Weary wounds down the sides of the front of my torso raw from my continually cutting you out of my lungs: I had made a bold play of it once; now I stare — take slow gapes of resignation. The fishhooks I withdrew — cut each one in half with my knife — they keep coming; there are so many now. I look up to the sky filtered through the surface of the water; who knows, maybe, of a sudden: Yank.
Category: Poems
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Gutted
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All I’ve left is me little torch. The grand visions on cave walls descend into darkness. Come. There is enough for two. Let us make a meal of it.
Companionship
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My love for you is like a summer day: a deep blue diamond canvasing the dome of the universe. My love for you is like a blue sky with an occasional cloud hanging by; and, then it is the march of a wall of doom, gray: thunderheads gritting teeth; every drop seeking to dig under dirt; thunderbolts seeking vengeance, declaring it must needs be union: absolute drench even upon its undoing; and, my love is like a summer day.
Grit
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By your armor, I’m taken, wondering: your eyes gleaming, unmasked, your body dancing, unencumbered and light. { your sword nicked my knee; the spilling of blood grants me brethren see — and thou still war? Oh, go wounded and stay wounded wherefore I, bad in war and in peace, may nurse you. }Glimpses
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You loosen my strings. You unravel each one. You remove them from the frets. I suppose I'm done playing, now. Then, you return. You bring back to me my music: fit as a fiddle — and strum.
Muse
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My heart sits atop anvil, in furnace, eager for the hammer to bend down and squash it repeatedly, for its tendrils to grab hold and embrace hammer and anvil into one amorphous pounding.
Beat My Heart
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I know I may only drive one at a time. Oh, dear, you’ve started all 10 of my automobiles.
Jump Start
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I’ve tucked my worries into bed — their toddler eyelids chasing night visions — tucked in, with folded blankets, creased both cat and mouse; I’ve blown out the candles as, with silent footfall, I hushed each room and let moonlight in. I’ve folded the blankets over my chest, thanked each cricket in their lullaby chorus, thanked each star in its twinkling. I’m not the first to breathe in thankfulness.
Heliotrope
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Oh, ants: neighbors, not pests — my heart in cubes for serving — you get one.
Tithe
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It’s hard to catch the vast world’s tune; it goes on so long: it’s surprising when it begins to repeat to know it well enough to like it. Then, there’s the instrument I’m stuck with, embarrassing for its narrow applicability. Oh, well; here goes — and I blow or strike or strum or sing and accentuate the melody or compensate with harmony or engage in counterpoint or remain silent, waiting for a dramatic crash of symbols or discharge of canon and, at some point, appropriately — artfully add to life’s symphony.Again with the music
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