Poetry

Sky, cloudless. Light, unhampered as it falls across the mountains, across the lake, across the trees surrounding the lake. Day after day, a woman watches this light move across the landscape. In her story, the hero sails away, saddened, angry— while the light casts harsh shadows. The hero is never seen again. Everyone speaks of…

www.youtube.com So, here’s Edith Piaf, widow and orphan, fists clenched and tipped forward for emphasis: No, she sings, I regret nothing, not the good, not the bad. And you want to believe it too, you’re trying to believe it, and you who should have married or moved sing along. You who could have done more…

I see the lion as the lion sees the girl he slowly devours in a silent film— a flash of sun-torn flesh— before the vision fades. How foolish she was to wander the woods alone, forgetting the warnings, the memory she had of herself before the woods became a thought from which the lion leapt,…

giving over my mode au naturel pure or polluted as I await the unveiling of night’s recycled poetry which resembles our backstory softly rendered contrary for my part so as to make, to mourn to point nude abidance toward freewheeling echo flux that said, we recognize some lucid continuum innermost thoughts taming a restless amnesia…

When the infant head bursts out, the fire begins to die, shoulders, like displaced rocks, find a place to rest until they are pulled, twisted out into the air to steam, then cool. Everything hisses and smokes as when lava finds ocean. Now there is an After. After it is done. After her first minute….

The mask tires of itself. The beautiful dream blown again. The world won’t shake its own hand. Air fills with bone- powder, hair-lint, blood-flecks or the body’s demolished light, shattered mid-thought, mid-stance, mid- breath, mid-word, mid-kiss. Can thinking wend a way back to where the body feels? To where it quivers, retracts, roots? Mind discontinues…

The boys’ stories of the tobacco— splotched and yellow “toad” squirting blood from eyes and licking red ants don’t prepare you for a patch of the field rising and rushing blurry, then stopping, fitting earth tightly, the last puzzle piece.   Nor do you know how you’re guided to it, and though they’ve told you…

my little bird don’t worry bout money she don’t worry little bird for worry don’t add up but a bunch of empty seeds no your single moment is now You long lovely thing your every moment is long and today and also yesterday when meek and lowly the whole world belonged to you You longing…

Where will you go?   Will there be a nail brush, face cream, a cotton-pressed comb? Will there be toothpicks? Dove soap? A small towel? Will there be a shoe horn? Will you sleep? Will there be others? Will there be a quiet room, a firm bed? Will you lie prone with your hands on…