Saturday, July 12, 2014

Housing VII

A word to come,
Irresponsible hospitality,
A week of gestures,
Focused eyes, attentive ears,
Accosting cops, cool drinks unsafe.

Pleasant walks bring poor choices near,
Bloody, beaten she falls on his neighbor's eye,
Making her spill her summer lemonade,
Almost a liter, a little at a time.

You only realize you’re a guest too

When your family turns against you.

Saturday, July 5, 2014

Iced Over

And useless is the air conditioner.
Sweat rolls down my brow
Before I even turn it off to thaw.
Maybe with time off it will return
To its cooling purpose and save
Our mutual dripping.

Both of us are guilty of running
So consistently despite limitations
That we cause ourselves to fail,
The call to cooling turned to a freezing up.

Here is found a miracle, that by purposed pauses
We never come to emergency. To stop
And rest is not sloth, it is Sabbath.

Saturday, June 28, 2014

Blue Jasmine

I used to know all the words
But now they’re all a jumble. They ran
Away so long ago, vanishing into paragraphs
And pages too sprawling and small to track or read.

Then it seemed the hieroglyphics exploded,
Leaving no syllables, no compound sounds—no meaning—
Just consonants and vowels, an alphabet where as pieces
From different puzzles no two could be

Tied, jointed, paired. In the end all one could do
Is make piles of them, a pre-adamic sorting
Based on size, color, character, awaiting the day
When language returns, the day God walks with us again

Through the garden, blessing an inflorescence of speech
And a fruitfulness of poetry by which we no longer stammer,
Gape, hungry for the well-spoken breath, but are sated,
Glutted with penetrating, uttered love,

A healing that soothes the soul’s desperation. Such
Longed-for and long-awaited messages are never
Negative but imbibed with peaceful potency that could last
A thousand years’ drought.

I am still in the desert.
I have been here a thousand years.
I have labored; piles stand.
I will wait another millennium for just one more word to come.

That word will be my last.

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.