THE DAY THEY BURIED MY GRANDFATHER I
SKIPPED TWO TOWNS OVER FOR YOUTO FILL ME LIKE THE SOIL THAT
FILLED HIS GRAVE
YOU TOLD ME TO PRETEND THAT MY LIP
SWERE THE TRAIN
FOR THE TRACKS ON YOUR ARM
I COULDN'T BEAR TO TELL YOU THEN
THAT I DIDN'T MEAN WHEN I SAID
I WANTED YOU LOOMING OVER ME ALWAYS
LIKE SOME SAD AND FRAGILE GOD

I'm struggling to write the first few lines of this poem
1. because I haven't written in awhile
and 2. Because I think it will be a very good poem
and don't want  youto abandon it
trust me
we give up too easily
for example
when I'm older I want to write movies
but when I watch a movie I constantly check my phone
even if I like the movie
we are worse off than we know
I've been thinking
lately
that is a lie
it's only been recently
very recently
regardless
why I do write best when I am depressed?
why is that when I am most profound
why must my life be strewn about around me
for me to have a grasp on literary prose
then again is it wrong of me
to consider my only important writing
the ones that can be deemed "good"
is that unfair to myself
there's a select few I always come back to
they are very good
but I was hurting a lot when I wrote them
were they worth it
maybe
I remember something I read one time
it was written by a woman
and she was talking about her pain
and her writing
she said that pain was now fluid in her life
all that really mattered was her writing
no matter how much the pain hurt
as long as her writing benefited
she would welcome it with open arms
what a **** way to live
maybe it's just nostalgia
that's *******
you wrote better before
you know that
I'm right
I've become a better person
and a worse writer
and both
frighten me

UNCLE MICHAEL - ALIAS GOD!

His hands(tobacco stained)
twisted & gnarled
knotted like an alive

piece of wood
scrawled gestures
across my mind

as the sick calf
bucked in his arms
& his quiet strength

- calmed:
'Shhhhhh...
shhhhhhh...****...****! '

he crooned
& the sound
soothed

and the veins
(line vines)
ran up & down

his arms
pumping crude life
like a sudden sketch

to suggest the gist of
rather than
the meaning of things.

and he walked
(& I ran)
towards Granny's garden

(like God tending Eden)
& the gate(a little hoarse)
sighed at his hand and

the leaves murmured
(like worshippers
in a church congregation)

& the sunlight
genuflected through the trees
and the trees wore socks & apples

a tablecloth
was laid
on a logan berry bush

and the young tree
gave herself to him
broke tenderly in his hand

and, the knife whistled &
out of the branch
came a man

and he told me
(& I believed him
'cos he was good as God & strong)

that the little wooden man
(the silent statue)
had been waiting

(all the time all ready made)
waiting to be released
from his prison of wood.

'All things...'he whispered
'all things are waiting
for youto call them.'

'Call them to come out...'
'Awake them...'
'Create them...! '

the rhododendrons
were blue with amazement
- at this revelation

a dragonfly
walked
upon the water

a butterfly became
infatuated
with a flower

me...?
I watched as
his hands talked...

...explaining things
that
could not be...said

and he took
my hand in his
and I understood

flowed
like a little stream
into his big river

felt God(close)
near at hand
and...smiling