"sighing" poems
A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.
But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.
The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.
But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.
207k
O'er the midnight moorlands crying,
Thro' the cypress forests sighing,
In the night-wind madly flying,
Hellish forms with streaming hair;
In the barren branches creaking,
By the stagnant swamp-pools speaking,
Past the shore-cliffs ever shrieking,
Damn'd demons of despair.
Once, I think I half remember,
Ere the grey skies of November
Quench'd my youth's aspiring ember,
Liv'd there such a thing as bliss;
Skies that now are dark were beaming,
Bold and azure, splendid seeming
Till I learn'd it all was dreaming —
Deadly drowsiness of Dis.
But the stream of Time, swift flowing,
Brings the torment of half-knowing —
Dimly rushing, blindly going
Past the never-trodden lea;
And the voyager, repining,
Sees the wicked death-fires shining,
Hears the wicked petrel's whining
As he helpless drifts to sea.
Evil wings in ether beating;
Vultures at the spirit eating;
Things unseen forever fleeting
Black against the leering sky.
Ghastly shades of bygone gladness,
Clawing fiends of future sadness,
Mingle in a cloud of madness
Ever on the soul to lie.
Thus the living, lone and sobbing,
In the throes of anguish throbbing,
With the loathsome Furies robbing
Night and noon of peace and rest.
But beyond the groans and grating
Of abhorrent Life, is waiting
Sweet Oblivion, culminating
All the years of fruitless quest.
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I’m strong, I can stand
against the buffeting winds
that try push me down.
(I’m weak, too easy I fall,
giving in to the pressure
that mounts from within.)
In the face of your discrimination,
I’m courageous
(I fear your abuse)
Yes, I am strong.
Though my gnarled hands
bend with age,
my roots…
(break, there is no
vigor left in me)
Sighing...my mind twists
that which should grow
into a solid foundation,
turning it into
(groans of pain,
mental anguish.
Weakness takes over)
A tired thought dances
through dim light,
bringing some joy
into the
(bleak. All I see are
shadows. Mocking shadows.)
Once I believed I had it,
an inner strength to deal
with anything.
(Like a mirage, my spirit
couldn’t grasp what it needed.)
Now I envision…
no, I see what I truly am.
My hands are wringing,
I’m cold...so cold.
I am
not
strong.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
Never thought I'd listen to Kodaline,
as I walk down the Memory Lane
Oh, Clementine
For when I was with you I've always been sane
You said you'd be at nine
But since you were no longer mine,
I spent all night with you in my mind
And glasses of champagne on my hand
Oh, Clementine
It's hard for me even to draw a line
Letting you go costs insanity I can't define
With countless loss of dopamine
But I guess if you're fine
I'd do my best not to intervene
Oh, Clementine
February 14th you're no longer my Valentine
Driving through the sreets I ran out of gasoline
But the time is due and I've come to the deadline
While sighing 'I'm done'
I know it's time for me to be gone
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC
In her gauzy garments
Above the bowing trees
The moon has many lovers
In the sighing breeze.
They all take her dancing
In exotic lands
They give her sparkling diamonds
They kiss her milk-white hands.
She is round & fullsome
Or slender as a waif
When she is then waning
Her flowers are kept safe.
Silken skeins of darkness
When she's waxing full
Are parted by her brightness
She is NEVER dull!
Her beaux are all so courtly
But she eschews them all
Her only love can make her pale
She burns at his call...
She lets out her moonbeams
Through her eyes they weep
She loves the one eclipsing her
They can NEVER meet!
She, so strong within her court
Will curtsey when he comes
The moon has many lovers
But she's taken by the SUN.
Catherine Jarvis
(C) 12/14/2019
Dec 15, 2019
Dec 15, 2019 at 12:07 AM UTC
A dazzling sough,
The wind blows through, across the stunning white clouds, to Earth,
A dearness of the whistling, carrying a, warm breeze makes it worth
Worth but to say nothing less than; praise the new coming day!
Rustling the leafs, shaking them, letting them dance, then sway,
The wind is a transient traveler, rushing through this worldly life,
Gathering clouds together, a delicate drizzle is what they strive for,
Distorting, carrying, leading them towards the ground, wettening them in a scenery of a wonderous sight, fertilising the soil more,
Howling in a showering yet intimitating sense of the changing scene,
Blowing over each drop of pure water on the green coloured grass,
Spring is truly a season where dreams can sore,
It gives us the idea of something greater, something more,
Coming with ups, then downs, it gets carried away by the wind,
Until finally, the sunny days of summer are to come,
Sit down with me, listen to the sighing of the wind, don't be lonesome
By the sound it makes, the gentle song which blows through our ears
Can you hear it whispering ?
~ Umi
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 6:14 PM UTC
whish whish is the sound of a suffering
the sound of blood as it squirts
the most exquisite and horrendous fountain
loaded with a despairing call
a siren's ring
because it stings the depths of the heart
to the very end, from the dreadful start
whish whish is the sound of suffering
the sound of wheels turning
because there was an exit before, there always is
most often it's more than I'm willing to give
whish whish is the sound of suffering
it is the sound of those crying
there is pleading, wailing, sighing
'fore the fates bring forth dying
and there is death in life, thoughts, wisdom, courage
it comes with age, but time's the liveliest gift received
we are deceived if we think we turn each page
whish whish is the sound of a suffering
it's the sound of what's missed
if we had asked before
we mightn't be adorned with the weight
the burden, the baggage, the fate
the mystery is missing
there's hissing in the past
those last faulty choices have played with our cast
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
Tonight, the wind sings, "Welcome home."
In a soft, sighing language that the dusk wrote upon the sky in starlight for you,
And you alone.
This place missed you. It was mournful all winter long.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 11:10 PM UTC
Strong and resolute, it stands
seeking with claw-like limbs
for sunlight and raindrops.
Leaves, crimson and gold
slip from trailing branches
coming to rest on frozen ground.
Whispering and sighing
the great oak bends and sways
in the icy wind.
Roots, beneath the surface
delve deep down
growing
strengthening
as ages pass--
untouched by frost.
The strong winds may blow
and wage their wars
brittle branches may splinter.
But still the oak stands
bending
not breaking against the forces.
-Esther L. Krenzin-
-Roguesong-
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 11:50 AM UTC
Another Version
Hartley Forde
You can’t see the wind,
But that old mango tree,
Outside my window,
tell me it’s there..
.
I never travel with a raincoat,
Even though I hate getting wet,
Then here comes the aches and pain
And I started to wonder,
was it because I got a little insane..
I thought that I could
Have run faster than it pours
I haven’t heard of
any aircraft that outrun a jet plane yet,
But, not so anymore,
I never leave my coat and cane,
When I am on a stool,
Oh dear, what has happened to me?
Am I aging? I am not young anymore,
Nor grey, nor old: for age is just a number,
But when the toil of the day
Merges with the aches and pain
With sighing sounds I start to wonder:
I still dance the night away, with my social tunes,
And waltz across the floor to all-time favorite of Strauss
See how I step back in time with the reggae beat,
Lighter than a feather on my feet,
Smiling, with my pearly teeth from ear to ear:
Life just isn’t fear: because age is just a number
That’s when the rubs and oil granny left me:
Come alive again in the neck of time,
to soothe the pain of my aching joints
I smile once again and said
“Oh dear, what do they say again,
Age is just a number and life begins at forty,
Because, I am just starting to be naughty:
Downhill !
written by:
Hartley Forde
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 6:48 PM UTC
////March 20 2014 /////
Fainting spells
are more common
when I'm trying
to memorize how
****** got into power
Sighing is more
common
when I'm trying
to learn the
art of polynomials
crying is more
common when I have
two tests tomorrow
and I still need
to start that essay
that was given
yesterday
madness is when
I have to understand
that my sadness
is a genetic disposition
I could never control
Disappointment is more
common when I have
to yet again cancel
the plans I made
with my friends
But still
even
after a week of doing
this ****
the only thing
I learned
is that knowledge
isn't found in
a textbook
and a power point
presentation
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 8:05 PM UTC
Blueberry bluebells
sing, imperceptibly
sighing
against a backdrop of
quiet cerulean.
You know
it is Spring when
their hazy grasses
sprout beautifully
thick in the blades
between the primrose,
and when the sun
infuses shafts
of bronze to the lilac
through the giant
ash's baby
leaves.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it's over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.
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From the heavenly embers the phoenix rises.
It opened its scarlet eyes and saw the world blanketed in darkness.
Its cries reverberating in the dim valley, paternal love it sought.
Woe is the phoenix for not a creature came and all it did was for naught.
With tears in its eyes till sunrise it waited.
Filled with indignation the phoenix flew.
For it realized that as a newborn it was cheated.
With only the support of itself the phoenix grew.
Time passed peacefully in the valley.
The phoenix' wings have now grown fully.
Then the phoenix’ adventurous spirit was suddenly ignited.
With newfound courage the phoenix soared, clearly it is excited.
It was fearful yet ecstatic for the world full of the unknown.
The phoenix said farewell to the place it once had grown.
It desired to wander the world hoping to meet with its kin.
The phoenix is very lonely and hoping for one’s happiness isn’t a sin.
Many beasts quickly hid when they saw the phoenix near.
When they saw the flames blazing they can only shiver in fear
Sighing with regret for it wants to make a friend.
But fate has been cruel and fear was its desire’s end.
It traversed thousand of mountains
And experienced countless rains
It hoped and prayed fervently to the glorious entity above
To grant its wish, to experience love
To be continued...
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 2:12 AM UTC
Strangers known
by shared room
Honey voiced , high cheek *****
no less, no more
Licorice words pounding
on a chest
scrambling to wrap fingers
around a single perfumed breath
Two days dragging on
pulled through mud
stuck in fog
seconds are hours too long
Then ringing came
answered by drops of syrup
pouring out a reply, yes!
drinking it in with big gulps.
Mirror reflects practiced hellos
swishing hair put in place
teeth and lips splitting
breaking through stone face
Pacing back and forth
frantic footsteps pounding
crushing carpet in a line
south, north, south, north
No ring, no change
red blushes fad grey
phone silent, gaze up
stare blank
Is the swooshing hair the wrong way?
Is the grin too toothy?
Is the face not constructed right?
Stood up and let down
sailor on a ship
already sunk and drifting
off the starboard bow
Stood up and let drown
by the honey voice
the high cheek bones
Failure in hindsight sighing
“I should have known
I should have known…”
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 3:31 AM UTC
EᔕᔕᕼI
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The kitchen's air is redolent with spices,
peppers and cinnamon, all-spice and star
anise, thyme and curry. The cooks are
shouting orders; taking rose-silver pots
and copper pans; each having the print
of the Lily of Aurelinaea; from the wooden
shelves, plates and bowls from the cup-
boards; some are stirring soups over
coal-fire stoves; others are dicing carrots,
potatoes, fresh poultry and more.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Esshi, in a light-green off-the-shoulder
dress of rose-silk with a triple ruffle trim,
lined with yellow ribbon, a thigh high slit and
white lilies beadery, is speaking to the head-chef
who nods. "Certainly, Lady Esshi." he says
and turns to his busy staff. "Bring out
the paella pans! We have orders for the
Queen Mother!"
"Yes, chef!" a woman says as she pulls
out a rose-silver paella pan and places
it on the stove. The head-chef turns to
Esshi. "You need not worry, Lady Esshi,"
he smiles. "I will make the dishes with
care."
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"You always do, Bael," Esshi chuckles as
he washes his hands and she walks to
the corner, sighing. 'My Lady...'
she thinks worried.
"Lady Esshi?" her thoughts are broken
by a woman's voice. She turns to see a
florist behind her. *'So lost in thought,
that I did not hear the door open.'*
She thinks as her eyes fall on the flower
vase.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The vase is art noveau style; a deep emerald
green with a maiden in flowing silks, her
hair bejewelled with lilies. Esshi's eyes then
rise to look at the flower arrangement - white
lilies with lilac kisses, purple roses and
several stems of lavender.
"Lady Ainhara said I should bring this to you."
"It's lovely," Esshi sniffs the fresh flowers.
"Very beautiful! You certainly outdid yourself.
It's for our young Queen, I take it?"
"Yes. And Lady Ainhara said I should bring
you this also."
She sees her place some paper, quill and ink down
and Esshi smiles.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 3:41 PM UTC
In a class, I'll sit and listen
they'll explain that I have no rights
as a member of the LGBTQ+
they'll say,
with pride of their skin,
black lives DON'T matter-
all lives do.
I'll sit here, OH YES,
I'll sit and listen
they'll talk about girls being ugly
talking about how
there are only two genders
and I'll sit here
relating women to paintings,
weaving them into my poems,
slightly pouting and confused
with my lack of their said gender.
Sighing,
I will sit here and listen
as they repeat the things
I've heard my entire life
and I'll bite my tongue, though not really
a look will pass by, rage seeps through pores
I'll leak liquid anger
until the toxins correct their rotten brains
I know I should say something,
but there are tons of them
and only micro-me.
Weak.
I'll sit here, and I will listen to them as
we all eagerly await the bell
Save us.
we're far apart, so
my mask is off now,
but when it sounds, when it promises peace
RING RING RING
I will stand, turn,
and Black Lives Matter will be almost
as prominent as a tattoo on my face,
the phrase will melt,
it will stick,
it will attach to my mouth
and say
scream
sing
the words that I cannot.
and I'll keep Sydney's hoodie on
as my bulletproof vest,
her chain against my heart
understanding that
THIS IS NOT A CHOICE
Why would I
ever
choose the pain I went through for this?
only to go home,
and hear more from my step-father,
with the victimizing mother actings
as if it never happens
Dec 2, 2020
Dec 2, 2020 at 4:31 PM UTC
the night was hot and sticky
the kind where you don't want to be touched
guitar chords were ringing through us
my lips stayed shut
an mmm erupted from you
it crawled out of your throat
into my ears and down my spine
I'm wishing I could float
did you see the feeling in my face change?
i tried my best to stay
stone cold statue
blood hot beside you
afraid of what you'd say
but i wanted you to touch me
right then and right there,
or even just to put your arm around me
instead of this feeling beside you here
sweat upon sweat
without feeling any heat
the tingle and the tension
our bodies surrender
under the pressure
lost of any prevention
Finally.
the last few notes leave the room pulsing,
and we are sighing.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 10:28 PM UTC
I find myself pacing and sighing
trying to condense my feelings into words.
My mind recalls insignificant details
and moments accumulated in my memory
that spark my feelings for you.
igniting my love into a feeling of ecstasy like no other.
I translate these moments into reasons.
Reasons that add up to other reasons
or multiply into even greater feelings for you.
But as for words..there are none.
**** it I can try but it will just fall short every time.
These words don't exist.
Words aren't passion or love
they are means of communication.
And passion or love I can not communicate.
In every smile.
In every look.
In every long car ride I spend laughing beside you.
In every day I spend with you for the rest of my life.
Thats where my love and passion resides.
I hope that you find it there
and I hope you find comfort within that.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 11:02 PM UTC
Existential cruelty of a long abandoned Friday
Remembered once, twice
then forgotten by 8 pm.
The shots of Chiraq and memories of Hatshepsut linger effortlessly on his doorstep in the dark of sunlight,
but smiles in his lap disappear on the pavement beneath skyscrapers
before the dead of noon.
His mind travels to the curvy bodies of Monroe types.
A palm, a fist, a thumb
caress ******* and legs before he wakes
to find hair on his pillow and lips in his face
where only days before a yellow sky and bright green eyes waved and faded.
And all because interracial pride and prejudice leaked toils and tensions in the face of Basquiat
Where once African princes and white German queens
spent Tuesday afternoons charming their ways into each others' beds
and sighing at the disgust stamped on the faces of strangers.
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
The leaves were long, the grass was green,
The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,
And in the glade a light was seen
Of stars in shadow shimmering.
Tinuviel was dancing there
To music of a pipe unseen,
And light of stars was in her hair,
And in her raiment glimmering.
There Beren came from mountains cold,
And lost he wandered under leaves,
And where the Elven-river rolled
He walked alone and sorrowing.
He peered between the hemlock-leaves
And saw in wonder flowers of gold
Upon her mantle and her sleeves,
And her hair like shadow following.
Enchantment healed his weary feet
That over hills were doomed to roam;
And forth he hastened, strong and fleet,
And grasped at moonbeams glistening.
Through woven woods in Elvenhome
She lightly fled on dancing feet,
And left him lonely still to roam
In the silent forest listening.
He heard there oft the flying sound
Of feet as light as linden-leaves,
Or music welling underground,
In hidden hollows quavering.
Now withered lay the hemlock-sheaves,
And one by one with sighing sound
Whispering fell the beechen leaves
In the wintry woodland wavering.
He sought her ever, wandering far
Where leaves of years were thickly strewn,
By light of moon and ray of star
In frosty heavens shivering.
Her mantle glinted in the moon,
As on a hill-top high and far
She danced, and at her feet was strewn
A mist of silver quivering.
When winter passed, she came again,
And her song released the sudden spring,
Like rising lark, and falling rain,
And melting water-bubbling.
He saw the elven-flowers spring
About her feet, and healed again
He longed by her to dance and sing
Upon the grass untroubling.
Again she fled, but swift he came,
Tinuviel! Tinuviel!
He called her by her elvish name;
And there she halted listening.
One moment stood she, and a spell,
His voice laid on her: Beren came,
And doom fell on Tinuviel
That in his arms lay glistening.
As Beren looked into her eyes
Within the shadows of her hair,
The trembling starlight of the skies
He saw there mirrored shimmering.
Tinuviel the elven-fair
Immortal maiden elven-wise,
About him cast her shadowy hair
And arms like silver glimmering.
Long was the way that fate them bore
O'er stony mountains cold and grey
Through halls of iron and darkling door
And woods of nightshade morrowless.
The Sundering Seas between them lay,
And yet at last they met once more,
And log ago they passed away
In the forest singing sorrowless.
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Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch, in sudden gleams,
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I remember the black wharves and the ships,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
And the fort upon the hill;
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o’er and o’er,
And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I remember the sea-fight far away,
How it thundered o’er the tide!
And the dead captains, as they lay
In their graves, o’erlooking the tranquil bay
Where they in battle died.
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I can see the breezy dome of groves,
The shadows of Deering’s Woods;
And the friendships old and the early loves
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves
In quiet neighborhoods.
And the verse of that sweet old song,
It flutters and murmurs still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the school-boy’s brain;
The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.
And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on, and is never still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town;
But the native air is pure and sweet,
And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,
As they balance up and down,
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
And Deering’s Woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there,
And among the dreams of the days that were,
I find my lost youth again.
And the strange and beautiful song,
The groves are repeating it still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
6.8k
Basking in postcoital bliss, talking between the sheets
catching our breath, giggling with laughter treats
Laying in the afterglow, tangled in the sheets
sweating cooling skin, and completing greater feats
Blissful in post euphoria, feeling quite appeased
finding comfort in warm arms, putting me at ease
Still sighing, touching, tasting, nuzzled in content
reveling in the splendor, our minds and bodies, spent
Let me drink, this moment in, before we turn to clocks,
wishing only to start again, as seconds ticking mocks.
Snuggling together, eyes and hands so locked
wishing for ourselves, more hours, on the clock
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 2:21 PM UTC
You woke me in the thin dawn.
Like a riot of rain in a bleached dry summer.
small green shreds of shrub sprang from my heart
as tumbling birdsong might litter the long pale sky.
your voice came drifting through the shallow line
And I let the sound seep like a soft assault on my senses.
I hear the words and picture your lips
Folding around the consonants like a dance.
I hear your breath carry the words and taste the phrases
That linger on your tongue as if to speak them in a kiss
These words that spin this cloth of gold in whispered utterings
This silken tease with a wild sprinkle of kisses and anatomy.
And would my words soften your eye and entice your body
With fevered adventures seeking to be sated with a touch?
Could you taste the blessings erupting from my tongue?
Would you ache inside far beneath the longings of the flesh?
It seems that every cell is sighing a simpering listless want
to be captured by the haunting breath of a lover’s call.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 5:34 AM UTC
The porch bends beneath me,
its gray boards sighing.
I light a cigarette,
send my breath to the wind-
maybe White‑Shell Woman
will carry it to the horizon.
He's fired again,
last kitchen inside forty miles
that could stand him,
bridge burned behind.
At lunch I’ll call,
say get out
or Daddy and Jimbo
will haul your whiskey bones
to lie with the rattlesnakes.
I swore to Mama and to Owl,
I will keep the night honest,
I wouldn’t spend my years
driving a man to dialysis,
watching Irish blood unravel
like wet lace.
But I remember the long Covid winter-
two bears in one den,
one soft, one starved-
when Spider Grandmother
wove us together
in the dim blue light
of tele-novellas and snow.
I almost believed
it was love again.
He pops up like a coyote
in the truck’s passenger door,
smelling of smoke and ruin.
Eighty‑five down the prairie road,
bug‑spattered glass,
sky bending blue,
fields gold as escape.
This isn’t working, I whisper.
We want different things.
Don’t, he says,
fingers crawling my thigh
No-
I shove.
Sweetness peels,
the sleeping volcano wakes.
Before his hand
can teach me the rest,
I already know:
there is no leaving.
The road is long,
lined with white crosses,
and the Ghost Buffalo
that's been leading me
down it
all my life.
Aug 5, 2025
Aug 5, 2025 at 3:41 PM UTC