                                                                                                            tainted (as
                                                                                                             aren't we all)
with imperfection,
my body still
                                deserves,
reserves,
the right to
fight.
Who, anyway,
           writes the final word on this?
Whose expectancy
                            is this?
Weight lifts, and flesh is rioting, building up a brand new day of reckoning.
The usual fearsome, shaking
        swallowed substance,
             like bile purges.
I am turning,
facing,
versed and sounding loud,
the indignation.
Intimate, no longer with
   the part of me you used.
Away from painted piety,
and your design,
I am routing my escape.

The Sunday Whirl

Wondrous

Who says the trees have no tongues?
                They wag
                          when I walk by,
their speech, the fallen foliage, crisp and christening -
they know.
They see, affirm the oath of long ago,
        and
        among the humble orchids, I'm led to fire.  They teach
me of the Godhead.  They
                                 teach me not to
fear.
It's not luck but mystery beneath my
feet
     that grows so
            green.
I am tracking, arrow straight, paving now, rough though it goes,
                         against a pale but valiant sky.
There's light enough, and I am native.
The
wise
warn that dead is the deed, and triumph lies in words, but the
word
      died and then came alive
             and calmed the storm,
                                     so I lay down depth
                                            and sweep in depth's returns.
                                                   What man rules here?
I kneel
for a better view,
      and the mountains move.
                     In the city where the flowers waft plain and pure, I dot my wrists
                                      with oil
and offer up my birthright.  In the distance,
                                         there's an outline, and I call.
                                                               I'm out of
                                          hiding,
                                          healed from the wound
that caused me stumble,
free to dance,
free at last.

Write at the Merge

What's Missing

I am writing you in code,
drafting
     memories, sharp
to prompt
yours.

Exploiting.

 My
                   movement,
immovable like
that cafe
                         that
moved and changed -
like we did.


Picture me still,
found broken in two -or
                         three.
A
part is still
yours. Touch my flesh -
                      my
                      makeup.
I am waiting. Stand over
    me, see
what's missing, how hard
             I work to
coexist.

Compare
    me
not
    to daylight droplets,
sticky
and rapacious, though I
am
but to
forsaken fog, though I
      am
    stayed.

Pressure upon
violaceous
pressure...surtout,
put me back together so
I may feel.

 Have I
 mentioned
 my prior splendor- or
                          do you
remember?  Can you
see
still
where I am more
complete
 or are you blinded by
the lack?  Then we both
                   have lost.
Yet, in the mathematics,
            there's a waiver,
                     so now,
loosening vainglory, I
tell a story of long ago
      and of love, revealing.

Imagine wings
              widened, over-
ripe
or a design woven
like a homemade
covering,
tucked
away for years.

 I am
 waking to the
deep
down rage of
youth and tasting all I
never knew.

The Mag