NIGHT

after the world fell down

it left a weighty weaving darkness

full of fury but no sound

so quiet

we could not hear our own voices

*I wrote this poem on September 11, 2011 to commemorate the 10^th anniversary of the 9/11 tragedy.  OpenLinkNight http://dversepoets.com/

DISPATCH FROM A FUNERAL

Death is an unnatural thing.

It is a soul mate

wrapped in a shroud of

disquiet and tears.

It is a fickle friend

who chastens life with non existence while declaring,

“You are my best and most enduring part.”

-OpenLinkNight http://dversepoets.com/

INTERVENTION

I am an heir to a jagged edged apprehension:

no one and no thing will claim me

and,

by claiming,

teach me to claim myself.

As I race toward the grave

mainlining self-doubt,

snorting regret,

confusing mere stimulation for feeling and

pulse for life;

My repreve comes in

the echo of a soul writ large,

a voice laced with crystal sugar and

dichotomy;

singing of joyful misery without the

oft obligatory shame.

It is a voice that

repeats a vow I had only heard before

in dreams;

a promise

to cry my tears when I can't.

*Written in tribute to Amy Winehouse.  I wanted to express what her music has meant to me. Artists have the power to transform the consciousness of others, but they can pay a heavy price for that power.  I hope that Amy has the peace in death that she could not find in life.

-For OpenLinkNight at http://dversepoets.com/

YOUTH

You are my gift…I am your affliction.

You help me claim the parts of myself that I fear most.

With you, I can endure and build my life anew.

But

My survival constantly compels your destruction.

Yet

You live.

-For “One Shot Wednesday” at http://onestoppoetry.com/

DILEMMA

You made a choice which allowed you to keep

the world you knew.

The world beyond was a child’s fantasy-

to you

even in its very real appeal.

You chose what you valued, but

to your surprise

that fact did not make what you got a treasure.

Once, you only needed your prize for love.

Now, you need it to make up for all

you believe you have lost.

Instead of a victor

you feel like a human sacrifice to ideology

to a wish of the mind that destroyed hope and

faith.

And what of your discarded love?

Like a prodigal

you now see it as the gem it could

never have been before.

But is this impulse Truth, or

is it the desire of an ego to keep itself safe and fed?

Regret makes us bolder, but

it does not always make us wise.

Which option should you have chosen?

What price could you afford to pay?

-For “One Shot Wednesday” at http://onestoppoetry.com/

TOGETHER

“Tag, you’re it,” I said

dramatizing my own feelings

unwilling to see the you that lay

beyond my hopes and intentions.

I double dared you to confirm

what I had come to believe:

you would be just another memory-

possibly-

another regret.

My problem was not confusion

but the weight of my truth.

But

You were the brave one

who said, “If we love, let’s love!”

You gave me

a new beginning

that has the taste

of the purest childhood.

Together

we go to another country where

we can pretend

and

what we pretend to be

we are.

In this place

you are water

and

I am sand.

-For “One Shot Wednesday” at http://onestoppoetry.com/

DEATH

In my yearning for solitude,

I missed The Epiphany of

Sensation.

Alone, I found surety

but discovered that

it admits

no wonder.

What remained for me was

A Thought

and, occasionally…

A Dream.

When we suffer enough, we learn.

FOREVER

I wanted to distill

the essence of the world and

contain it in a bottle so

the sweetness,

that fades upon possession,

would never leave me.

I picked and chose

bits I deemed important and

threw away the rest.

What I didn’t know is that

the rest gives the bit its meaning.

Now,

this knowledge

springs from my being like

a shoot from a plant.

I realize that

forever requires

a gentle embrace.

-For “One Shot Wednesday” at http://onestoppoetry.com/

HEARTS: PART TWO

My heart is

a jewelry box-

a place where I keep

the odds and ends of

my existence.

My treasures fill the box to

overflowing, and

some adorn better than others.

But

I can discard none.

Each is a necessity,

a site of memory

recalling me to myself.

-For “One Shot Wednesday” http://onestoppoetry.com/

HEARTS: PART ONE

Your heart

has many compartments,

like those of a train.

They stretch through time.

Their contents,

your passengers,

never touch.

Their bond is

the containment that you provide

as you journey

from room to room

searching

in a look

in a smile

for that one

who reflects

the you that you want to be.

 -For “One Shot Wednesday” http://onestoppoetry.com/

IN THE BOX

I.

"They messed up his mouth."  

Momma scolds the funeral home,

under her breath,

as her hand tentatively hovers

over your closed face.

Now, your lips are thin smudges

that barely cover the teeth.
Your lips were full once.

I remember.

I used to watch them.

As a child,

I watched

as they told stories, jokes, and dreams

while we all sat at the kitchen table.

The words that came then were

more restful than sleep.

I watched too

to distract myself from

the ungodly fear that I felt

when their pursing gave way to

the clench of your fists.

II.

You are so small,

like a child

wearing his father’s suit,

as you lie there

in the box.

Ten years before,

the suit fit you well.

I remember.

You sat at your desk

counting the days take,

pausing at intervals to

wet your finger with your tongue

to make the job easier.

With head down and

eyes focused intently

on your task,

you asked if I would be coming home

for the holidays.

I made some excuse,

a hollow one, that

made it obvious that

you would not be seeing me

that year.

Just for a moment,

you looked up.

The expression on your face was

the same one you wore

the night that

Momma fell.

I was shocked and

glad.

III.

To my surprise,

the box holds more than

a once was,

hastily bound together with

paper, wire, and glue.

All of your wounds

have risen to the surface.

I stand,

I look, and

I can't help but wonder:

Which ones did I inflict?

THE MINE

While in the desert,

I stumbled into a mine shaft.

Even in its depleted state,

I found hidden riches…

Once I survived the fall.

In this place of Death and

Wait,

Sight is not given but

Created.

While in the desert,

I stumbled into a mine shaft.

In this gaping tomb,

I found a chance to go forward and a

Way back home.

-For One Shot Wednesday http://onestoppoetry.com/

Two news pieces inspired this poem.  One was the story of a miner who fell into a Nevada mine and died there after many failed attempts to save him. The other was a report about how scientists study mines for clues about the earth’s beginnings and life on other planets.

THE BOTTOM

We waited together, but

She got there first.

I saw her, as I walked up to

The bus stop.

She was small and frail in

Her tight blue tank top and

Way too big khaki pants. 

She looked like an ancient child

With her sunken face and

Concave chest that trembled with each puff of her cigarette.

“We just missed one,” she said as I sat down.

“That bitch saw me, but she just kept on going.”

As she talked, her hair,

As red as her thin cracked lips,

Waved in the breeze like the weather beaten flag of

A nation that has been long forgotten.

She muttered more curses, but I didn’t hear them.

I was looking at the dark pink scar above her chest.

She caught me staring.

Touching the scar, she moves closer to me. 

Her toothless grin reveals a darkness

Like a deep well that’s

Been waiting to reveal its secrets.

The thin low tank top did not hide it:

The memory of seared skin that bubbles,

Then crusts and finally smooths out.

What remained had the appearance

Of often used candle wax.

“That’s my ‘bottom,’” she said as she fingered the scar.

“Your bottom?”

“Yeah, he come for it, but I wouldn’t give it up.”

“What?”

“My last 10 dollars.  I needed my ‘rock.’”

“Your rock?”

She saw the confused look of the uninitiated on my face.

“Meth.”

“Weren’t you scared?” I said.

“Yeah, but I needed it.”

She went silent and looked down at her feet

As if she was admiring her white high heeled shoes

With yellow at the tips that covered her toes,

A yellow with the hue and curve of a small just ripened banana.

Still looking down, she said as if talking to herself,

“I cried later when I got straight.”

“I almost died for 10 bucks.”

“I quit after that.  Been sober for nearly a year.”

She turned away from me and

Took another drag of her cigarette.

Then, she used a free finger to dab a piece of debris off of her tongue.

She examined her find with great interest,

Totally oblivious to any thing around her.

I saw our bus off in the distance.

WHEN ETERNITY COMES

When eternity comes,

We will stop protecting ourselves

From our feelings

With words that confound like

An outstretched hand that,

Alternatingly, pulls close and pushes away.

When eternity comes,

We will embrace truth and refuse to utter

The niceties that feel

like the kiss of a reluctant lover; 

a pout planted flatly on the lips.

When eternity comes,

We will reject shallow beauty

And embrace the

Penetrating wit

That is our birthright.

When eternity comes,

We will leave the banality of this life

To those who fear the fall.

When eternity comes,

We will, finally, give ourselves over to

Flesh that does not obey.

REGRET

The cry is not heard.

The grief can no longer be consoled.

The knowledge comes too late.

What we took for second best was, actually, first.

THE END OF THE AFFAIR

Your eyes-

speak recognition,

mine…loss.

LOVE

Love,

Without self-consciousness

Gives of its self,

Expects nothing,

Lures everything, and

Has no rival.

LOSS

I search for the meaning

amongst tiny bits of wreckage that

dance in slivers of light and

quickly disappear.

I try to touch,

I can't.

There is nothing to embrace,

except,

the forgetting.

THE TWO

Inevitably,

we wake to

an inscrutable restlessness

feeling our mutual masochism:

the perfunctory invasions

the passive depletions.

Presently,

we are united only in our regret for

what has been lost and

resentment of the instinctual and

inherent pull.

Fearfully,

we persist, because

we know that partings do not
always lead to better things.

Silently,

we endure until

the fear of paralysis becomes greater than

the fear of the unknown.

Finally,

we part, but

the taste of the old love lingers

in our memories

forever

like the tastes on the tongue:

bitter, sour, salty, and sweet.