Coin 25there's a woman sittingMore Like This
a table over from
the next of us
she is alone,
wavering and silver
a bubble drifting up
WindowsHere am I, repeated,More Like This
and beyond waits everything
but everything is more
than I can bear.
I am not built for altitude
nor looking far afield;
groves and granite-sided mountains
stop my gaze
like rest for every tired wing;
a cover in the coldest time
snugged up beneath my chin.
Windows nothing more,
but safe lies there behind them
as the chambered hours pass;
safe sleeps there behind them
on the soft side of the glass.
to my mother who speaks windwhat went through your mind when you leftMore Like This
that country of redembered sacrifice and
glorious golden farsi? mother, i love this
place here: louisiana. mother, i love how its
humidity vies for my attention and smothers me
lush as halfripened fruit. rolling the
sweat down the divide of my back like a nail
scratching one teasing line down the spine
of a book, coaxing it open. how did you
take the shadow man's hand and flee? i can't
imagine you took flight by a sagebundled night
(all wrapped up in its earthly mercy, waiting to
burn and settle the ruffled spirits). i
imagine you swaddled your immense dignity
in your youthful ancient hands and cradled
it along your flat solid forearms, straightforward
as rejection. mother, you have taught me many
things you didn't mean to teach (and what a student
i have been, meticulous as a footnote):
anchoring to pride, the only thing stubborn
enough to break through; to refuse help and brow
beat my struggles, view them as irrelevant and
curious as crumblin
welcome to wherever we aretwistingMore Like This
our tongues in Gordian knots
choking out tropes
we jibber like metonymous
in a riot of blood sugar spikes
Van GoghSlip intoMore Like This
the first vestige of
blush of a summer's
day already aglow
glistens, an aureole
of molten gold
as sunflowers puddle
at your feet.
CardiosynthesisOn a scavenger huntMore Like This
for anything resembling a heart
I cut my palm
on the bent hinges
of the rusted metal hatch
you call a chest.
Blood drops seep through
and begin to gather
as I find my limbs tangled
in the uncoiling red and blue network
spilling from your abdomen.
maybe a time or two,
but the satellite syncing clock
behind the dying diodes of your eyes
sputters a quick series
of vanishing and reappearing digits
to the moment it all becomes
a total system failure.
I can't figure it out,
why I continue to bang my skull
against the steel spring
of your neck
as if anything I could say or do
would transform the cold aluminum
of your flat affect
into anything remotely resembling
the warm visage
I thought I saw a spark of
the first time
I found myself surging from
the broadband of your touch.
The science of your mind
hacks into my soul
despite the knowledge
of your sterile disposition
and the way your lips were never more
than hammered tin wedges.
Signing in KoreanSigning in Korean as rain fallsMore Like This
in another land, and within my mind.
A robe of cranes wraps around my
willow's body, following my every move.
I gaze through my fingers as they weave
and separate the rain turned to ice
with hands that flit and beat silently
on a petrified drum
through the constantly shifting air
from which snow will soon drift
with the flight of cranes
into another land, signing in Korean.
NaPoMo 2013 DAY NINEThis Buried Treasure Won't Emerge On It's OwnMore Like This
treat it as vermin, thinking its origins lay
behind the walls with wires and insulation,
thinking it can be coaxed with scraps,
thinking it will fall for your traps of excuses
no inspiration, no time, block, stress,
bark, hiss, stammer, blah, blah.
Quit monkeying around waiting for banana trees to grow;
do you think this is forever?
We're temporarily present, fully responsible
to contribute something to the stream,
being mind-driven is wasteland;
don't piss into the wind.
Productivity isn't surfing channels
or webs of information.
I spent too many years dreaming,
now I'm doing.
jamaisthe truth, as staunch and without ornamentMore Like This
as I can make it,
is that I did not want your love,
your voice rattling like the hoary whispers
your dreams (rustling like cattails
and half-extended to meet mine)
were as foreign to me
as moonlight, concealed
in its various robes.
your sucking fireflies,
neon mothish words meant to draw me in,
flurried uselessly about me.
but now that your attempted eloquence
is more akin to the wick of a lamp,
charred and drowning in oil,
I may vaguely nod my head.
Of solace sleeping in today was the essence,More Like This
waking up the process of becoming singular
I want to end it
but I can't stop associating you with these images
: a season being flung onto the ocean, making a mess of color
there's an insect caught in my poetry,
trying to mend its broken wing
Shel SilversteinI might have been friends with Henry MooreMore Like This
I visited near his studio and garden once
We might have had tea
I could have helped Ziolkowski with his Crazy Horse
All I needed to do was show up in the Black Hills
All I needed to do was put my hand out
Just be human, be honest
We three, Moore, Ziolkowski and I would have been buds
Talking about women and monumental sculpture
The Dalai Lama might want to be a pal of mine
The Buddha would smile on us
We could sit out in front of Five Brothers
And drink Cuban coffee and laugh
His Holiness loves to laugh
But Shel, this presumption…
This one-sided dialogue…
It has been in my head since you died
We didn’t meet, but I am sure we would be friends
You and I would talk about pirates and politics
We would dis the local royalty and cuss
You would be shoeless and grinning
I would be happy you were my friend
Your Boy Wants to Make It BigAnd he ought to have just let it go. All his friendsMore Like This
say it ain't healthy, like they'd know. Past cheap
booze and hard liquor, sans dollar signs and part-
time occupation, they're nothing but Xerox paper
and photo copies. He ought to have said,
"Within the closed set of womb and coffin,
I wanted to construct isolated systems
of equivalent exchange, a perfect flowering
of the senses. Love for love's sake. Inordinate.
But sweet." Something like that. Fall in love
with a nobody. With nobody caring. No one
saying a thing. He ought to accept his life
rendered in hard plastic and playlists. Leave
the world behind on the other side of the freeway.
Or an abandoned lot. Stop caring. Stop trying to act
so tough. Poetry, why— poetry's in what he said
when words were not enough.
Midnight TidesIn their natural state, hopes and dreams tendMore Like This
to fluctuate gravitationally like pulsar stars,
revolving hard and thumping on your chest inside
darkened vans mid-way to Toronto for pretentious
Hard-pressed, they can be the echo of a whisper
when a 250cc motorcycle engine roars between
the legs and spears through the brightest
of starry desert evenings at 80mph—
redemption's pending chances trailing off
amid dust-plumes shooting from the back wheel.
But straying further, far away enough from home—
where mountains brush true north, where gods live
in the wolves and roads are nothing more than a myth
—everything you ever were goes AWOL, weightlessness
instead of life-long heaviness, as midnight tides
lift you up moonward.
215poetry has no place in a world like oursMore Like This
we toss and turn on planes and trains
sleeping our life every day
we wander aimlessly in synonyms and metonymous designs
and wake up with dictionary fever as we struggle to find meaning
The Heart Dances Even as It BreaksAtop the clouds of AmherstMore Like This
Emily Dickinson rules the garden
surrounding a circle of blue-eyed irises,
ringing Sylvia Plath’s
three-volume edition of hell,
where she sits enthroned
like Ereshkigal, Sumerian
queen of the underworld
a typewriter at her feet
and a boiling percolator of coffee
brewing in the far West.
Queen Mother of the Western Paradise
cradles a cup brimming with tea,
watching the rolling hills of Whitman
as he stands atop the green waves
hiding the sun beneath his love.
Mark Twain smokes a pipe, poking
at the swollen American Dream, which seethes
over the Fitzgerald palaces, as King Minos
dances both foxtrot and twist, and Scott
grinning wry above the hanging gardens of
Babylon revisited finds himself wholly immersed,
surrounded by Zelda’s wreckage of radiance.
The circuses of Rome turn slowly
as P.T. Barnum hums the national anthem
as elephants and Chinese horses parade
through the gardens of Monet who sits
sinking tea, listening to Van Gogh
Lessons for TodayToday in math class, they would be learning how to factor quadratic equations. Miss Gracie, called Mrs. G by her students, knew this because she had the lesson planned out meticulously across three-and-a-half sheets of college-ruled notebook paper, which sat neatly in a folder before her. She knew because, like with all her lessons, she had recited it in front of her dressing mirror last night, right before bed.More Like This
She glanced at the clock. Ten minutes left until class. Its tick, tick, tick was the only sound in the room.
She looked around the room. Nothing but the equation charts that she covered with long sheets of colored paper during tests (always to the dismay of the students) and Tu fui, ego eris. Latin. What you are, I was; what I am, you will be. She stared at it. She had written it out on a sheet of white cardstock and stuck it to the wall with blue tape on her first day. It seemed like a kind and encouraging quote, a reflection
How to Be AloneStart with the range of starsMore Like This
that line the perimeter of heaven.
Isolate systems, light years apart
until only a barren sliver of light
leaks through the cracked dark.
Know the space around you.
Miles and miles.
The steel beams of forever
wheeling like a dust cloud.
CardiganI liked your cardigans because they were as soft as your skinMore Like This
and they seemed to match the atmosphere when we would sit at park tables,
eating our words with silver spoons
and sitting next to each other rather than across because we didn't like the rules
of platonic relationships.
You were left handed and your fingers and elbows would sometimes
accidentally collide with mine and you apologized
and I said that it was okay
when I really wanted to beg for more.
The truth was that I only ever wanted to know you and
touch your jaw and your fingers
and your elbows and your collar bones but that was not
appropriate for park tables and silver spoons
and you only wore cardigans around people who you thought of as just friends
and nothing more
Shedding Stars IIyou were the sky i wasMore Like This
the sea, with the sun
in an offering of light
you wore the night as i
called your stars down
AbsenceΣαν φύγεις,More Like This
τούτο το παρατεταμένο καλοκαίρι θα τελειώσει
και τα έντονα χρώματά του θα ξεθωριάσουν.
να είχα περισσότερο χρόνο
για να σε χαρώ.
Your LoveYour face floats in the DarkMore Like This
a drifting... white petal
close to the Moon, loose
a flower... without a name
that kisses me with lips of flame
a sort of spell with soft warm skin
against me... a lost dream
Your eyes are an hazel colour Arc
that I wear around myself as the Saturn rings
they could be feathers on the Angels wings
passionate by the Winds
or my enchanted haven shell
where, in your love, I wish to dwell,
so, I leave my last gold into the glass well
© copyright of KAY MARCH - All Rights Reserved.
Lovers PlaygroundHe stood still, a turquoise monolith,More Like This
staring at the patterns of the blue sky
waiting for its complete dissolution
within the dark cradle that night would bring
He looked to the hill, the portrait of Lilith
beginning to fly
dancing over the clouds layers and their ways
greeting the stars evolution
skin coloured from his jeweled hands shifting
She sighed at him, with a smiling lit
sending him a kiss
loving the bliss
of being with him
to win the stars that were coming
She opened her lips
blowing words to the wind
carrying her messages to him
spring birds wishing, wanting
the awake of morning...
© copyright of KAY MARCH - All Rights Reserved.
Tipping the ScaleWe always sayMore Like This
they come in three’s,
but I lost count after six.
That’s not to suggest
there haven’t been good times;
they’ve just been over shadowed
by the rest.
You can’t appreciate life
without catching a few stones,
but as always,
balance is key.
Of course it’s hard to tell
when you’re tipping the scale,
it’ll all even out
in the end.
Backdrop SkySunset is early;More Like This
when we part for the evening,
my muse is a shadow,
A lonely field
under summer heat--
the burden of a secret
Sun JaundiceThe sun bleedsMore Like This
and the moths
guide you home.
falls, and I blossom,
a temple of skulls.
Only HerTo have all the riches in the world,More Like This
And give it up for your love.
To be the leader of an empire
Toppled to be with your true queen.
When loved by everyone,
But loving only one.
To have all eyes upon you,
Yet yours only see her.
You'd promise your only life
In exchange for her happiness.
Even if you couldn't have her,
You still try to reach for her.
As you look up at the night sky
And think how many stars there are;
There are as many as you can imagine,
But only one that you want.
Tomorrow, When They Find Mei.More Like This
Swallowed whole. When the churches
Overshadowed fields of salvation
And all I could see looking down
Were the fresh prayers on my arms.
Still born and still alive in a still life
Painting. Those types of prints weren’t
Intended to be hung on a parlor wall.
Before your house collapsed under the weight
Of a needle. Before my standard of God was replaced
By memories of locked doors and open windows,
I was the shy boy on the playground and you were the
Girl who never resisted getting her dress dirty.
I could only forgive you when your mother
Showed me your baby shoes, cast in bronze.
And only for that moment, when I know I heard
The laughter of a child bustling down the hall.