1 - New Fall
It rains, and boasts
of snow behind; the wind kicks
wet feet through the leaves.
I toss and turn, bruise myself on the miserable kernel
of my heart in the sheets. Come home
while I still know my name.
I can't lock the doors for fear
the locks will change and this place we made
will be lost
to the fall.
2 - Late Fall
Hard frost, no word.
If it snows, will we be stranded
apart?
Everything on the balcony died.
I brought the pots in, jealous
of the sun on their crumpled faces.
The drive to work is all fog.
The grey fields and I
wait;
we have both been cultivated. There is nothing
to do but watch
the winter come.
There will b
I know now that this is a land of longing,
the birthplace of quests, and it yet lacks
you. For my part, I have worn the wide plains shiny
with looking; my desire is all seasoned
with dry grass and empires of clouds. I've buried
a little piece of my heart
beneath every
brave tree
and when the wind blows- and the wind often blows-
they sing in chorus a lover's laughter,
soft and close, from every corner of the sky together.
You know I love the desert secrets,
the hard ones that stand proud from the swallowing landscape:
the bones, the gold, the sudden trees,
and you,
wild heart,
fire song. Come away from your oceans! Their secrets
are vast
These brown hills,
where the sky is not complicit
in our expansion, our sticky-fingered
embrace; these near mountains, dry
and winking with hermits:
they are not family or friends.
An ex, maybe, who has moved on
to someone better. Even if
you made a study of her, a PhD
in old love,
she would still be dry,
still only have eyes
for the clouds
behind you. These near mountains:
just because they are not yours
does not mean
you can resist them,
that you will not go hiking
on weekends
to pretend she still wants you,
or build your house
where you can see how the sunset makes her blush
and wish
you were a sky.
This is stark relief:
the crisp mountain shoulders braced
against the sky,
the jagged edge of pleasure
when the pain stops.
This is stark relief:
a horizon whose trees are
tough and wiry supplicants,
not molding overlords:
a gold and dusty joy.
This is stark relief, and I am
every bird with her wings
unfurled, every
spread-eagled cloud. I am breathless,
secretly
on my knees,
whimpering thanks,
laughing and weeping
in every secret place.
The farmland settles into me each time
we drive
the long road to things.
All my insides are shifting
to let the roots weave through. The sky
never seemed so close as when the short trees
ground themselves in your own fertile belly:
cloud friends, you are only a green reach
away.
I came for the sky, but I'm learning to need
the farms, like learning coffee
in your milk and sugar. An accident, but the sky
is so good
that I have to have it all,
that I can't resist anything
it touches. Joy has her fists
in my hair and her breasts
against my back, and each time I laugh
I fall in love again
forever. I meant to root
here, to di
If I were writing from the other side,
I would say
This road was not on my map.
No one goes there
on purpose.
And then tell you how
I escaped.
I asked for help, for change,
and grief was the answer:
Grief as old and hollow as snowfall,
grief as heavy
as snowfall,
grief that said, "You,
You are the spent ember,
You are the last angry voice
and when you pass
the dark
will have been waiting."
The grief was right. I burn,
I burn cold and heavy,
crouching in the ashes of greatness,
I burn,
and the fuel is low.
The dark is waiting.
But what angel comes
with words of despair? Even Job
had no angels to tell him, "Alas."
The winter, the whole winter
is sitting on my head, nesting its fingers
in the little hairs over my ears.
Its friend, the great and unnamed doubt,
is leaning against my collarbone
in a most familiar fashion,
and I fall in and out of balance
irregularly irregularly.
I have a beauty waiting, warm, willing
on speed dial, but the phone--
where did I leave the phone again?
Beauty is as elusive as
the car keys, which, I swear,
were just in that pocket. I
had my hand on them. The whole winter
keeps coursing its little nails
up and down my neck and taking
all my breath away.
There was a dream I had that
I almost remember, almost r
I Guess We'll Live To See It by completeaccident, literature
Literature
I Guess We'll Live To See It
You should start looking
for a place we can make our last stand.
The dawn is breaking:
Every morning, a little less light,
and the end
is not as close as you think.
Love is not enough,
and wanting
is not enough.
The desert is coming.
The sea is coming.
God forbid
they find us holding our thirst
in both hands.
Instead,
instead;
No,
There is no
rescue.
You should start looking for a place
we can make our last
stand.
Take my frenzy for resignation, put your boots
on. I have a lantern. I have a little
knife. We have so much still
to survive. Open
your hands
and let the thirst out.
Build. We will stand
until t
I think you should know, at least,
about the lepers.
Only one of them came back. It might be
a story about ungratefulness, or miracles
or the real meaning of 'whole'
Luke didn't say. I wonder also
if my Lord lay awake, nights,
wondering if the other nine made it
to the priests, and what they said there.
I promise:
when I get to the other side,
I'll send a postcard.
I never got here with my shoes
on. I could never find the path:
it is marked by bricks
a little more slippery, bits of grass
without stickers, but down the path,
long, long,
is a little home.
If I say you were under my skin,
please, understand, I painted myself
like a hallway: doors here, here.
I come home when the sun
leaves behind silence, and if you
come, take off your shoes,
I am spread beneath you
and I am the doors, all the doors
you pass into.
Slow on my feet, tender, but I come home
in the presence of the Holy--
In the House of the Lord
past the dragon,
through the middle dreams.
Walking softly, letting shadows
1 - New Fall
It rains, and boasts
of snow behind; the wind kicks
wet feet through the leaves.
I toss and turn, bruise myself on the miserable kernel
of my heart in the sheets. Come home
while I still know my name.
I can't lock the doors for fear
the locks will change and this place we made
will be lost
to the fall.
2 - Late Fall
Hard frost, no word.
If it snows, will we be stranded
apart?
Everything on the balcony died.
I brought the pots in, jealous
of the sun on their crumpled faces.
The drive to work is all fog.
The grey fields and I
wait;
we have both been cultivated. There is nothing
to do but watch
the winter come.
There will b
I know now that this is a land of longing,
the birthplace of quests, and it yet lacks
you. For my part, I have worn the wide plains shiny
with looking; my desire is all seasoned
with dry grass and empires of clouds. I've buried
a little piece of my heart
beneath every
brave tree
and when the wind blows- and the wind often blows-
they sing in chorus a lover's laughter,
soft and close, from every corner of the sky together.
You know I love the desert secrets,
the hard ones that stand proud from the swallowing landscape:
the bones, the gold, the sudden trees,
and you,
wild heart,
fire song. Come away from your oceans! Their secrets
are vast
These brown hills,
where the sky is not complicit
in our expansion, our sticky-fingered
embrace; these near mountains, dry
and winking with hermits:
they are not family or friends.
An ex, maybe, who has moved on
to someone better. Even if
you made a study of her, a PhD
in old love,
she would still be dry,
still only have eyes
for the clouds
behind you. These near mountains:
just because they are not yours
does not mean
you can resist them,
that you will not go hiking
on weekends
to pretend she still wants you,
or build your house
where you can see how the sunset makes her blush
and wish
you were a sky.
This is stark relief:
the crisp mountain shoulders braced
against the sky,
the jagged edge of pleasure
when the pain stops.
This is stark relief:
a horizon whose trees are
tough and wiry supplicants,
not molding overlords:
a gold and dusty joy.
This is stark relief, and I am
every bird with her wings
unfurled, every
spread-eagled cloud. I am breathless,
secretly
on my knees,
whimpering thanks,
laughing and weeping
in every secret place.
The farmland settles into me each time
we drive
the long road to things.
All my insides are shifting
to let the roots weave through. The sky
never seemed so close as when the short trees
ground themselves in your own fertile belly:
cloud friends, you are only a green reach
away.
I came for the sky, but I'm learning to need
the farms, like learning coffee
in your milk and sugar. An accident, but the sky
is so good
that I have to have it all,
that I can't resist anything
it touches. Joy has her fists
in my hair and her breasts
against my back, and each time I laugh
I fall in love again
forever. I meant to root
here, to di
If I were writing from the other side,
I would say
This road was not on my map.
No one goes there
on purpose.
And then tell you how
I escaped.
I asked for help, for change,
and grief was the answer:
Grief as old and hollow as snowfall,
grief as heavy
as snowfall,
grief that said, "You,
You are the spent ember,
You are the last angry voice
and when you pass
the dark
will have been waiting."
The grief was right. I burn,
I burn cold and heavy,
crouching in the ashes of greatness,
I burn,
and the fuel is low.
The dark is waiting.
But what angel comes
with words of despair? Even Job
had no angels to tell him, "Alas."
The winter, the whole winter
is sitting on my head, nesting its fingers
in the little hairs over my ears.
Its friend, the great and unnamed doubt,
is leaning against my collarbone
in a most familiar fashion,
and I fall in and out of balance
irregularly irregularly.
I have a beauty waiting, warm, willing
on speed dial, but the phone--
where did I leave the phone again?
Beauty is as elusive as
the car keys, which, I swear,
were just in that pocket. I
had my hand on them. The whole winter
keeps coursing its little nails
up and down my neck and taking
all my breath away.
There was a dream I had that
I almost remember, almost r
I Guess We'll Live To See It by completeaccident, literature
Literature
I Guess We'll Live To See It
You should start looking
for a place we can make our last stand.
The dawn is breaking:
Every morning, a little less light,
and the end
is not as close as you think.
Love is not enough,
and wanting
is not enough.
The desert is coming.
The sea is coming.
God forbid
they find us holding our thirst
in both hands.
Instead,
instead;
No,
There is no
rescue.
You should start looking for a place
we can make our last
stand.
Take my frenzy for resignation, put your boots
on. I have a lantern. I have a little
knife. We have so much still
to survive. Open
your hands
and let the thirst out.
Build. We will stand
until t
I think you should know, at least,
about the lepers.
Only one of them came back. It might be
a story about ungratefulness, or miracles
or the real meaning of 'whole'
Luke didn't say. I wonder also
if my Lord lay awake, nights,
wondering if the other nine made it
to the priests, and what they said there.
I promise:
when I get to the other side,
I'll send a postcard.
I never got here with my shoes
on. I could never find the path:
it is marked by bricks
a little more slippery, bits of grass
without stickers, but down the path,
long, long,
is a little home.
If I say you were under my skin,
please, understand, I painted myself
like a hallway: doors here, here.
I come home when the sun
leaves behind silence, and if you
come, take off your shoes,
I am spread beneath you
and I am the doors, all the doors
you pass into.
Slow on my feet, tender, but I come home
in the presence of the Holy--
In the House of the Lord
past the dragon,
through the middle dreams.
Walking softly, letting shadows
some things,
unwritten:
cold makes every moment
clearer and sharper
sometimes there is ache
without cause
sex and love
wear us thin
like old fabric
all pain sings
and overflows with pure harmonies.
I looked back; the city stretched and
pulled me under. I’ve lost my mind
in its jewellery stores and rat-holes,
eyes rolled seasick across its floors.
Angels and murderers ride the trains
mutely and cough when they cover
their mouths, flash their knives,
bare their teeth.
I’ll still walk a broken tunnel
long after I am gone
when the place has been picked clean
and the sun has passed out in her party
dress, the fairs all rolled away and
electric lights dying –
when I’ve made it to the edges
crying and muddy on the banks of the river
where God and the water meet
she’ll still be spread there, the slee
you will never get to see me.
when i used to be pretty,
my hair shone like meek gold,
and i had thoughtful eyes -
light glowed within,
and i was a child who
loved to read and write.
i will never get to see you.
you will always be pretty,
your hair bouncy brown, eyes blithe and whimsy
and from me, you inherit one thing.
night time, in the quiet of your room,
absorbed in a book,
you will scribble a few words.
i am not mommy.
someone else will introduce
those chewy gummy worms,
the three-wheel mini-bike,
the joy of pink,
80s music
and a bitty brown puppy.
i am not grandma.
someone else will tell you
not to squish flowers,
not to startle h
I say it isn't strange, Lumnay1
how you dance your way back
to resurrect fears in me,
woes i do not want to bear.
While yours could be a faulty womb,
my predicament is as involuntary;
if I could inseminate myself, I would.
But then there is also this:
I don't have fields to grow string beans;
the hole where I sleep requires currency;
and my wardrobe accommodates hand-me-downs.
I cannot bequeath sparseness to my little one.
Penury isn't heirloom. I retract -
if I could inseminate myself, I won't.
We presume urban living is more insightful;
truth is culture clings to tradition
and norms nullify us both.
We are gossip-materials,
You accept fat
I am not my sister's keeper.
she is a lock-pick, a file system
of assorted secrets
spilled across the couch like a
a jar of sequins and buttons
I am not my sister's keeper.
But I hold her hair back while she pukes,
and break the news to her evenly
waiting for the decline of her wailing
like the tumbling of retreating curls on
ocean docks.
She swings her feet off the edge,
I build her wings.
There are days and nights,
in our stories:
forty days, and forty nights,
seven days, and seven nights,
and only the third day came alone.
If your third day comes,
you are walking home, love,
but if the nights fall in succession,
dark and boundless, come to me.
I will remember your summer- the pillar of fire
is carved beneath my breastbone. Forty days,
my love,
and when the night comes, rest.
I am so excited about this feature. I've already found new poets to be excited about, without the pain and suffering of wandering at random through the overwhelmingly pubescent deviantart literary halls... I feel renewed.
In the last several months my life has been busy tying up loose ends for me, and I have been desperately busy trying to keep my hands out of the way.
The job I love turned into the job that I hate and in two days it will be the job I used to have, and I am grateful to see it go.
My grandmother died, and my grandfather was left alone after 70 years of marriage. He immediately lost most of what was left to him, and for the six months until he died, too (hands and jaw clenched, never gently), I spent much of my free time trying to find him something to live for until he could stop being afraid of death and the rest of my free time crouching as
Good poetry makes me greedy for more good poetry. Please forgive all the watches and favs without comments- My head is not in a place to say anything constructive, but I have been wallowing in the discovery of a rash of breathtakingly good deviant poets. I pop in at odd times, and if I'm watching you or have you faved, I can find you again to come read more. (This goes for the visual artists, too.)
Thank you all so much for your art.
Can only echo ripari's comment! Thank you so much for the watch though I'm neither writing nor participating much these days. You, however, could prove to be an inspiration! At first glance, love your poetry about the mountains. Must read more closely. I lived in the Taos, New Mexico area for a while and explored Colorado quite a bit, even criss-crossing the mountain route from Tres Piedres, New Mexico to catch business flights from Denver International. Put pen to paper to describe my own experience of the emotional and physical landscape while there but failed, miserably!
I am always in support of inspiration! I am in awe of your range of topics, and how clearly and beautifully you put things. I am sad to hear you are not writing much lately, but maybe that will change! I have also not been writing much, and participating even less, but-- sometimes a little bit.