"journaled" poems
youth’s days were borrowed, its number, your name
carefully journaled by razor into soft skin on the back of my hand,
the monument now gently faded into its wrinkles
but dust doesn’t stick to the digits, as scars can’t sweat
I hide them still, wiping away gritty life surrounding
and today, even my wife remains clueless
because you do disappear -
time continues with two people aging together
our gray hairs streaking the basin in morning,
phone calls to the children later
by day I may dream another filthy furrow to fit into,
needing to glimpse again that flimsy past, and then
ponder glued joints of mortise and tenon
or half-lapped, passionless, the strongest, I’m convinced
we never found time to worry over furniture,
or learn that living is contained in mundane details
like dovetails and drawer pulls
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 11:08 AM UTC
Pages of thin onion skin, delicately touched
with the lilting script of a fountain pen.
Coarser pages of sturdy stock filled
with strong characters of printer's ink.
Binding woven with threads of friendships
Dipped in the warm glue of sisterhood.
The poetry of life fills the pages,
sing song limericks of childhood
followed by lines of romantic verse.
Tears stain tattered pages
where losses deep are journaled.
The title embossed in gilded gold,
you shall find "Woman" inside.
Mar 23, 2010
Mar 23, 2010 at 1:33 PM UTC
I struggle and fight,
To paper the light,
That crests under muscle and bone.
So caught is the skin,
The lux, and the thin,
That rides under shadow and tone.
The charcoal I savor,
And touch what I gave her,
This presence, this memory mine.
So journaled her beauty,
With deepening duty,
My happiness-
her infinite line.
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 4:02 PM UTC
a troubled little wisp of waxy death punches from my lips
(is it the exhaust from many thriving microorganisms ?)
there it is a clearly visible tiny cloud formation
(is this an indication?... the breaking down my over ripened form ?)
married also is its appearance in the bathroom mirror
(confirmation that it is no illusion)
i was quite casual about the event (thank you)
but not enough
to stop me noting it here ;
call it 'the death weather report'
it shall be journaled further
i already feel observed
as though by some bored student mortician
Feb 17, 2024
Feb 17, 2024 at 9:57 PM UTC
Day taps away—
In the numbering rains.
All the fleet years, enveloped,
How many questions were founded,
What was granted by our solo vacations?
We have trussed, only films, yellowed and bent
****** into an makeshift, unready, empty album,
Dreams made right, journaled without strewn hands,
Lips rung dry from want of heat, touch and caress,
We kept our pride, penultimate, throughout
All the days, longing, dying, we slept
Together, in a broken bed of dreams
And thought, when will this play
Be glad? When will that isle
Appear? Will it ever show
Among the dark oceans
Rise— to ferry us away
Before the drunk sun
Sinks in the sea?
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
.
Its form was made for sky,
Reaching into hung heavens.
In the amniotic soils are blood
Veins of bone becoming root.
At the earths breaking is light
Green within the sprouts barking.
To the golden sun on its journey,
The trunks ring into skies praying.
More leaves do come as everlasted
Springs in new revolutions of years.
All the twined branches are knotted
As they grasp the blue firmaments.
And scriptures of heavens proclaim,
Here be journaled leaves, life seeding.
.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 5:34 PM UTC
I understood I would never marry,
buy a house, have kids,
mow the lawn on Saturday,
wash cars, clean the pool.
I had an atypical plan,
thinking back, for my life:
a wanderer, adventurer or pilgrim
without want of firm roots.
Each destination a chance happening,
an introduction to the unexamined.
Sidewalks, cafes, alleyways, and life
being lived, journaled for remembrance.
The North Country, New York;
Watertown, Carthage, Clayton and Ogdensburg,
strolling their streets dripping
history and memoirs never told.
Lassoing thoughts from wild conversation
with caffeinated coffee shop poets,
struggling with Calvinistic thought streams
and priests in moments of doubt.
My theories in marble.
Gently chiseled with each interaction,
chipped, thoughts evolve
leaving inference among spilt beans.
All memories and dreams mingle.
l hold them gently.
As midnight creeps I’m untethered,
drifting from the shoal once more.
Suddenly I sense wonder:
The Appalachian Trail at Katahdin,
Continental divide at Loveland Pass,
Mount Hood from Pacific Crest.
Have you ever witnessed
views of Mojave’s Kelso Dunes?
Felt the Great Basin’s rainshadow chill,
or contemplated Joshua Trees in prayer?
Often the life of could have been
is more lucid than I am,
kneeling gnarled,
pulling obstinate weeds.
Shallow breath’d and gazing… scanning
my cut grass, clear pool,
a loving wife, adoring children,
my home…
This man,
mind wandering,
acquiesces,
to clarity of thought.
I would have… could have
been that man, that other life,
a Walter Mitty dreaming
a life; mine.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 5:05 PM UTC
A son of Africa
but your sons will remember you
as their father
your daughters too
and childrens' mother
as that one talk-dark-suave
African brother
her friend and her lover
surpassed only by your faith
in a higher other...
the eternal soul lover
G-d! (Ewruade!!!)
How quickly you returned
from “where you came…
...Chaley” a type of original journalism
May G-d permit my spirit to do the same
Go rest.
We’ll see you when we’ve done our time
when we’re old and journaled grey
In glory crowned as such
reflecting His brilliance bronzed
Footsteps
In faith
we'll keep the watch.
Rest now
African Sun
Sleep
We'll keep the watch
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 5:13 PM UTC
seven times in three weeks I cried:
the first time I was teary eyed
when I warmly journaled about you
my heart was hopeful and enveloped by cry number two
the third time was while looking at my empty bookshelves
the cracks and holes began to show themselves
on to four, it ate at my core
five was fun, I was on the phone with my mom
six too, I should have left a voicemail for you
but on the seventh there were only tears of emptiness, of helplessness, of defeat
seven times in three weeks
I cried
and all because of you, my sweet.
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 8:00 PM UTC
.
Its form was made for sky,
Reaching into hung heavens.
In the amniotic soils are blood
Veins of bone becoming root.
At the earths breaking is light
Green within the sprouts barking.
To the golden sun on its journey,
The trunks ring into skies praying.
More leaves do come as everlasted
Springs in new revolutions of years.
All the twined branches are knotted
As they grasp the blue firmaments.
And scriptures of heavens proclaim,
Here be journaled leaves, life seeding.
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 3:26 PM UTC
Day taps away—
In the numbering rains.
All the fleet years, enveloped,
How many questions were founded,
What was granted by our solo vacations?
We have trussed, only films, yellowed and bent
****** into an makeshift, unready, empty album,
Dreams made right, journaled without strewn hands,
Lips rung dry from want of heat, touch and caress,
We kept our pride, penultimate, throughout
All the days, longing, dying, we slept
Together, in a broken bed of dreams
And thought, when will this play
Be glad? When will that isle
Appear? Will it ever show
Among the dark oceans
Rise— to ferry us away
Before the drunk sun
Sinks in the sea?
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
Once, on vacation, my friend and I journaled about
Where we saw ourselves 5 years from then.
I didn't think once of you.
Or him either.
I envisioned wooden floors,
A single toothbrush,
My mug collection
And a King size bed that
Only my body lies on.
My closet filled with button downs,
And in the back of it,
A box with the
Burnt matches that
Ignited every pain
In my young adult-hood.
I end up getting a dog,
Because they're
Guaranteed to be loyal,
And because sometimes its
Scary living alone in a big city.
My journals are filled with stories
Of failure
Pages of declarations
Of frustration and of hope.
My window sill a comfortable seat
Because every morning I make sure
To see the sky
To remind myself that the world is mine.
That I am mine.
My body and soul
Ache, but just a little,
Not as much as it does now.
My tattoos as meaningful as ever
My truths as prevalent.
For once in my life,
Perceptions others have of me
Became irrelevant.
On my table there's flowers,
Flowers from the shop down the street,
Singlehandedly picked by me.
An ashtray I made in a week-long art class,
A movie collection
Because it makes me feel okay
For any lack of affection.
I envision myself unapologetic,
A trait I finally mastered
And maybe i'm not too hard on myself
Maybe I finally got it together.
5 years from then,
I'm not thinking of you,
Or him.
Freedom is a concept I finally
Learned,
After years of unsaid emotion,
I got the life of pleasant solitude I
So rightfully earned.
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 8:07 PM UTC
Its form was made for sky,
Reaching into hung heavens.
In the amniotic soils are blood
Veins of bone becoming root.
At the earths breaking is light
Green within the sprouts barking.
To the golden sun on its journey,
The trunks ring into skies praying.
More leaves do come as everlasted
Springs in new revolutions of years.
All the twined branches are knotted
As they grasp the blue firmaments.
And scriptures of heavens proclaim,
Here be journaled leaves, life seeding.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 5:52 PM UTC
Mapped out scars
on weathered skin,
like journaled stories
etched upon the surface.
Some stay hidden,
top secret,
for your eyes only
locked up deep within.
Each blemish a memorial
to battles fought,
lost and won,
as history was written
in flesh, blood, and bone.
©️Lizzie Bevis
May 20, 2025
May 20, 2025 at 10:20 PM UTC
Day taps away—
In the numbering rains.
All the fleet years, enveloped,
How many questions were founded,
What was granted by our solo vacations?
We have trussed, only films, yellowed and bent
****** into an makeshift, unready, empty album,
Dreams made right, journaled without strewn hands,
Lips rung dry from want of heat, touch and caress,
We kept our pride, penultimate, throughout
All the days, longing, dying, we slept
Together, in a broken bed of dreams
And thought, when will this play
Be glad? When will that isle
Appear? Will it ever show
Among the dark oceans
Rise— to ferry us away
Before the drunk sun
Sinks in the sea?
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
.
Day taps away—
In the numbering rains.
All the fleet years, enveloped,
How many questions were founded,
What was granted by our solo vacations?
We have trussed, only films, yellowed and bent
****** into an makeshift, unready, empty album,
Dreams made right, journaled without strewn hands,
Lips rung dry from want of heat, touch and caress,
We kept our pride, penultimate, throughout
All the days, longing, dying, we slept
Together, in a broken bed of dreams
And thought, when will this play
Be glad? When will that isle
Appear? Will it ever show
Among the dark oceans
Rise— to ferry us away
Before the drunk sun
Sinks in the sea?
.
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 3:09 AM UTC
Dare any swain escape his youth intact,
Soon after the fringe of courage will discolour into fade,
Until one day the pause,
The morning mirror, the tics and taunts,
Who is this clumsy old man his story will complain.
His bruise of reputation echoes back as tease,
The slope and sag of masculine decline,
Is journaled in the bloom of brown blotch on his hands,
The tattered skin, the oaf and clownish frown,
The aberrant fur in ears and nose,
The quitter’s curve now cues to crooked spine,
There is no bath, no rub, nor miracle devine,
From here on in he culls and manages decline.
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 7:56 AM UTC