dust to dust.august, your air is thick
and heavy on my skin; I could cup
my hands and carry it. the mosquitos
are looking for lungs to pierce,
not blood but oxygen, something breathable,
something light enough to fly
through. they are sinking. I
am sinking. I am lying
on the grass talking
to the earth, imagining
that I know for sure
how God created life
from dirt. around me, bees
are full & clumsy with
final weight of their lives. the leaves
will fall soon, the whole world
burying the dead,
& I am grateful for this:
our beginning. the perfect circle,
the warm, still embrace
to which we return.
Seeing, Feeling, ThinkingCassandra left me, all twisted metal;
a rime-rimmed touch, to shear the prints off fingers or
swell my eyes. I almost miss, these days, the way
she held my knees,
slid icicles down my throat, caressed my lungs. With careful sutures,
she has made her face
my owna stitch
for every year.
Listen: the sea returned our footprints once, back when the sun was gray.
In a dream, I wander; in a lightless day,
ailing. Her sickness rattles my bones. Many years ago she'd
thrust herself into my pulse like shrapnel, and with every
gentle twist and slow evisceration, every day I'd choke
and forget, she
And I waited for rain. Hush, I am
invalid, she said, and her hairline whispers crack my mirror like
cobwebs. I touch my splintered lips and think of seatbelts
and how many times you've seen her cry.
Dear, you've never believed in my refraction. Like some tapeworm
she's burrowed herself, laddered between my highest vertebrae. True,
yes. But you've not noticed when I retch her up, and do yo
A Single Moment of ClarityIn a hush, in an instant, from
beneath a shadow swoops, from
abstract places, an inexplicable
peace, and he couldn't understand it,
and so it does surpass all
Indeed it was sudden, as though his abstract
eyelids - the ones he can't seem
to explain, or control, or acknowledge - had
at last manifest themselves by letting
in that resplendent light - the light
he doesn't squint at, a ghost, a glimmer,
a single moment of clarity. It swoops
in from shadows dark,
lighting his path toward uncharted
places, saying "go" and
"never stop" until he reaches that
abstract destination, that "place",
the proverbial solid ground.
my Amazon QueenYour heart is fierce,
it calls out in the night,
and your pain is mine,
how I didn't cry when they told me
I was dying,
but my chest tightens for you, my
silent tears, the rippling silence
I will live for you, I will wear the
masks over my fragile face,
because you saw me and
my own howling heart
PoetsWe are the writers of the ages
The voices of the multitude.
The translators of nature
And the Mind.
We sing with scribbles on paper
Inky shapes on parchment
Our blood runs black
We are wanderers, adventurers
Our minds fly towards the sun
And let us see the world
We breathe the essence of life,
We drink the Earth's nectar
And let it flow through
We dream with eyes open
And see while they're closed
We can bring our visions
We bare our souls to the world
Write of what connects us
So that others may see
What we see.
We are not unique, we are human
Creatures with hopes and dreams
Inside us all is a poet, waiting
To be discovered.
GriefIt was not an emotion I knew by heart:
This pale sensation
gliding through my fingertips.
I could see it
clear as a ghost in an empty hallway,
but when I grasped at the tendrils...
there was nothing to be had.
My palms were empty,
but my eyes were not;
this heavy heart sunk in my chest,
and my lips formed your name
My voice enveloped in the silence
of your begotten breath...
could you hear me?
from far away inside my arms
I felt you fading.
Memories clouded with coffee grinds-
the feeling of soot and sandpaper in my throat.
vibrancy shed to monochrome starlight
as you were carried from me
was it something I had done?
some cruel twist of fate?
some Undeserved karma from a former life?
It didn't matter.
I felt this feeling,
and I learned it well
In the prolonged space between your heartbeats...
I held my fragile breath
but the drumming never came.
Shipwrecked.I stayed up all night painting your face so
I could beat the birds to crying your name
and the world would shudder and shake in two syllables
once the first glitters of dawn skittered across the horizon
and skipped across the tips of your blindfold eyelids;
I stayed up all night losing my sanity so
I could on auto-pilot put my body to work
and my hands would find a natural rhythm
in the swoop and crash of heat transfer
bobbing up and down in the waves of your skin;
I stayed up all night dancing so
I could prance through the doors of your dreams
and I would step and spin without your guidance
until your eyelashes fluttered awake with pride singing
and our distance would hum along with the song and close in;
I stayed up all night lighting fireworks so
I could pretend I was a sailor lost at sea
and you would find me shipwre
Wonderingin a bed full of empty
i stare at the ceiling,
wondering when i stopped having any meaning.
every day is monday,
every hour noon,
every moment wasted,
tomorrow won't be soon.
simple questions i want answered,
simple dreams i keep close by,
when will it be my turn,
not to have to lie?
who am i to pretend that i don't see the end?
who am i to feel?
who am i to decide whether or not any of this is real?
am i alone, like i always was?
or do i have myself to blame?
i walk this life with open arms,
yet every day is the same.
i wait by the telephone,
for someone to need me,
for someone to hear my voice,
yet no one sees, no one listens;
i don't wish for this by choice.
gummyrabbit has beautiful works (simplicity meets elegance)gummyrabbit
that inspire me in my own attempts at writing.
HarvestThe factories have taken the sugar cane
to themselves. In Hawaii, fields blow gold
beneath spreading blue-black thundercloud.
The grapefruit go away in cans.
Two Hundred Miles WestI sat looking west in the Mojave
and I thought of your burning, Los Angeles,
your phosphorescent nighttimes,
your heavy exhalation of industrial smoke.
I thought of your burning, Los Angeles,
and the edge of the west transfixed
in your heavy exhalation of industrial smoke.
The seeping toxins of Tijuana
transfix the edge of the West
in currents of chemical unlife.
The seeping toxins of Tijuana
are in our black breakers that role in the night.
Currents of chemical unlife
in the red drinking water of Vernon,
in our black breakers that role in the night
where America ends in the sea.
In the red drinking water of Vernon
we swallow factories for hope,
where America ends in the sea
of water pollution, light pollution.
We swallow factories for hope,
longing in the thirsty darkness
for water pollution, light pollution,
looking always West from a Mojave.
GraceOn Monday they must have burned your fur.
Wolf dog, Sirius dog, your eyes shone motionless.
It wasn’t death that hardened your muscles,
froze your paws – it was something leaving.
It grows in flowers, moves in leaves.
It left the thick fur behind your ears last of all.
iv.And I guess one day I let you go
Somewhere between the 55 South and the 22 West.
You must have slipped from me
As I thought about the sound of the engine and 1.8 miles to exit 63.
Did you get out the passenger door? Are you the man in the crosswalk?
When I thought to remember you, you were no more mine than he.
iii.And what if evangelism was just a whisper
on the street, to a passing stranger, saying,
I might have found him,
that thing we’re looking for
AMMI thought about distance as you slept on my shoulder
Curled up, open mouthed, like a baby bird.
I thought of walls between minds
As I looked at your hand, scarred, blunt-nailed,
Fingertips accidentally dropped to my sleeve.
I want fiercely to protect you, unknown
Familiar child. I want to stop being afraid
And love the impulsivity
The scar on your lip
The small, compact body
Everything you’ve ever done
All of you.
JMTI spent ten dollars, fifteen cents,
and four months of my life on you.
InteriorIn the morning at my grandma’s, gilt teacups
and silence, and the cats eating from bowls
When I was twelve, running at midday,
the women – “Where do you go to school?”
Mornings at the studio, with the closed blinds,
the wet paint, the mineral spirits. Outside,
they’re mowing lawns.