Tag Archives: poem

Our patterns

28 Mar

You may love a stone for its pattern.
Pyrophyllite, doesn’t matter
You didn’t know I could be so hollow.
Slight and flighty like a swallow.

And when I change shape it’s just
the dripping of the water.
And your couch calm fingers
illuminating getting older.

While you loved every stone in sight
I obsessed over the light
strewn across the bed you made.
Knowing now not every sunbeam needs a serenade.

At seventeen did you have that moment
When you knew everything you wanted?
Because I’m watching and at thirty four
you stumble in through every door.

Do you miss the fireworks,
choosing gloves over pyrotechnics?
Warm and wrapped your emerald fingers
forgetting all their calisthenics.

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Trees

6 Mar

Sometimes at night I think about the road I’m on,

It feels so old from time to time. It’s mine to take,

and so I ride.

I like to keep it wild my mind a roller coast-

er kind. It’s not for everyone I find.

And so I write.

The years do pass, new wrinkles here and I’ll go white.

A day does not go past where I find I

am older. Nice.

And do you think about the day when you can see

your parents play? See shining round the grate as if

you never left?

Because you know I do. And think about mine too.

About the day that they will see no role; but me

for me for me.

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Skin

28 Feb

Your song lives in my skin.

Its peaks and pits

laying atop

my warm resin.


Your soul will fill my form.

A coat and clothes

for those mechanicals.

A place for me to live.


What will I be,

when I’m fifty two

times ninety three?

Have I found my gravity?


What will I do,

when I’m ninety three

times fifty two?

Have I nailed my follow through?

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Shapes in the day

21 Feb

I laid my head

on the water in my bed.

Recall what you said


Shapes on my mast’s head

Could you know mine?

Do you know mine?


Two balls on thread

Do you know mine?

Do you know mine?


Becalmed for days

My ribs want for your ways

No more delays


There’s bite on my breakaway

Be my ensign

Be my ensign


Cat’s paws ablaze

Draw my great spine

on your waterline


Just replace all my ballast stones

I’ll find my way back home

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Hold it in til your lungs burst

22 Jun
Michael Figiel: What Remains
Burial, Four Tet & Thom Yorke: His Rope

Hold the light and lose

coma cold focus.

A grove of smooth ladders

devoured crocus food.

A flower discovered in moods

pressed flatter. Your standard

sweet vs sour.

Cooing tunes can’t pluck

the flicker from dappled thickets.

Pliers could?

Some sort of cold scalpel?

Removal proves to show

a softer hue.

Hold the blood and the bloom.

Bottled vials we can use.

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Notes

18 Feb

Orcas: Until Then

The notes we leave

to remind ourselves

and others

we tried.

What else can we do?

I don’t know a hero.

I know those who

took what they were given

and made something.

And I know those who

took what they were given

and took their leave.

Some souls don’t weave.

—

The notes we leave

to remind ourselves

of others.

We tried.

What a simple clue.

Of our friends and foes

I don’t know who

Is still alive and thriving,

and made something.

And I don’t know who

wouldn’t take what they were given

and make a home.

To stitch and sew.

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My darlings

3 Dec

Bon Iver – Beach Baby

The wait of it all, filling

books with those I won’t kill,

books my darlings fill.

Scraps will fall, telling

how I keep my memories;

ones I’ll forget eventually

’cause sequences, strings and strands.

Cross my I’s and dot my and’s,

’cause I don’t know the state I’m in,

nor the vessel Magdalene,

or why old apologies

were so self serving.

–

Ways they taper, silent

does an end appear.

Does it dull the fear?

Is there a place to hide it?

Well I hide mine here,

scrawled within some post or mirror,

’cause I’ve never known the pain,

the cringe, the blow across the face

of losing such a piece of me.

But that’s how it has to be.

The sorrow on that last reprise,

to read my words through fresh new eyes.

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for me.

20 Nov

Sun sands sights. The lights

are smooth. I move. Your flight,

my rail, your tail, your coos.

Ways soft youths have proved

unkind. The times your tooths

drew blood. I shrug. Shut eyes.

Cold clean quarantine

and part whole heart is key

for peace at least for me.

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I am’s and chores.

6 Nov

I Want Wind to Blow: Microphones

You say, what sweeps me off my feet?

I freeze. Febreeze radiating. Debating.

Something like the hand glance, toe dance

coffee table barefoot sorta.

Passion vs stability.

Are you going to change the world from

the bus? It’s a clear bust to try to.

In flight is when your feels are real.

You land, you keep the lid on it.

One scene gleaned from the reel inside.

Everyone died. I lied. Still, not PG-13.

You showed a pic of the sun so

serene. Fire met dust so passionately.

I’ve dust for days but fire’s contained.

Where did it go?

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Move

25 Oct

The Suburbs: Arcade Fire

I’m moving past

all the thoughts that I had

and cycles that seemed

never to end.

I’m here to amend

every inch of thread

spent in haste

of not wanting change,

because how could I gauge

what I had? The rage

inducing scene where I

leaned over in laze.

I couldn’t make the case

for not treading in place

but never again.

Never again will I

see through copilot eyes.

No more tying the ties

conjured by ease.

I stand seizing the yoke.

Every urge, every joke

of a crave, now broke.

I’m moving past.

Moving on into the end.

Every moment spoken.

No restart. No try again.

I’m moving past.

Moving on into the end.

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