Holding Ragnarok Away
POEM FOR THE RETURN OF THE POET
My own hands embrace
the pen like an old lover
and the words come back
from the back rooms of my mind
where they stayed during the
drive-by shootings and drug raids
out front.
I warm up to the pen
remembering brings the laughter
out from where it all hid
in the deep closets underneath
old Beatles records and Legos.
Bringing out the songs for the Next Generation,
my heart is inspired to write more sequels
than Rocky has,
The return is triumpant
but the words are still mine.
THE POET BECOMES ABSTRUSE
I've never seen the man in the moon
but I've seen the aliens come down
They asked my friend where eternity dwells
and laughed when she said it didn't.
Looking for the fountain of youth
they left us gazing
And I remember how we swore
to never tell.
Who would believe?
Yesterday, I saw the moon
unblinking, it stares at human folly
and watches the decades pass
a giant eye in the vacuum of space.
Watching eternity.
If the aliens come again
I'll tell them
It's here, with Ozymandias
and the moon.
Won't you come in
for a cup of tea?
OFF TO GRAD SCHOOL
Circles in the sky, grey seagulls,
Drop of rain enter puddles
and more circles ripple out.
Wheels on a bus, circles, I am ringed
by amusement and pain.
Amusement is my friend, he wears
a red and silver cloak and talks but rarely,
and all he says makes the corners
of my mouth quirk upwards.
Pain is another friend, also in red
his eyes convey everything, looking into
them I see
A child curled alone on the floor
A soldier with a frightened gun
Two friends parting
and grim slivers of silver
slicing, stabbing towards the soft center
the trembling gel within
and almost puncturing
I stand in the rain,
missing your laughter already
even though I can still smell
the exhaust of the bus
when it left.
STATUE
They stand in an embrace
a man and a woman
She is crying,
delicate hand clenched
unforgivingly around a sheet of paper
He supports her tears,
unwilling to show his emotions
(but his blank face shows them all
raw, painful, like a storm
lightning shuddering cloud to cloud
bullets of hail punishing the ground
a wind unlike the waves against the shore
but is instead a sword slashing)
The ignorant crowds walk around them in silence
unseeing, or unwilling to see.
SIGYN TALKS TO HER HUSBAND
"Loki, the Norse god of mischief and strife, was responsible for the
murder of Balder, the favorite god in the Norse pantheon. As
punishment, one of his sons was turned into a wolf and killed the
other son, whose entrails were used to tie Loki to a stone, and
a snake dripping poisonous venom was suspended over his face.
Only his wife was faithful enough to remain by him, holding a
wooden bowl over his eyes to protect him from the venom. When
Loki breaks free, the final battle, Ragnarok, will start, signifying
the end of the world."
"Faithful" is the only word they allow me.
As if my tears when my son was killed
Ripped by his brother-wolf,
As if his life entrails binding your body
Were nothing.
I am nothing to them but faithful
As my hands grip the wooden bowl
Protecting your eyes from dripping venom
Protecting your eyes from the world.
The poison drips, adds to the burden
In my bowl. It fills with revenge.
You feel the drops when I leave
To empty the bowl
Falling into your eyes.
Your body shudders, shakes the ground
That you are held to,
Gripped by the last embrace
Of our son.
His brother howls, hear the
Lament for his murdered brother.
He does not howl for you.
But I am faithful, holding
time in a fading grasp.
Do the gods see that you will break the binds?
Do they know the pain that will make you fight?
Do they care that I am the one who holds Ragnarok away?
Oh, Loki, my husband,
My arms are tired.
LOVEPOEM
Pale hands rest
In the twilight room.
Waiting.
You want to say something.
I want you to say it,
but I remain mute, while
you start at your hands.
The television slings
sound at us, traffic
outside the window
whooshes through slush.
I would say those words
if I knew how.
You start to speak,
looking up, paleness
leaks out of brown eyes,
blocks the words,
But I hear them anyway.
For an instant we are nothing
shivering together,
we see how pale the air is
and look past hands, eyes.
We see our weaknesses mirrored
in each other
and step closer
Shattering the pale.
CHORALE OF YOUTH
We, Children of the Media
Raised by a television screen.
Do not presume we don't comprehend
Your curving words and slashing
sentences.
We have given up the solid
for the abstract.
You dip your hands in the cool
mountain stream
Our hands are immersed
in the electric warmth of cyberspace.
Your comfort is in a long line of meaningless
words arranged as a wall to protect
you forever from meaning.
Our strength is in sharp
stacato
sentences
that hit
like
machine gun
bullets.
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