Prescription for an Unwanted Longing

Banish it:
"No Vacancy" signs and locks on the doors
Guards at the entrances,
 blocking out more

               longings.

Indulge it:

With rich fatty foods

and deep crimson wines,

warmth that touches the stomach-less pit

of the soul of the 

              longing.

Explore it:

Dig through the mud

to the root of the thing

just to see where it comes from,

and then see what it bring,

what it can produce.

Take a taste of the fruit made from

             longing.

Destroy it:

Cut the trunk down

to a fat wooden nub,

and then dig with a shovel

and every root snub

from its home in the soil,

oh - but it's not dead enough,

so you bring out the matches 

and burn the thing up!

Burn all the leaves!

Let the flames scorch the ground!

Burn the whole city!

Set fire to town!

the town -

built out of boards made from

            longing.

- gone

is it gone?

gone like the 

           longing -

to try to do something

for a longing that lasts 

that will not be banished

that puts up a fight -

that cannot be indulged

that warms to no wine, 

that cannot be explored 

or picked from a vine

that will not be destroyed

that's too rooted to weed -

oh

but if minds were like soil and longings

like seeds

Needing Sleep

I'm tired of poetry.

I'm tired of April

and tired from not getting enough sleep

I'm tired of nagging reminders from my stomach

because my to do list is growing longer 

faster than it's growing shorter

and tired from trying not to be tired.

I'm in need of sleep

or rest

at least.

I'm tired of April

I'm tired of poetry.

Divine Breeze

Where did you come from, 

warm breeze like wave?

You crashed on the shore of

April rainy days.

and swept through my soul,

splashed over my skin,

played with my hair,

drawing me in.

Wash over me warm

Wash over me strong.

Come tussle my shirt sleeves.

Come push me along

You carried debris,

the sounds of nearby,

an engine, a puppy,

a toddler’s cry,

and stranded it there

where it didn't belong

just before bringing more,

with the next wave of song.

Touch me soft:

Touch me lightly.

Pull me in with the tide

'till I'm lost out at sea

‘till I’m lost in the sigh

of the wind

as it whips through the willows

and pine

Where did you come from

warm breeze

breeze divine?

One Day Vacation

I didn't forget to post yesterday.

I promise, that isn't what happened:

I woke myself early,

downed some black coffee, 

and sleepily

walked out to the car

where the family was waiting

with cookies, and Snapple, and 

"let's get there as fast as we can"s 

We drove down through Maryland

and West VA too

until 11:40 something, when we saw

EMU

Then the rest of the day was warm breeze

and kissed cheeks,

playing games with the Eshlemans,

eating a feast,

and then eating again,

climbing bunk beds,

dying eggs,

watching Friends,

and goodbyes

at the end of the day.

I promised myself that my eyes wouldn't close

as we set out to drive through the darkness

toward home,

but just three songs in to our stormy night travels

my eyes changed their mind

and somehow,

here I am

at 10 in the morning 

with no post yesterday,

and my hair in a ball

and too much work for one day.

You could say that I lost,

and I guess that that's true,

but I think that days off 

are important too.

The Piece and his Piecestress

A very small piece of the world, today,

was brought back to where it belongs,

What for great flying birds

that take pieces away,

can too bring them back,

bring them back and much more.

As pieces grow old, they grow out and grow up

like a gathering snowball effect.

When a piece and a piece come together

and see

something new that they didn't before,

then they each take a bit of the piece that they met

and stick it to the piece that is them.

When a piece meets a place,

then too it can take 

a bit of acquaintance with him.

The process continues

as long as life goes

and pieces grow out and grow up -

into piles of pieces from people 

and places,

and that's how uniqueness explodes.

So today when that one piece 

reunites with his other

there will be more pieces stuck to him than -

the day that he left

or the day that they met

and the cycle, start over again.

 

Niche

Let's say I was stuck in a hole,
a hole that was deep,
six feet,
so my fingers could just barely reach
And let's say that no one's around,
because even if people were near
I doubt, being me,
that I'd ask them for help
because there have been holes
much more deep
than six feet.

A couple of options, I'd have at that point.
I could dig some dirt steps
and walk out.
I could yell at the top of my lungs
'cause I'm mad
or cry at the pit of the hole
'cause I'm sad.

I could learn to eat worms, mud, and small vegetation
and live in the dark of the earth.
Turn into a mole
with no eyes and webbed toes
and a snout that frightens off strangers.

Here in the hole
there are frail fallen leaves
suspended in web of a spider that weaves
There's my hair and my toes
(yes, I'm quite fond of those
despite their new wardrobe of moss)
There's a view of the sky,
blue and orange, black and white
changing along with the day.

Oh it may look pathetic
to see me sub-surface,
when everyone knows that the best creatures fly,
but this six foot deep hole
feels like home to a mole
who enjoys life, just watching the sky.

Passing Fields

The yellow flowers are in bloom

In a field I don't own

but would like to

I've heard that land is expensive

and if that is true

then I'll probably just have an acre or two

I think about blankets and bare feet

on grass, 

about smelling the yellow

and packed lunch in hands

The roll of the green ocean

sprinkled with yellow

makes me feel hungry

and dreamy and mellow. 

Feel my Song

When you can barely confess,
when you lose your breath,
the drummer's still hammering the beat,
and your listener can hear it
your listener can feel it:
that's when words become real.

The Appreciation of Bricks

The left side of the house is a family of bricks
tucked into a blanket of ivy.
Some are darker than their brothers
and a handful are shy, hiding from me as I count them.

The white and tan colored cat waves at me
with its tail, in a leisurely gesture
a twitch so smooth and so slow that for a moment,
it feels like time's been suspended.

As I watch the cat and the minutes stretch out,
It feels like swimming in a puddle of time
like the puddle that's reflecting bricks and ivy
beside me.

I like to look at these bricks, at the wall
after it's rained, and the sky is gray
because the green of the ivy seems brighter
and the red-orange of the rain covered bricks is deeper.

On certain days when it rains, days like today
I don't want to stand here alone.
I'd like it if someone else appreciated the bricks
or appreciated the fact that I appreciate the bricks in an ivy blanket

Even the cat's run away.

Clarity

Clarity is when you close the gate
and flip the sign to the side that says,
"Visitors not welcome today"
and you shut the blinds
because you're done looking out
and your done letting people look in

Clarity is when you make friends with the corner
the one in the west of the house
and you look at the wall
and you beg for an answer
while you try to ignore
the sound of the mouse
that scuttles behind the plaster walls
and in between nail hammered beams
as you're looking for silence
and peace
and a mind
full of clarity.

Clarity is when cabin fever sets in
and you have to get back to the world
where the sun warms your skin
and there's dirt to dig in
where real things exist
like the grass and the sky
and your neighbors sweet chatter
and warm summer pie
Where there's more than a couch
and a cabinet and stairs
and a rattling fridge (that's now empty)
because really
how long can one last in a corner?

There's more than just food
and a place you can sit.
There are things that you feel
and you know.

It's that pivotal moment when you open the door
and your face rediscovers the sun
and the haze is all gone, as well as the fog
replaced by a sharp clear design
when you realize that warm just feels better
sometimes
and you abandon the light of inside
when you look at your yard
and the gate and the sign
with eyes that were so long deprived
of the picture you feel
and the things that are real
like the sun
and its warmth
and its light

All in a Day

Today I played the violin

I wiped the counter

Broke a ten

I ate a fruit 

I boiled water

Washed and dried

And drove

And plotted

Wrote and read

Climbed out of bed

out of sheets that felt like butter

only better 

warmer

softer

Left the sheets turned inside out

for jeans and slippers

pins and pouch

blackened goop 

and powdered rouge

and music that was out of tune

For conversations

papers

pens-

I wiped the counter

Broke a ten

Today I played the violin

Plastic for Lunch

A fork set at the table
plastic handle
Poised to poke
By a plate that's full of empty
on a table
by the stairs
There's room for six more legs
here
but I'm short on tableware
I thought to ask the sky to lunch
but couldn't find a chair
I'm awful lonesome for a meal
or even bread
with pears

But today, again,
I'll sit me down
to plastic
by the stairs.

11:40 genius

Brains and fingers

clash against keys

It's 11:41

Sharpies and post-its

fingers and keys

brains

It's 11:42

Pizza sauce looks like

brains

when it's cold

It's 11:43

The orange juice is gone

I lost my car keys

so I used the spare set

it's still 11:43

It's 11:45 

and the fish are swimming 

in the dark

The TV has been sleeping

since 

(It's 11:46)

an hour and 44 minutes

ago

Brains and fingers and keys

It's 11:47

I the restless winding road

I the restless winding road
a friend to many men
who visit here or bargain there
or have no place to go
I pave the path to loved ones
or pave the path depart
through fields of grass
and walls of stone
or water, quick and smart.
Outwitted air and gravity
no barrier can block
my lengthy arms
my sturdy side
my far extending touch.
Oh traveler, your praise for me
echoes through my bones.
You thank me for the chance to see
to meet to greet to go.
You claim me as connection
to all your other parts,
but do you know
I were the same
that scattered you to start?

Beam Me Up

There is nothing to write today.

The pot is empty
The pumpkin is carved
The leaves have fallen off the trees
The peach is dry
The air is sterile
The peanut shell is peanut-less
The line is long
My patience is gone.

Why does everything have to rhyme?

I don't want to be like a wave:
I want to be the moon.
I don't want to need to be needed
but I do
I don't want to be so predictable:
I want to surprise.
I'm so tired of discommunication
It's hurting my eyes.

And why does everything have to rhyme?


  

poor excuse for poetry

Some days I don't feel like I have anything to write

Some meals I have no desire to eat

But I write none the less,

and on occasion I find

that I didn't even know 

I was hungry.

Pretzels Before Dinner

The dog is on my right
a bag of pretzels is next to me on the floor
a drink of milk numbs my grip,
as the afternoon condenses on the glass
we share pretzels before dinner

Skinny legs is soft asleep in the corner
uninterested in the Bennets,
in the blue eyed wonder, Mr. Darcy.
She left them mid-climax
for the song of shut eyes, small movements
and sweet stillness.

There's sunlight on  the stone floors
and on the walls that were painted white.
The breeze through the door and the windows smells like a mostly silent afternoon
and the making of fresh grass clippings.
My earth smattered shoes are still tied, next to my feet

I can feel the sleep like I taste the salt
like I smell the breeze
and the smell of gasoline that trails on my fingers
here in our bright square of warm
with the breeze and the sleep
and the pretzels

he asks for more with his eyes

otherwise, it is mostly silent

melting

popsicles haven't been what they used to be,
sweet and sticky:
I can lick the sicle
while the pop melts
and my tongue finds the stick.
and I know they're still sticky

but popsicles haven't been what they used to be

letters

origami heart
folding paper heart
stamped
and
sealed

forty-four cents
of a flattened
paper heart
folded
and
sealed

hollow paper heart
unfolded origami
eyes
and
words

origami heart
folding paper heart
stamped
and
torn

I Found a Poem in the Sunday Post

April is national poetry month, and I've decided, thanks to one of my readers, to challenge myself to post a poem every day for the rest of the month. Today I have two poems because that's how resolutions and challenges go; they start out running on a tank full of enthusiasm, and by the end, they're running on pure endurance. I just hope I get to May before I get to Empty.