Corner: A Poem

Corner


There are some days
When all I want is a corner,
A place guarded on most sides,
Angular but safe,
A place to stand or crouch,
To be solitary and quiet.

A corner where nothing is crooked,
Where the walls are smooth and cold to the touch,
The floor swept free of cobwebs,
With light from a window, perhaps.

All I want is a small place without anything,
Where I can read books
Or write poems,
And sometimes just cry into my hands
Because I want to.

There are some days
When all I want is a place to be alone
On purpose.

 

 

©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Corner: A Poem

Observations on Silence: A Poem

Observations on Silence

Is there a place where no one speaks?
A place where words are obsolete,
No one knows what language is or was,
Nor why we ever needed it.

Why use words when there are eyes?
Notice how small twin orbs
Can twinkle, can glow,
Can fill and flow.
Notice the space and time between blinking,
See the web spun by iris-arachnids –
Flirting, discerning, detecting, beholding.

Notice how eyes can brighten,
And darken,
And dance.

Why use words when there are hands?
Notice how the roughest palms –
Though creased and bruised –
Are strongest,
Can shape and safeguard anything and all.
And notice the unsettled shaking fingers,
Trembled with anxiety,
Tired with trying and untying knots.
And how, when you hold them, they’re warmest.

Notice how hands can be absent-minded
And paint pictures into empty air.

Why use words when there are lungs?
Notice how some breathing is even,
How the chatter of muscles in a cage of bones
Can sound like a lullaby if you listen long enough.
Notice the steadiness dissolve
Into a wracking cough, like winter,
Or a swelling sigh, like waves.

Notice how lungs babble,
How they whisper,
How they work.

Why use words when there are hearts?
Notice how this bloody mass of flesh
Has become the symbol for high romance,
Simply because it is the very thing of life,
Though not so simple at all.
Notice how this magic machine
Can beat as constant as a war-drum,
And yet flutter or fumble or fail
As easily as you or I, and at the slightest inclination.

Notice how hearts are as bright as the moon,
And how often they are dampened
By inclement weather.

Why use words when there are stars?
For there are no words for stars.

But notice them.

They’re rather lovely.

©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Observations on Silence: A Poem

Sentinels: A Poem

Sentinels


See the moon hanging there in your chest,
In the place where your heart should be.

Glowing and constant:
Mother-light to your night-wandering.

Too irregular was your old heart,
Too deep and too raw;

A heart that worked too well.

But here the moon stands in its stead
With such strength, silver shielding your soul.

Pouring out quicksilver to fill up your wounds,
Sending stars out as sentinels
To your old weary nerves.

Holding you in enveloping palm,
Bright moon lets you rest from your uphill climb,
Lets you breathe the fresh air
Of night for one moment,

Unhindered.

Lets you sleep without waking
Until you can manage
To use your own heart without breaking.

 

©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Sentinels: A Poem

Listen: A Poem

Listen

Listen to what people don’t say.

Hear in their breathing the ache
That they carry,
The hollow hallowed rattle in their lungs.

The sound of the words getting stuck
In their bones,
Getting trapped in their ribs,
Shipwrecked.

Listen close to their pauses and silence,
Hear in their throats the heaviness.

See the light in their eyes
Attempt to convey
All the things they can’t say,
But long to.

Listen close, listen deep.

Hear the prayers in their sleep.

In the breath they exhale
In frustration,
Hear the hate,
Hear the hope,
Hear the fear and the love.

Listen close,
We don’t say what we mean.

 

 

©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Listen: A Poem

Milky Way: A Poem

Milky Way

You call your flaws
Innumerable.
Faults so many they
Lie uncounted,
And in your ribs they ricochet
Back and forth
And up again.
Your very chest is a tremor,
A wide-awake galaxy
Unfolded beneath
Translucent skin.
Comets built of fears
Dart between your lungs
And fill you with trembles,
Belabored breathing.
Inklings of doubt crawl up your throat
And rest on the back of your tongue,
Devouring every word
You quietly speak.
Your milky blinded eyes,
Once bright in light,
Sun and sky,
Blink underneath your dark-drawn eyebrows.
And your hands reach out,
Clawing and sightless,
Fingertips discovering
Space and space and space,
And your myriad so-called mistakes tumble
From your asteroidal lips
And fill the air
With sound and stars.
All drink in the wonder of your ways.

©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Milky Way: A Poem

Artistic Attempts: A Poem

Artistic Attempts

(I once heard a man
Call a painting “trash.”
“That’s not art,” he said.
It hurt me deeply,
Even though the painting did not belong to me
Or anyone I knew.)

Art is more than a painting
Or a sculpture.
Art is the cool touch of paint on your fingers
And the feeling of the brush in your hand.

Art is feeling.

Art is a bouquet of flowers,
Wilting and falling apart
But that won’t be thrown away for another week because you want to remember who gave them to you
And the feeling you felt when they did.

Art is a campfire crackling,
Smoldering in the embers,
And when you turn your face away and look up,
Art is the cold rush of wind brushing your blushing cheeks.

Art is, indeed, the painting of a picture,
And also the singing of a song
And the writing of words in the middle of the night with messy handwriting on a piece of scrap paper.
But art is more.

Art is the first warm day in Spring,
And the first crisp Autumn afternoon,
And the Firsts and the Lasts of everything,
And all the Befores and the Afters.
Art is memory, and the reverse is also true.

Art is nostalgia, childhoods of the hottest summers
And the longest days
And the coldest watermelons
And the bluest swimming pool.

Art is climbing to the top of a tree
And seeing the world,
And getting stuck in the tree so your mother has to climb up and fetch you down,
And the moment your feet are firmly on the ground,
Up you clamber again,
So your mother has to come after you once more.

Art is every mother.
Mothers have art etched in their every vein,
There nestled by the pain when they watch their last child move away.
Art is their memory,
When they first cradled a tiny person against their already-aching chest.

Art is the fathers
Who wish they could be home more,
Who wish they could go to soccer games
And first-grade plays,
Or just tuck in the blankets and check the closet a seventh time
For the monsters.
(Fathers fight monsters.)

Art is leaving your umbrella propped against a fence
To shelter the skin-and-bones cat from the winter drizzle,
The cat that only wants to sleep for awhile
Before another person sinks a shoe between its ribs.

Art is the boy who asks the girl
If she’s okay,
Even when he knows she isn’t,
Because he can clearly see the bruises under her eyes
And the slowly-forming scars on the wrist under her sweater-sleeve.

Art is that time between awake and asleep,
When you feel all the weight of the world
Slip off of your shoulders
As your head sinks into the pillow.

Art is life,
And the reverse is also true.

©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Artistic Attempts: A Poem

Carpe Diem: A Poem

Carpe Diem

The verdurous grass stands up,
Rises on unsteady waving feet,
Catching on the tail of the breeze
That threatens it, haranguing and relentless.
The wind blows in the face of the world,
Tossing away the chaff,
The useless things that cover the meat and marrow,
And the eyes of earth blink open,
Seeing with slate-clean vision
That there is something at the roots,
Hiding beneath the brown shoes
Of the grass that is bent but unbroken.
The hardened core of the planet is warming,
Becoming bright and molten,
And beating into being like a hurting human heart,
Spinning faster and in dizzying rounds,
Urging the wind to beat its wings
And fly on clouds of royal blue
And into the light of the golden sun
That wakes with bleary rubbing of its shimmering face.
The sun is smiling,
Wide teeth sparkling with dewdrops
That fall on held-high heads
Of grass that still is chasing the wind,
The fewest stalks jumping
And following along on the kite-tail breeze.
The earth is awakened, the bones stripped bare,
The marrow is pouring out,
Ripe for collecting and drinking like nectar.

©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Carpe Diem: A Poem