It was getting late in the year,
the sky had been low and overcast for days,
and I was drinking tea in a glassy room
with a woman without children,
a gate through which no one had entered the world.
She was turning the pages of an expensive book
on a coffee table, even though we were drinking tea,
a book of colorful paintings—
a landscape, a portrait, a still life,
a field, a face, a pear and a knife, all turning on the table.
Men had entered there but no girl or boy
had come out, I was thinking oddly
as she stopped at a page of clouds
aloft in a pale sky, tinged with red and gold.
This one is my favorite, she said,
even though it was only a detail, a corner
of a larger painting which she had never seen.
Nor did she want to see the countryside below
or the portrayal of some myth
in order for the billowing clouds to seem complete.
This was enough, this fraction of the whole,
just as the leafy scene in the windows was enough
now that the light was growing dim,
as was she enough, perfectly by herself
in her place in the enormous mural of the world.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 6:22 PM UTC
defined by physics
described by poets
twirling daughter, centered son
waltzing through created space
small step
giant leap
illuminated darkness
lifelines measured
lifetimes managed
birthing mother, waiting father
each day its intended place
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 8:08 PM UTC
the words which nourish my fainting heart
'tis so sweet the rhythm of your voice
faring up and down
drifting with me on good days
catching me on the way down,
down, down - I sink into
the words which nourish my fainting heart
'tis so sweet the rhythm of your voice
I close my eyes and feel
your breath on my cheek
as I turn to discount your sincerity
you reach for me, with
the words which nourish my fainting heart
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 3:11 PM UTC
His golden locks Time hath to silver turn'd;
O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing!
His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurn'd,
But spurn'd in vain; youth waneth by increasing:
Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen;
Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.
His helmet now shall make a hive for bees;
And, lovers' sonnets turn'd to holy psalms,
A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,
And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms:
But though from court to cottage he depart,
His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.
And when he saddest sits in homely cell,
He'll teach his swains this carol for a song,—
'Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well,
Curst be the souls that think her any wrong.'
Goddess, allow this agèd man his right
To be your beadsman now that was your knight.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
you are not the clothes you wear
but you are how you wear them
you are not the words you say
but you are how you say them
you are not the way you look
but you are how you look at other people
you are not the person you're with
but you are how you work with them
you are not the lies told about you
but you are how you respond to them
you are not your bad decisions
but you are how you deal with them
you are not your friends
but you are how you treat them
you are not anything...
but you are how you are.
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 11:35 AM UTC
i'm not myself
i'm somebody else
trapped
or living out a life that isn't or wasn't mine
i don't know
i readily take on forms
and my lips frame words
that are not my shape or thoughts
i'm a product of environment
of culture, of class
i'm chameleonic
don't judge me
i am you
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 4:47 PM UTC
automobile assault again
by
churchlot crasher.
departed, damage done
even
forgoing forgiveness.
grumbling gomez glowers,
haranguing
impossible immunity.
jeez! just...jerk!
klutzy
lot leaver!
mangled mobility machine
needs
overnight observation.
poignant payment, pending
quixotic
recompensing ravager.
supposing satisfactory salvage.
truck
under
vehicular
warranty.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 12:31 AM UTC
girl in the bathroom paints on her face
covering the spots on her skin
hoping to be like the others
cover it for the mornings
but reminded by the night time
knowingly she changes her looks
unknowingly she changes herself
shimmering colors reflect the lights
perfectly pinched pink cheeks
but her mascara-full lashes smear
and the wings of her eyeliner droop
she knows she'll never be like them
how could she love herself
when everything she sees in the mirror
are the things she hates most
cries as she stares at her reflection
she'll never be like the other girls
with genuine beauty and poise
but the other girls aren't authentic
they paint on their faces
to hide the real girl underneath
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
I wish I could decipher you
insufficient explanation construed
words may fail and logic falter,
the account I'd never alter
a beautiful culmination
purposed, intricate summation
as poetic as a psalter,
the account I'd never alter
transcendent, pleasant mystery
exquisite, written history
content, soaring past the vaulter
the account I'd never alter
I wish I could decipher you
the account I'd never alter
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 12:07 AM UTC
Uncovered hist'ry
Knives, loathing, misfortune's sting
All scars tell stories
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC