For H.

H.

A memory tsunami
knocked me over today
threatened
to pull me under
washing me in wonder.

I stormed downstairs, dinner
and children beckoning
willing
these encumbered days
to become precious.

Untitled

Very rough first thoughts on this one:

Sunday
Afternoons belong to
football.
Yes, I'll get you a beer.
No, I don't need anything.

Monday
Your last minute early
morning flights
are a crappy way
to start the week.

Tuesday
Instead of moping around
the house
I went to the bookstore.
I met a woman.

Wednesday
How could dinner
be a problem?
We all eat,
afterall.

Thursday
Morning purgatory
with cigarettes and me
lingering on your lips.
No, I'm not busy today.

Friday
changes include the sheets,
my heart.
Welcome home honey.
Yes, dinner's ready.

Saturday
Early morning shopping.
Don't forget
chips and salsa.
Who are we playing this week?

Business Trips

It's too easy for you to leave
to simply gather all
you hold
necessary and precious
fold them into orderly stacks
in a suitcase
marked with a red ribbon
for easy identification
as yours.

Vacuuming remnants of our life
from underneath our bed,
passing the timelessness,
I found a forgotten necktie.

I secured it through my beltloops
tied into a square knot
even a sailor would be proud of;
wondered if you'd recognize it
and whether you would claim me
when you came home.

Patchwork, revisited

As a child I watched silently,
questioning how her fading eyes
could envision two hundred triangles.

An elaborate planned neighborhood
of harmony and contrast, held
together by highways of thread.

Her creased mouth parted
"Scraps of cloth are effortless
after piecing together 28,000 days."

Closets have a way of becoming full;
they alone laugh at entropy. Nestled
between photo albums and ticket stubs

The abandoned quilt waits patiently
for my young eyes to discern the pattern
and my rushing heart to find the days.

**Putting down thoughts, hoping I'll be so ashamed this is public that I'll fix it :)

The clouds shed snow
all morning.
I ate lunch, flakes
large as nickels fell
unceasingly.
I looked out, saw bare
green grass,
tried to not write of
futility.

If raindrops rhymed

Work in progress for this week.

1.
"If raindrops rhymed we would all be poets"
Instead, I pull mangled leaves of grass from muddy rivulets
smooth them dry upon blank paper
study the wet imprint;
my flesh prickles at the echo of distant thunder.

2.
"If raindrops rhymed, we would all be poets'.
Instead I pull mangled leaves from muddy rivulets
smooth them dry upon steaming asphalt
study the evaporating imprint.
My flesh prickles at the echo of distant thunder.

The snow sits

The snow sits
Indian style, straight
backed against the
rock wall pews

No seat was reserved
for me; I watch
the silent service
through frosted windows.

Falls' funeral is closed casket.

Foundation

When the wind keens,
sneaking beneath attic rafters
to hide from the moon,
the house trembles.

This, and only this, remains,
now that we are spent:
I, too, am hollow
and my underpinnings quiver.

Grant us reprieve tonight.
Without you to inhabit us
we may blow
away.

Sycamore

Spring
came so long before the sycamore budded
I thought it had given up gracefully,
convinced of the old age
which its’ mottled skin portrayed.
More likely it fought last
fall
silently weeping above our backyard leaf pyre
while we rode wild horse branches,
taunting the same cold which shook us all
winter.
We ceremoniously chopped it down
last Saturday, promised to plant another
in memory. The neighbor's sycamore
unfurled its leaves today;
it will be a hot
summer.

During your shower

this morning, your slick notes rose
and bloomed swiftly; the music
stretched every corner of the moistened sky.
I tried to counter, slinging silent lines and curves.
Exhaling as they withered and failed
to form words, I fiddled with my useless hands,
tucked my chin, and tried not to breathe you in,
even as the damp settled into my hair.

Published in This So Called Life Anthology
Little Poem Press

The Museum

I.

Where did I get my
muse?

Where else but from the very same
gift shop
where you found your
voice?

II.

When buying your ticket
Please pick up a map.

The greatest treasure
lies within me
but it’s a long journey.

III.

Only time,
not stillness, can create
artifacts.

I’m not that old.
Neither are you.

IV.

Glass cases and velvet ropes
are gentle restraints,
but they still rub the wrong way
eventually.

V.

Do not touch.



Published in This So Called Life Anthology
Little Poem Press

Space

Answers to unspoken questions
become the shadows of your dawn
as my suns' requisite deluge fills your sky.
Complacency is not the fruit of comfort
nor warmth that of heat.


Chaos is in perfect alignment
for this short, sweet moment.


Questions bereft of their answers
become the shadows of your dusk
as my planets lazily shift position in your sky.
Consistency is not synonymous with safety
nor distance with space.

Water Works

Sipping from me
Like a fountain in a school hall
You cup your hands as I form a lake between your fingers.

I stream through
Forming a tiny oozing waterfall
As my refreshing pool quickly vanishes into thin air. 

Your tongue tastes
The rain as it drip drops upon you
My river winds but never ends until it meets your ocean.

Days of summer
Reflect the storm my eyes once knew
Back when my body heat could keep at bay the bitter snow.

Thunder

After the
tumultuous
rainstorms,
the peace and
soft fulfillment
of the moist earth
sinking lusciously
between my toes
and the partial return
of my body
to the ground
hints at
the pure bliss
of silence
after the
thunderclap
of life.

Weak Gravity

Distances
grow
for even
earth
is losing
her
tenuous
grip
on sister
moon's
retreating
dance.

Spitefully
I
try holding
tight
these fragile
threads
skillfully
sewn
under my breath
and
around your
soul.

July

July forces us out--
away from our generated cool which only makes it hotter outside
but keeps us comfortable--
momentarily--
out to watch the palpable heat in the sky explode.

July forces us away--
out from underneath our covers and nooks of comfort because
it's cooler the farther we go--
body heat and soul heat--
away resembles too closely the winter of life.

The beginning

I'm hoping to push myself to write a bit more and hold myself more accountable. I'm going to put up a ton of older stuff that I like, some that needs some work, and hopefully some new stuff :)