~I want to eat my life
—Olga Broumas, "If I Yes", Gift of Tongues

I want to eat my life
written June 11th, 2021

I
me, us, we
he, she, they
singular
plural
all of us
all of me.
I

want
that aching sensual word
not the bare factualness of need
something born in the soul
it takes hope to want
and incredible bravery.
I want

to eat
slowly like little bites of chocolate
then voraciously like melting ice cream
all of it - every last bite
because it is my favorite thing in the world.
I want to eat

my
mine - not borrowed -
not shared - not apologized for -
not stolen - not ashamed of -
not asked for - begged for - pleaded for
mine.
I want to eat my

life
I want to love it - build it -
want it - claim it - live it fully
from top to bottom and side to side
every inch of it known, explored and claimed.
I want to eat my life.

Survival of the fittest
written October 10th, 2020

Survival of the fittest.
What does that mean?
Fit for what?

Fit for keeping a multitude of shameful secrets?

Fit for being able to fill multiple mutually exclusive roles?

Fit for loving the ones who hurt you over and over?

Fit for hiding in plain sight?

So you survive
and you are so good at being invisible
that nobody can see you.

You love passionately
moments from the past
and books from the present.

You are a multitude
but none is complete
or known by the world.

You hold the secrets inside of you
until you are the only one
that remembers them.

None of these skills
help you
in the real world.

Sometimes the result

isn't survival of the fittest

but just survival of those that survive.

For you I would build
written May 9th, 2021

If I could build a life
if I was that kind of architect
I'd build days filled with sun
soft colors - soft light - soft surfaces

you would always have shelter
and never be cold
your nightlight
would be the steady stars in the sky

your world would be filled
with food music and books
to help you grow healthy and strong
nourished with delight

I'd be every kind of person
to hold you
to make you laugh
to inspire you with wonders
so you are never alone

I would build this
if I could
for you
___

I whisper to you
you are safe always
just be brave
and whisper back to me
if there is anything you want

I would pull down a star for you
plant a tree in the middle of your room
inhabit it with koalas
make an oasis in the desert
a bridge across the ocean
(I am an engineer - and so - you are also)

Each day I try
to face my fears
for us

I live waiting to hear your voice
to know you feel
safe enough to want.

I want to go home
started April 7th, 2020

I sit in a corner
a small child
and cry, saying:
I want to go home.

I have a lovely safe home
but I'm not sure
I always live here.
I want to go home.

What does 2020 or Atlanta mean?
Sometimes it feels like
they have no context.
I want to go home.

My first definition of home
was built of opposites:
comfort-pain
violate-nurture
shaping-shattering
love-h­urt.

When everything
is tainted what is left?
What is the opposite
of everything? Nothing?
I want to go home.

I cry for a home
that was my everything
and that was also no home.
I want to go home.

I learn how to breath
over and over again
trying to recognize - redefine - repair.
I want to go home.

I want to know why?
written March 31st, 2021

I want to know why
you had to do
the things you did.

I know you hated yourself
and everything about your world
and I know
you loved me.

I know there were generations
of alcoholism and abuse.
Nobody told me,
but I know.

I want to know why
I have to live like this
the chaos and fracturing inside
on these bad days.

I want to know why
there isn't any answer
no balm or salve to sooth
this rampant infection in me.

I want to know why
it has to be this way.

Some songs have no name
written October 19th, 2020

I come back to the same theme
of pain and the past
manifesting in my present.

I have tried ignoring them.
I have tried fighting them.
I have sought therapists and seers
who teach me new ways to battle,
but what I fight and avoid
just seems to get stronger.

Forgive they say.
I  WILL  NOT
say it was ok
tell you to go peacefully to your death
with no stain on your conscience.

I try accepting
living with the demons and memories
the hurt and betrayal
where there should have been safety and comfort.

Will I die an old lady one day
still crying and hiding?
Will I find a peace of my own?
Can origami cranes and butterflies
fill my skies?

Lamentation
written May 25th, 2021

I want to weep
for all those lost

I rend my garments
for those without hope

I tear at my hair
for those in pain now

I bow my head
for those who will hurt
(which is all of us)

my lamentation sings out
so they know they are not alone

my words rise up
as my tears spill down
onto the page

let my tears - this lamentation
purchase a moment of relief from the gods
for the lost, without hope
hurting and in pain

the gift of one
deep sweet breath
filled with peace.

~Can someone just hold me?
Don't fix me, don't try to change me
Can someone just know me?
Cause underneath, I'm broken and it's beautiful
—"Broken & Beautiful", Sung by Kelly Clarkson. Written by Steve Mac, John Mcdaid, Alecia B Moore, Marshmello

Are you like me?
written May 25th, 2021

I look for
reflections of myself
in the world
that aren't apologies
or clinical definitions of hurt
more than
an easy cliche in a song
but it is a start.

I listen to songs
read books and poems
watch tv shows and movies,
when I see a hint of familiarity
I get so ****** excited
"Are you like me?!?
No? Sorry, my bad."

So I keep looking
trying to be brave
making expeditions into the world
while holding close
the book I find
the people I know and knew
who know me.

I don't tell anyone
what I am looking for
leaving it up to chance
hoping that fate
will bump us together
long enough to find out

Are you like me?

Written on my soul
written May 17th, 2021

Some poems
are written
with pen and paper
in the light of day.

Other poems
are written on my soul
when the night is so thick
no light will pierce it.

They all come from the same place
and must be written
either easily or through hard labor
with trembling and tears
ink the color of blood
waiting for dawn
to reveal what was written
the night before.

Often I am scared to look
and fold it away
to look at another day
when I am feeling stronger.

What was written
on your soul last night?

Still Night
written May 14th, 2021

The stillness
of dark night
surrounds me
swallowing the light
suspending animation
sinisterly whispering
stealing my breath
stifling me

and I wonder
how long will it be
still night.

I wait
written May 9th, 2021

I wait
for the sun to rise
so I can see
if the trees
still reside
outside.

I wait
for those who slumber
to wake
so there is the possibility
of  . . . ?

I wait
to know the question
so I can search
for the answer.

I wait
to find the key
that makes it all
make sense.

I wait
for the tears
to start?
to stop?
to know why I cry.

I wait
for daylight
so I can cultivate
something other than
silence.

I watch
my cats sleep
in the middle
of the night
and
I wait.

The halls of my mind
written April 6th, 2021

I spend my time
walking the halls
of my mind.

Parts are like
an Escher drawing
with stairs that go
everywhere
and nowhere.

I take a set of stairs
that leads to a spiral
circling inward
never reaching
the center.

Until my next step
almost takes me over
the cliff
at the outermost edge.

Sometimes I sit
on that edge of the world
looking out at
the neighboring universes
and wonder about wings.

Eventually I turn back
down a long unbroken hallway
which is as long as my life
and continue walking these halls
that are my world.

I write myself
written March 29th, 2021

around the cracks in a window
through the looking glass
reflected in a tarnished mirror
sideways and from a distance
right onto the page
I write myself

in every tree and golden hawk
every person seen with my soul
every poem read and reflected on
I write myself

re-membering the dead
and secrets long kept
that I now declare out loud
I write myself

the lost-forgotten-sleeping
the denied-angry-hurt
the joyful-******-loving
I write myself

my present - my world
my head - my heart
that I hope nobody will understand
(or that I want them to understand?)
I write myself

a future healthy and whole
that I am scared to imagine
afraid to hope for or want
I write myself

connections to the world
physical - spiritual - natural
me reaching out to touch you
I write myself

My blood - My beating heart - My breath
all of my all
all that I am - was - might be one day
I write myself

I write to make solid
all those nebulous things
floating around and about and in me
I write myself whole.

~Life looks like a white desert, a blaze of today in which nothing distinct can be made out, seen.
—Marvin Bell, "1. About the dead man", Gift of Tongues

Blaze
written May 2nd, 2021

I long to blaze
to be white hot fire
burning fiercely
without limit or restraint

take as kindling
all these collected seconds of tedium
the moments of curling into myself in pain
the flares of white hot passion
the kisses of comfort on the forehead

spark my soul
start the fire
watch me blaze so bright
you have to look away

wait until the coals cool
so you can sift through
the ashes that were me
looking for treasure

I am no longer there.
I have moved on and am
collecting the kindling
for the next
glorious
blaze.

Walls
written November 27th, 2020

I've built walls
rigid strong and nearly impermeable
forming this fortress around me,
nothing gets in or out.

Every sortie against them
leaves them a little stronger,
and me inside
a little more isolated.

Over time I have
grown into and through
my walls safe
from a war
that is long over.

Brave
written January 20th, 2021

What is it like
to see the world
through your eyes?
to actually
live
in the world
the way you do?

I ask you, green beret and swat,
about your experience of fear,
and we are so different
you don't even understand my question.
"It's not brave to jump out of planes
if you aren't afraid of it," you say.

(A small voice inside me asks
does that make me brave?
Because I am afraid all the time,
or is it only what you accomplish
in spite of being afraid
that counts as bravery?)

You face the world head on
walk through heaven and hell,
air and water part for you
and you know that they will.

What is it like
to own the world like that,
to see the world
and not be afraid?

Just write
written April 25th, 2021

The first
is relatively easy
just get thoughts on the page.
I repeat to myself - no past -
no future - no pressure -
just write.

Coming back
can be more challenging
to words that flow and stumble
down one side and up the other.
I reassure myself - it is ok -
it will be ok - there is time -
just write.

Some poems
seem so weighty
I don't want to start them
or work on them once started.
I tell myself that
one day will be the right day
to work on that poem
but for today -
just write.

Many days
I want to make excuses.
I say I just wrote yesterday,
or I will write tomorrow,
or I will read someone else's poems,
but my work is my self
and I find my self writing poems, so -
just write.

It doesn't have to be right -
just write.

Pieces - poem fragments
written December 5th, 2020

things broken
in pieces
not finding peace

*****
shattered glass
shards reflect
the sun

*****
minnows dart
through shallow streams
as bright sun pierces

One of these
written March 7th, 2021

One of these
is not like the others.

That one flower off to the right
in the field of flowers.
Do you see her
aglow with a quiet intensity
among all the others?

Always different-alone-apart
holding so many secrets.
What can she say?
What should she not say?
Can she really say
anything at all?

So she holds inside
all the things that burn
in the sunlight and the starlight,
buried so deep in her soul
even she doesn't know
some of them.

One of these
is not like the others.

~Jane Kenyon lived and wrote poems from 1947 to 1995.

Jane Kenyon
written April 17th, 2021

I want to ask her
so many questions,
like why she chose
to put that one
word
alone on that line.

But she has gone
where I can not ask
so I will have to find my answers
in the spaces between her words
in the pauses at the ends of lines
and in the silences between her stanzas.

With wings made strong
written April 15th, 2021

I sit in the back
while you sit in the front
the favored seat
next to your father

you so icy and cold
he could have reached out
and touched your body
but not your soul

which was flying out over
the fields we drove by
desperately straining
to get as far away as possible
with wings made strong

before having to return
to this body of yours
to walk down halls
filled with students and teachers
who did not see

you or the others
with wings made strong.

Today do you still
fly out over the fields
wondering if
you will ever
take residence in
this body of yours.

Depression sales into bay
written April 5th, 2021

Depression sales into the bay
our little town is built on
it is a frequent but unwelcome visitor
ominous, malevolent and stifling

Often it arrives in the night
creeping in on panther's toe pads
its sails blocking out the sun

Plants and people sit
in suspended animation
trying to carry on

Some boldly
give depression the finger
as they walk by

While others withdraw
to the sanitarium
dishes are left undone
and children run wild in the streets

Scientists are researching a vaccine
the librarian searches in books
soldiers plan attacks (which fail)
the priest prays and does exorcisms
the green witch burns toy ships in effigy
all hoping to find the answer

Until that day
we fight
we submit
we carry on
waiting
for depression
to sale out of
our petty little bay.

Not a haiku
written October 18th, 2020

crisp fall leaves
crunch under foot
moss roses furl open
___
Crisp fall leaves
crunch under my feet
giving their final sacrifice

while moss roses tightly clenched
wait for the sun
to unfurl their beauty for the day

What can I share?
written March 29th, 2021

I talk to people
   who have done so much
   and traveled so far

I wonder what do I have
   to share with the world
   that is unique and worth sharing?

I can share the view
   outside my window
   of old trees growing wild

I can share the sound
   of my pen scratching
   across the paper

I can share the blue sky
   now always shining
   in this poem

I can share a welcoming silence
   that wraps itself around you
   healing protecting and comforting

I can share coolness in the heat of summer
   warmth from my flannel quilt in winter
   and a moment of home when you feel bereft

I can share the depth of my heart
   the world seen through my eyes
   the words that only I can write.

We smile and nod
written March 30th, 2021

I bring you the book
the one I have read
every day of my life

you translate it into Aramaic
then back into English
and say it is very nice.
_____

I cook for you
the food that sustains me
and offer to share it with you

you discard the food
and eat the bowl
you seem to enjoy it?
_____

I take you out
for a walk in the yard
that is my life

you stare the whole time
at the grave I am trying
to walk away from.
______

I offer to you
in my cupped hands
the flame that is my love

you put the fire out
and say thank goodness
that crisis has been averted.
______

We sit beside each other
and smile and nod
trying to decide
if this is enough.

Pretty words - pretty poems
written April 3rd, 2021

I read looking for the pretty
words - pretty poems -  the
bright sparkling counterpoint to
the dark that so often resides
in me.

The bold descriptions
of every color under the sun
the pretty words - pretty
poems - the light I long for
in me.

Some days the search
leaves me frozen and mute
as I try to find the pretty
words - pretty poems
in me.

Glorious
written January 26th, 2021

Come here dearest
shy happy one
smile and light up my day
for you are glorious
a light in this dark world

Come here dearest
waiting eager to please one
sit here with me
for you are glorious
company in a lonely world

Come here dearest
laughing embodied ***** one
teach me how to love this body
for you are glorious
fireworks in the night sky

Come here dearest
scared hurt hiding one
you are safe in my arms
find comfort with me
for you are glorious
show me the world through new eyes

Come here dearest
organized empathetic care-taker one
rest for a moment in other's arms
for you are glorious
always with a brave face in this fierce world

Come here dearest
for you are glorious.

Fishing for poems
written March 22nd 2021

I have a friend
who says he likes to fish
while his son
likes catching fish.

My friend's approach
always produces satisfaction
as he is happy just with fishing pole in hand,

while the other
leads to ecstasy or heartbreak
depending on if a satisfactory fish is caught.

I hope I can cultivate
a love of sitting here
my pen moving across the page
and when I have worn myself out
let me call this enough
and my day a success.

No more poems
written March 22nd 2021

This is it, I am quite sure
today is the day
there are no more poems

Inspiration is gone
not even a mirage of it
left in the desert of my mind

I will forever
read other people's poems
and there will be no spark in me

No answering yes Yes YES!
What a lovely word, idea, image
that makes me want to write

In the past inspiration was often my friend
lighting up my days and nights
but now no more mine

This is it, I am quite sure
today is the day
there are no more poems

But look! One just darted by
excuse me while I chase after
this one last poem.

~A man travels
from Mindanao to Kyushu and says his inner geography
is enlarged by each new place.
Is it?
Might he not grow more by staring for twenty-four hours
at a single pine needle?
—Arthur Sze, "Parallax", Gift of Tongues

Trees!
written March 22nd, 2021

I know the answer
to the question posed above
is of course the single pine needle
but I am tired of this pine needle
day after day, year after year
this same pine needle.

I am sure if my heart opened enough
this pine needle would teach me the answer
to the question I can't think of
that would make everything ok
but I want to see other trees!

I want to see trees I never imagined
armies of them marching over hills
and also the lone banyan tree in the desert in India.

I want to see the first tree after crossing the ocean
and the last tree before the tundra.

I want to see the Tree of the Year!
every one that is still alive!
and mourn the ones that don't exist anymore.

I want to see the 5000 year old bristlecone pines in California
and visit the seedling I planted in grade school in our backyard.

I want to see the tree of life Yggdrasill
and Anne Frank's chestnut tree in Amsterdam.

I want to see every tree
growing along every fence-line
on every field men have ever plowed.

Only then, maybe, will I be satisfied to return to
this same pine needle.

~the wind feels the smallest birds
It's got.
—Primus St. John, "Biological Light", Gift of Tongues

The winds blow and gust
written March 19th, 2021

Today the winds blow and gust
bending but not breaking the boughs of the pine
sending the last of the fall leaves swirling
along labyrinth paths only the wind can see.
We who can take shelter
in constructs we have sweated and sacrificed for
built to withstand the winds that blow
so proud of ourselves,
while the smallest bird
without a straw to it's name
lets go and rides the wind
letting fate take it where it will.

The haunted halls of my mind
written March 18th, 2021

Walking the not so empty halls of my mind
I watch the phantom echoes from the past
dart to and fro before my eyes
the past intruding on the present and the future
claiming space where it does not belong
refusing to be abandoned or laid to rest
I search amid the chaos for the key
that will bring these phantom echoes into the light
integrating them into my now so my waking days
are not filled with ghosts from the past
who roam the haunted halls of my mind
defying time and space
until all find some kind of peace.

I want poems
written March 15th, 2021

I want poems with roots that reach down underground
and are best friends with the earthworms

I want poems that reach up through the sky
covered in dewdrops that glisten from the light of distant stars

I want poems that are so dark
you walk by them and don't realize they are there until you brush up against them

I want poems that tickle and tease
leaving gales of laughter drifting on the breeze in their wake

I want poems that say *******
when you ask what meter they should be read in.
These are not that sort of poems and my poems are not for you.

I want poems that are too sad, too angry, too revealing
because other's expectations stifle and are not who we really are

I want poems that touch you
yes you, the one reading this right now

I want poems that are awkward and unfinished
wearing mismatched socks and tripping over their own feet
because it is not easy to be imperfect or even downright homely

I want poems that are the kid that sits at the back of class
wanting to disappear into the ground
but raises his hand to be called on anyway

I want poems that know the question, that find the answer
that finally figure out all that is in me

I want poems that are friends and lovers and strangers
whether they are 1 poem or many,
but oh how I long for someone that is many poems

I want as many poems as I can fit
into this life and this world we inhabit
for a period of only
a finite number of poems.

How oceans came to be
written March 15th, 2021

Tears fall
from eyes
wetting cheeks
running in rivulets
down bodies
drenching the earth
until it can hold no more
so the waters rise
becoming a salt water ocean
created from tears
that fell
from eyes.

I am always curious about how other people write. So here is how one poem developed for me.

I try to write each day. I sit down and sometimes there's a line or a thought that I know I want to write about. Sometimes I page through my unfinished poems notebook and choose one to work on. Other times I read from a favorite poetry anthology until something sparks a poem.

This day we had gone for a drive to pick up lunch, and I was back at home. I read some from the poetry anthology, and I loved this line by Jane Miller, from her poem "Poetry", in the anthology Gift of Tongues:
"We are being made into words even as we speak," and I write this:

I return to my room
cool dark and deep
words having
swirled around me
all day
tempting
me to reach out
to grab a few
to put together
into this poem
that is today.

I like it, but it doesn't really say anything about my day. I love the phrase, "this poem that is today." So what happened today? How can I incorporate something more specific from my day today into the poem?

I love writing about nature. Lots of neighborhood trees in my poems. I also often write about things in my head, or about things that are central to who I am. Self poems.

I try to include physical descriptions in my writing, so it's not just unattached thoughts floating around like they do in my head. Rarely, I write about people. Who could be made into words from today?

I remember a waitress from where we got lunch. I have lots of thoughts. (We were wearing masks, but you can still tell when people are smiling.)

I return
to my room
cool dark and deep
words
having swirled around
like the waitress' full skirt.
I smile at her
and hope her life
will be one of
many smiles
I hope that
she will bend her world
to suit her
instead of being bent
by the traditions and proprieties
I see filling
the space around her
those things I grasp and find words in
to make this poem
that is today.

I copy the poem, making slight changes, moving sections so they make more sense to me, scribbling alternate words off to the side. I enjoy writing by hand. I enjoy copying the poem. Sometimes I make changes, sometimes not. The copying is soothing to me.

I read the poem out loud and think about line breaks. I try to imagine a stranger reading it. Would they know what I was talking about? I don't want to offend anyone's religious traditions, but that is part of this specific poem. She isn't just any waitress, she's a teenager who is clearly part of a very specific tradition.

I don't know if the finished poem is "better" than that above, but it's where I end up and feel wanting to share with the world. I come here to post my poem, and then move the original into my finished (but not quite right) notebook. I don't think it has much to do with that original quote from Jane Miller, so I will save that for another day.

The waitress
started March 3rd, 2021

I smile at the waitress
and she smiles back
so young and unformed
being everything
that everyone around her expects.

Words swirl through the air
like her skirt does
as she turns
lace covering her hair
speaking of conventions and traditions
that look so pretty
when you don't have to live them.

I hope that her life
will be filled with
many heart-felt smiles
and that she will
bend her world to suit her
instead of being bent or broken
by all I see crowding
the space around her.

I return home
to sort through
all these dense heavy thoughts
to find the words
to make this poem
that is today.

Gray poems
started January 24th, 2021

There are poems
that are easy to share
that want to be seen-read-heard

then there are other days
when gray skies
reflect my gray disposition

silent be silent
say the critical voices
don't scar the world
with this

and so my mark on this world
has often been
one of absence

but to deny these gray poems
is to deny myself
is to deny the crocus
blooming through the snow

for if I don't give expression
to all of it including the gray
then the beauty in me
also stays hidden
unexpressed-unrealized-unknown.

~I wanted to find out in what way the specialness of my experience could be made to connect me with other people instead of dividing me from them.
—James Baldwin, Nobody Knows My Name

Alone together
started November 30th, 2020

We all at times
feel alienated.
Tell me about it,
that thing that
makes you feel
so different and alone.

I might understand
or at least I can listen
and for a brief moment
we can be alone together.

Have you been
   a stranger in the only home
   you ever knew?
I have.

Do you feel
   anger shame fear
   all the time?
I do.

Have you silently screamed
   for fear if you let the sound loose
   you and your world would shatter?
I have.

Did you find your people on a psych ward
   and know it was the only time
   you would be surrounded by those like you?
I did.

Have you ever felt so uniquely formed
   you are sure others
   wouldn't recognize you as human?
I have.

Do you fall in love with words
   shaping them into poems
   to show yourself and others
  that silence is not the only option?
I do.

Hear my words
find yourself in them
find your own words
and for a brief moment
we can be alone together.

Canoeing
written March 7th, 2021

I have spent the last few days
canoeing the Mackenzie River
making the journey in a book
with maps and words.

As I read it takes me back
to canoeing in my youth
the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness
along the northern border of Minnesota.

I can feel the paddle
pulling through the water
and hear the loons
crying at night.

The land around me
almost untouched since
Huron, Chippewa, Cree
Dakota and Ojibwa eyes
were the only ones
that had ever seen it.

Now I travel in thought and memory
the clear cold waters of the lakes
the portages through forested hills
taking me from one gem
of a lake and a memory
to the next.

They want
written February 6th, 2021

They think they want
the body
the ***
the words

but it's not my words they want
the words in me
waiting to spill out

some listen for a while
but they know what they want
and it isn't
this body
this ***
these words
me.

~Midnight. Heaven is
bathing, the window open.
Just a kiss away.
—Jane Miller, "American Odalisque", The Gift of Tongues

He, the moon, and I
written March 2nd, 2021

My love and I
look up at our night skies
during this midnight time we share

our eyes looking at
the same stars
in our heavens so far apart

the moon baths us
in its gentle light
embracing both of us

I am envious of the moon
touching my love
when I can not

so I ask the moon
to kiss him for me
lovers are we
he, the moon, and I.

~In the song of the man in his room in his house in his head remembering
And then no more?
—Thomas McGrath, "Ordonnance", The Gift of Tongues

This poem has a soundtrack. 2 songs that play along with it are "The Knife Feels Like Justice" by Brian Setzer, and "Rock and Roll Dreams Come Through" by Meat Loaf.

Until there is no more
started January 31st, 2021

I remember the songs
crying from the radio
the words I couldn't say
giving expression to the searing pain
helping my soul fly away
until there was no more

I remember my room that was light pink
the color my fear still is today
the secrets in there breaking open
like the stains on the carpet
that everyone must have seen
the tears in your broken eyes
that could not be cried
until there was no more

I remember the house that room was in
a house that was no home
me a hermit crab without a shell
war without and war within
until there was no more

I remember what was in his head
the self-loathing, isolation
paranoia and bitterness
that were his gift to me
from father to beloved child
until there was no more

What remains
is the remembering
and the not remembering
reality shimmering
into and out of existence
until there is no more.

Precarious Balance (in 3 parts)
started December 3rd, 2020

(1)
My balance
has never been great
others walk paths
and look at the world around them

I
look at my feet
watching for things
that might trip me

(2)
I walk along a tightrope
strung a few inches over the earth
my balance precarious

not realizing
I could step off at any time
onto the stable earth.

(3)
Life is a precarious balancing
of the joy and the pain
singing-tears
holding onto each other
shatter-whole
the impossible duality
agony-bliss
found only in juxtaposition
love-destruction
we try to balance
not-enough-too-much
somewhere within
everything-nothing

Writing poems
written February 17th, 2021

These poems
don't seem like much
as I sit at my desk
with the blinds open
writing on the green graph paper
I have always written
engineering homework
and poems on.

The exhaustion doesn't hit
until I post them online
moving the handwritten original
from unfinished to finished notebook.

finished (for now)
finished (but not quite right)
finished (but not good enough)
finished (but not worth speaking out loud)
finished (and to hell with it post it)

Something about that act
makes me want to
go back to bed
even though the sun
is bright in the window
sure that
I will never emerge
to write another word.

Thank goodness
that feeling isn't permanent
or this unfinished notebook
now filled with bits and fragments
words forgotten as soon as they were written,
would be filled with blank pages.

And the finished (but not quite right) notebook
getting heavier each day
with MY words
that have been released into the world,
would only have that one poem in it.

Solitude
written January 30th, 2021

The writing prompt says
to describe someone
you wish to tell something.

It sounds so easy
except I have cultivated distance
and silence
even within myself.

The conversations I have
are of trauma and pain
and the crying for comfort
which even
the conversations with myself
rarely provide.

I plant and tend
these silent days
and silent years
that make this
silent solitary life.

If silence were currency
I would be rich
beyond imagining.

Perhaps one day
something or someone
will grow in these
well tended
fallow fields.

Chameleon
written February 15th, 2021

the chameleon
delights
in finding vibrant
others
to reflect on his
skin
taking on one's
brilliance
until the next calls like a
siren
the beauty of each uniquely
intoxicating

until there is the inevitable
absence
no one to love
him
for the reflection on his skin of
them

without
them

who
is
he?

~I look at the buds still wrapped
on the ripening kernels. I want
to be in there, unhatched and unpolished.
—Shirley Kaufman, "Poem in November", Gift of Tongues

Death's wings
written January 10th, 2021

The Angel Death
wraps his wings around me
I feel him there
when I stop suddenly
Death's wings
jostling around me
settling into place.

He holds his breath
so I won't have that proof
of his presence
or any other
reassurance in this life.

Are his wings protection?
or curse?
Their silence wrapped around
is my well known company
these many years
Death's wings my comfort in life.

Lucky
written January 20th, 2021

"I've always been lucky," he says,
standing at his gate
talking to me on this dirt road,
"I survived an inoperable brain tumor, cancer
and they took one of my lungs,
but I had 2, so I'm fine.
Always been lucky."

He turns back to his home and dogs
rolling the gate shut behind him.

I am left to wonder
how does fate dispense luck?
Who gets it? What type? How much?

Is it years served?
arrests made?
women loved?
children raised?
dogs cared for and buried?

I sit in my car and watch him walk
through the trees to the house he built
with plenty of room to turn around in

I see the inexorable path
the luck dispensed and choices made
that has brought him to this moment
he and his dogs
at the end of this dirt road.

If he could choose different luck
would he?
this man who has always been lucky.

~You hear
yourselves in them
self after self
     ...
when I leave, I leave
alone, as I came.
—Denise Levertov, "Poet and Person", Gift of Tongues

Poems and people
started January 30th, 2021

Each morning I arrive
into this world anew
with a sigh and a memory
of day before day
self before self
that has tried to take up
permanent residence in this body
each one feeling right
until one morning it isn't.

This is my record of
poems and people
page after page after page.

At the end of the day
each one perches
on the edge of the night
to fly away alone into the dark.

I sleep and wait
to see who will arrive
with the morning.

~Enter now,
O bird on the green branch of the dying tree, singing
Sing me toward home;
Toward the deep past and inalienable loss:
Toward the gone stranger carrying my name
In the possible future
—Thomas McGrath, "Part One", Letter to an Imaginary Friend

Snowing up north
Started February 2nd, 2021

They say it is snowing up north
And I am back walking
over the roads I grew up on
the crunch of the snow
sings me home

past the fields
waiting spring planting
fence lines stretching off into the horizon

across the front yard
always needing mowing
now winter gives reprieve

up the front steps
mother's petunias growing riotously
ghosts from summers past

my fingers brush the doorbell
cats never learned to ring
now forever silent

I open the front door
and go into my memories
stepping on the black slate entryway

I wonder if his coat
is already in the closet or if
everyone is waiting for him to get home

in the kitchen
the table is set
the hot tea ready

maybe this is the time
everything will be properly arranged
each talisman in the proper place

so the ghosts who live here
will finally have
the longed for peaceful night

all of us keeping company
in these memories
that sing us home.