1,038 posts tagged “poetry”

Oriole

And one said What
when another said
Dark, night

and this was
on a bed after
sex
when magic could
slip between the
breaths of
cologne and smoke

on the heart's
weary trampoline
another matter
was writing
its thoughts down
while balancing
near the edge -

imagine the stars
all whited out
by the face
of one you knew
you came
to love -

if there was
a reason to our
clashing together
it was lost
on the sheets
during our cries
for God.

Like Adam Named Every Animal

Full roundabout
catching many words
and bestowing on them
titles of bigger things
than they really are;

see the purple swift
just now flying up
to us and its nest
in the eaves -

I could write love
on its wings
and send it home
with you.

A Pounding Moment

It is during a lull
in the rain clouds
that the Sun folds
then drops a small
note of confession
on the field and
woods behind
the house;

before I can dress
and rush outside
to read it
for myself
the birds have
carried it off, the
rain has made
most of the words
run off like time.

For Dinners Past

The potatoes and
beautiful things
left on plates

scrapings of butter
and salt dissolving
along with the
meaning
of why we are
here

all heading for
the same soapy
warm water
that will bless
your hands
and mine

we're both full
of the truth
and thought
of food

how you hand me
the question
of a squeaky clean
dish
and I answer you
with the cloth
folded in my
hands
like a striped
prayer
of faith.

Since I Don't Believe In Tomorrow, I Tell You Today

I think you are
the queen
of all angels
and the moon
is your
cup;

there is
a brown tree
tall among
the others
that reminds me
of your hands,

ever touching
all that
surrounds you.

Askance

At 9 a.m. there was
a wasp
on my window screen
seeking a way inside;

just after lunch
I found a ladybug
there instead
doing the same;

an hour before sunset
it was a locust
thick as a crayon
watching me quietly;

what have I ever
said or done today
to draw such attention.

Lesson 41

Standing at the corner
for the school bus
I listen to the children
talk about toys;

I don't know their movies
or games, and
they don't know the ones
I played as a child.

In the cold, dark sky
overhead, the winter stars
remind me
that I know nothing
of true age.

Porchsongs

I like to think the wind
has practiced for years
to play the chimes
just right

moving from house to
house down our
street

improvising riffs
and melodies
first on a collection
of copper bees
hanging gently
under a pale yellow
sunflower

then to a row
of silver tubes
on the next porch
where it hits
a soft major chord
before moving on

reaching our house
and its set of stars
and moons strung
delicately under the
smiling face of
Father Time

who likes music
and thanks the breeze
for stopping by
to entertain all.

Jay and Danielle have a parrot in their kitchen named Vidal, bright green and very alert... I spend time each day answering his chirps and whistles throughout the house and I try to teach him little lines and melodies from songs I know... but for now it seems I am the one learning his language, following his leads... or maybe during the day when everyone is gone I'm just giving him a little echo of his own voice so he doesn't feel so alone... I'm a weak whistler too, so my answers usually stumble after the bright, quick questions he poses for me... still, there's a part of me that hopes one day he will surprise me and answer back with one of the little song bits I whistle over and over to him, showing me that he really does listen and considers my music of value...

... this has been one of the rainiest weeks I've seen in my time in North Carolina... day-long showers gusseted with cold winds made me break out my cold-weather clothes and keep my bedroom windows closed... the trees are changing strongly now and shaking in tall columns across from the house... and there is a kind of white, lacy wildflower I see blooming all over in the lots and fields around this little development... I have to look them up sometime...

... I also have to get back to writing... I miss it so much... reading too, tho the past day or two I have finally picked up the Stephen King book I got last month ("Just After Sunset", a collection of short stories) and gotten through a story or two now... I have an army of notebooks around me too, on my bed and on the floor, so I'm well prepared for when a new poem might hit... now I just have to sit in my blind and wait for it to happen... should I rub pages of old poems on my clothes in the hope of attracting new ones?... they used to flock to me and I need to feel their feathers on my face again soon... there's nothing like the gentle beating of a word trying to get your attention...

Making Flash Cards

It was somewhere between "Like"
and "Jump", above the licorice-thick
smell of the black magic marker
that I rediscovered the beauty of words
again, even when pinned like butterflies
to small white cards, how even three and
four letter ones can shine just right
when said just so, and definitely
in the stack piled high by my left hand
were the words to every poem
ever written, and the words
for every poem still to come, and
all that remains for these kids
is the learning, then the choosing,
ending in the creation years later
of something so brilliant and new
that will shimmer and writhe
on the page like a wave of thought,
flashing into a thousand light dreams
for the mind's tender eye.