Sunday, May 19, 2013

Dirt Road IV

I urgently shout
I desperately run
I wave my hands
To get a ride to town.

My mothers sick
The broken gate,
The funeral to which
I know I’ll be late.

No matter how mad and disappointed
My black eyes and bowed stance be
You don’t stop,
You never stop for me.

Sunday, May 12, 2013

Housing VI

I hear the voice of my mother.
She cries loudly from the temple mount
Of the contentment of stolen water.

Without looking up, I listen, but through my tears
I have no words, no rebuke, no comfort,
Only wisdom, always dressed in black, sits with me.

Among the mountains I hear the call
Of a silent spring, hidden and blue
Under fir and spruce, awaiting the summer
Toll of its feast and unveiling.

Sunday, May 5, 2013

Housing V

At first I ground my teeth
When asking myself why I was gone.
Later I would wake up to clenched hands
In the dark, next to me a pillow--lonely.

Do you ever discover fists
When sitting, walking, thinking?
As if this divorce would be over
If I could hold onto her breath’s air.

Sunday, April 28, 2013

Left Behind III

As your excitement bubbles
A wrench knots my innards.
With each item you neatly packed in,
Undone is my social sweater.
There is no exaltation without a sundering below.

I am left behind as you are freed.
A sentence of solitary freedom.
As you fly away I’ll take a picture
To touch that assoiling wind
In captured film, my instant shuttering.

Sunday, April 21, 2013

Left Behind II

Sounds of an electric toothbrush
Ring at the sight of crusty outlines
On porcelain sink.

Drawers only half empty from packing
Done too slowly, of a broken e-reader,
A family portrait, used paintbrushes.

A colorful collection of permanent markers,
Bottles of empty beer in a line up against the window,
None looking me straight in the eye.

A half drawn plot plan, like the final walk and goodbye,
We rushed to avoid the end by sitting around. Now
The course to come is left to intuition.

It doesn’t take a discerning eye to see
I’ve been left to clean up their mess.

Sunday, April 14, 2013

Left Behind I

This place hasn’t changed. 

My space remains constant
While yours has been vacuumed
Formless and void.
I bump into traces drifting around all morning,

Specters of a world forlorn and lost.
If only they weren’t real, horrid reminders.
Birds you named continue to fly about,
The handmade beehive still buzzes,
Fish swim gaily, trusting your hand
To feed them at the dimming of day.

Sunday, April 7, 2013

Huddling Pigeons on Warming Tile Roof

Eight, dun grass in mauve setting light,
The trees that exhale by dropping leaves
Having held their breath all summer
Relaxing in the worst of wurthering winds,
Finding a pilgrim's fire in the deepest mountain winter,
A stream whose trickle continues months past rain,

Whispers that the end of life isn’t just being riven
Into cavernous silence, but climbing into a cozy bed—
Dreams that manifest when all things stretch
For spring rays beyond the solstice, bounding in ecstasy,
A  limning of verdure again.