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 Apr 2017 Kalvin Moon
brooke
i finally told him
I want to try.
with you.
I want to try, with you.
I want to be with you.
I want to be with you.
because it's been there
at the forefront of everything
Waiting to be said
okay. okay.  like a sigh--
I had been trying all night
From the moment he threatened
To drive away, standing insolently
In front of his headlights--
but he was quiet and
all i could do was smile
and say, but that's not
enough anymore, is it?

no, it's not.
but I know why it isn't,
and why this poem is
short with so very
few
words.
because decisions are
yes or no, but some yes'
are too
late and
some no's
follow in suit.
(c) Brooke Otto 2017

was too late.
 Apr 2017 Kalvin Moon
h b r
And if the girl with black eyes is as pure as anyone why does she bleed the blood of a criminal and if there is no one waiting for her why does she still purr up through the warming whippled rafters and along the whispering telephone wires and up to the moon which has begun to peel and if the moon is not listening why does it return and if there is beautiful power in locking eyes with the one you used to love but cannot let yourself love again why are my hands limp and numb and heavy as if I’ve never had feeling in them before and if this world was once as round as a grape why is it now so twisted and if justice has been served on a silver platter why are the most titled people as empty as death and if it hurts to watch why do I watch at every chance I get and if deep inside I want to fold in two

(even as I raise my two
                 arms up
with their numb hands dangling)

why
do I
begin to rise
(Inspired by Juan Felipe Herrera’s "And if the man with the choke-hold")
some days
i know i'm writing something great
something meaningful,
something that i am proud to put my name to.
today is not that day,
but i keep writing anyway,
just like i keep working,
keep getting up,
keep going.
the error isn't in writing poorly,
but in not writing at all.
I cross my heart and hope to die.

That's what you said...

Cross your heart and hope to die
That you would never leave me.

But I'm the one left standing here, hoping to die.

For its MY heart that you have crossed.
 Apr 2017 Kalvin Moon
Mary-Eliz
Sometimes I see and feel
a whole poem
in my mind
all at one time

like a painting
a landscape of alluring
colors
and
form
a star-filled ebony sky
a perfectly formed blossom

or a spectacular instant

a burst of lightning
vehement rumbling of thunder
the fleeting glimpse of a rainbow

a moment of inexpressible
joy and love...

a child's delighted laughter
a new mother's glow
white-haired lovers walking
hand-in-hand

but...

I can't seem to take it apart
and name the pieces.

The fragments are dandelion seeds
blown to the wind
once scattered
not retrievable.

But the feeling they present
as they float freely about
is worth letting them go.
 Apr 2017 Kalvin Moon
brooke
3am.
 Apr 2017 Kalvin Moon
brooke
I once asked him what it was like--
when  making love made sense
when it left you in a glow and
not like it had me, in coils of
skin and apple scented oil
sobbing on a mattress in Chelan--

I can't help but ask as a precautionary measure,
I'm sure, the way people ask was it good for you too?
did it mean anything? were you making love or having ***?
he says that's what breakups are. Not talking, letting go.
forging a bridge and then leaving it to decay,
I'll just become bitter with that long sideways glance
I've stopped memorizing his face because it's been sad
for a month,
i asked myself
if i traded a friendship
for a kiss at a cabin and
i wonder if he feels the same
because he let me in before
the promise of my body
and the sight of me as
a friend is too much
to handle.
a lot of sad poems lately guys, i'm sorry.  Lots of word *****.
i cannot let words settle, 
would rather plunge my hands into the silt 
and bring them to my mouth; 
i like my tongue when it is *****, 
the stories are easier to tell. 

i only speak in mudslides, 
in recklessly tumbling thought over thought 
because there is so much to say about the rain
so much to say about the leak in your living room ceiling
so much that still slips through the crack.

— The End —