EMBRACE
Through fog I saw
two trees together
bound by sight, and blended in mist
Their trunks were one
their branches entwined
Held motionless in my memory,
The two became more
than either had been alone.
EVENING, VALENTINE'S DAY
The night is scaly skin,
an integument I could unpeel:
stretching around me, covering me
with straggling stars, a wizard's robe,
swirling, yet constant
the trees dream of light (open and airy)
but darkness beckons (a yes against dawn,
a backwards heart)
and night slips closer.
A sliver of memory:
curve of warm against warm,
taste of stubble, muscles
tightening, easing, tensing again:
I savour your desire
echoing in me (that contagious stillness)
a luxurious cry (the sweat slid down
wrinkled blankets)
heartbeats heard in sudden silence.
But I am alone.
a blank nightfall scallops
across the tree-lined walk,
a shallow warbling, a lost bird
laughing sadly from a madrona,
nudges me back (I'll let the daydream loose)
shreds of self-pity fall (released by winged music
under streetlamps)
Night opens to the sky
and the morning
escorts me home.
THE POET REALIZES SHE HAS BEEN TELLING A STORY
AND FALLS SILENT
Poems are not like diamonds
that form well under pressure.
THAT OLD CLOUD OF BLACK AGAIN
I listen to Vivaldi
alone in my room
lying on the floor
looking up through a cone of dark
At a nameless point of the ceiling.
The pressure that is called
emotion
comes and goes through me
never staying long but always leaving
seaweed strewn beaches in the wake
I can tell you what pain is
it's a tiny spoon
that scoops out a bit at a time
then stops. Just when the depletion
of Self seems right.
It is standing alone in your room
when the music has ended
realizing that you have been directing
a phantom orchestra,
and letting your arms drop, defeated.
I used to direct Vivaldi all the time. Get a good copy of the Four Seasons and spend some time trying it out when you are lonely. It's wonderful therapy. Summer: Presto is the best. Wave your arms wide, pretend to emphasize a section by pointing at the imaginary instruments and giving them a stern look. Go explosive in the powerful parts, shake with your whole frame. When it ends, allow yourself some time to cry.
THE WEAVE
Weaving,
my hands are crossed
by tiny lines that form
a pattern in chaos
my fingers echo it
dancing.
I am not alone here
The radio has musical arms
around me
the light pins me to the floor
The floor vibrates with a faint
heartbeat
It is the pulse of the ground,
Earth, rich and dark
smelling like a Spring morning
It is the pulse of time
An invisible river
that I think
I am drowning
in.
THE NEW US
I am alone,
so cliche, so always
Why bother saying it?
Say instead:
The candle is burning on the desk
it is illuminating the blank page
of my diary
Or:
The sound of the water boiling
is peppermint tea to my ears
but I will drink two cups
instead of sharing.
POEM FOR DALE
The car in the lot sweated in the sunlight,
rust dripping down the sides...
As the crane loomed, and the compacter gnashed
it's grinding teeth.
Poem written on-line in a chat, to show what a poem is. Thanks for getting me to write again, Dale.
THE LAND OF FICTION
Such stories reside in my mind
There must be a world
Or universe
Stretching out to finite limits
Weaving along the corridors
of thought
So many people, happy, living,
Dwelling in a world I created.
What will happen to them
When I die?
Does everyone have a universe of characters inside them, acting out scenes that will never be written in books, living out lives that are endless and different each day? How many universes are lost to us?
RIDING THE INTERNET
"There's not a word yet
for old friends who've just met."
-Gonzo ("The Muppet Movie")
Voices
rise mutely from keyboard clicks.
each computer in its own room,
each touched by a different hand...
"Jesus saves... passes to Moses... he shoots... he SCORES!"
A world of non-sequitors
screaming over wires.
"113 grams, 10 ml... he's lead, Jim."
No borders lined with guns
and concrete can stop
the words, drifting, heard in silence.
"If space is warped, time is all that's weft."
Emotions morph into letter
and words, flowing through paragraphs
like the bright thread of a weave.
"English may be the universal language,
but Norwegian is the language of love."
We hide our masks of skin tone,
pigmented hair and eyes
behind a new mask of words.
"You laugh at my jokes, you can't be all bad."
If we meet in the real world,
we might pass each other by
Never realizing
"On the internet, no one knows who you are."
I'm with you, even
Across phone lines
Reaching up
From your unblinking screen.
All of the quotes inside the poem are taken directly from the internet, usually from sombody's sig. The quote at the top has often been my sig.
WEDDING RING
I stare at the ring
it encircles my finger,
like a golden sun
has orbited my limb
and left a trail
shimmering to remind
of its daily path.
ARS POETICA
There is no wrong way
to write a poem.
Judging it by rhyme or meter
rips out its soul
makes it a thing
instead of a poem.
And though sometimes the poetry of now
rants and screams through darkness,
Though the sonnets I once loved
now hide in dusty tomes
there is still no wrong way to write a poem
No Bad Poetry
No Good Poetry
Only
I like this poem,
and
You like that poem.
Every poet must write an "Ars Poetica": The Art of Poetry, and every poet must tell how to do it. I'm not every poet, but I must claim the uncertain title of Poet anyway, and thus, this poem. If you write, read it and good luck.