Transplanting

July 3, 2016 § 2 Comments

transplanting

In the context of
the vigorous expansion
of a woody stem,
its core mechanics
white and wet and pulpy,

In the context of
the artless spring
inherent in the infant leaves
unfurling like vaginas
and deep-space nebulae,

The branching of its arms
which are not arms
but more akin
to skin or skeleton or lungs,

The branching of its feet,
akin to feet
but also tongues that lick
and swallow earth,

The care of potted plants
involves their constant recontainment,
always
outgrowing home,
eventually
outgrowing my ability to lift them.

Thoughtfully arranged around
my living room in genteel tubs
of black, electric dirt,
a thousand crisp, white hairs
dispatch a supple and insistent inclination,

Unmapped until my fingers wrap around the humid ball
in vague, but gradually evolving awe
for this, so unsuppressible and
ethereal, yet at the same time
such a filthy mess.

“This time,” I think,
“I’ll be my gentlest yet.
The new soil flush
encircling
the crumbly cluster
sweetly more,
loving more
than ever, ever, ever
before.”

 

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Thought I’d drop by

June 24, 2016 § Leave a comment

Ok if I borrow this spot by the sea?

You can have it back when I’m done.

I won’t be here long.

drop-by-koan

 

The Rat Man

June 21, 2016 § Leave a comment

1
The rat man retired in October.
A month later, I left Wales.
Falling stars and
the slow, generous wave of a man’s hand.
Today started out the same as any other day.
I only meant to run out for a second.

2
It was the dignity of tragedy that drew me in,
that lifted me up, like a stranger’s strong and loving arm,
out of the futility of childhood.

3
Let her laugh.
Let her arrogant, elegant pleasure
rub my face in the ashes of my great and hideous failure.
Let her smooth, sure voice
inflate in icy pockets beneath my skin
as she, endorsed by God,
lists my inadequacies, my iniquities.
Let her be right.
Let me be wrong.
And let us both know it.

4
The Little Drummer Boy…
The Little Match Girl…
(I would cry and cry and cry)

5
LET HER LAUGH.
Let her smooth, sure voice ring like a bell.
Let me be alarmed enough to cry
in front of her,
which would cut me to bits, which would bury me in a canyon.
But let me resurrect the joy I killed
because I didn’t want to feel anything.

But tragedy never really vindicates.
It only hurts the little children,
and postpones the piper’s invoice,
accruing interest,
wearing thin the patient grace
of his Rat Wisdom.
He showed me again and again
that to kill them, to kill them well,
you have to love them.

6
If I would hold the hand of that laughing bitch
and walk with her, and tell her
about the heart of the Rat Man,
then we could find something new to believe
and set each other free.

7
It was me that hung the death knell on the bell
when I ran out, just for a second.

It was only ever really just a bell.

the-rat-man-rupertjefferies000875584203

2001
Photo: Rupert Jefferies, via Morguefile

 

In and back

June 4, 2016 § Leave a comment

​Like the sea,
they were never ours—
only a privilege to enjoy
as its gorgeous chaos tumbles toward us,
hovers for a moment,
and then recedes.

June 4, 2016

This will do

April 2, 2016 § Leave a comment

poem-thiswilldoThe earth is rising up
through floorboards and wood laminate
to draw down my roots.

I hear
birdsong and faint machines,
turtle flapping and splashing in his tank.

I have
a pen and fat notepad,
and my second-favorite coffee in my favorite mug.

All my hard work,
and the work I didn’t do,

has brought me here.

 

Breakers

October 5, 2015 § Leave a comment

I am
full of holes,
a tattered sail,
a lacy curtain in a gale.

I am a solar flare,
a molten lariat.
I’m pretty sure it’s big, the reach of that.

I sat down by the big river
to be ruffled by its roar,
but I think it’s way too loud now—
I can’t take it any more.

So I’m off to the mountains
where the river begins
to hear my own heart beating,
and to drink from my own spring.

I am a solar flare,
a crackling ring of flame.
I make enough damn noise myself
but it may be just the wind…
it may be just the wind.

It may be just the wind
whistling through me.

 
 
2015
Melody and plunky uke by me.
Arrangement, keyboard and backup vocals by Tal Day

 

Black Holes

May 23, 2015 § Leave a comment

(In the end,
the flesh falls back against the bones.)

__
We may scramble for the nearest handful
of postcards and ticket stubs
before they slip beyond the blurred horizon and fall
silent.

Not swallowed, but heard
completely.

Someone has torn a tiny, dense vent so they can
listen and listen and listen;
On this side there is no hush more perfect.

They are so, so quiet
that our sensitive machines
panic and imagine things,
when it’s really just the
whistle and pop of histories
snuffed by the fall.

We may lunge for desperate fistfuls,
but whole lives, and the stories they kept
wrapped in songs and handkerchiefs,
slip through our fingers
and are gone.

~

black-hole

May 23, 2015
Image courtesy nasa.gov

 

8 AM

May 12, 2015 § 2 Comments

Like a bird
landing
on a slim pole,

my pen
to this point
just after the
letter e.

I do not
miss,
but rest
and then
spread my
dusty wings.

like a bird, photo by Pippalou

 

May 12, 2015
Photo by Pippalou

 

The loaded me

March 30, 2015 § Leave a comment

 

Ennion, I.

Roman glass, with the mark of Ennion

Reference

 

Ring Shout

October 31, 2014 § 4 Comments

The sun went down like a miracle this evening,
filling the air with gold and frothing up the clouds.

I breathed it before I saw it.

A man stood on his sleek glass balcony
and pointed a little white phone at the sky.

Another on his bicycle pedaled and steered with one hand,
aimed his lens with the other.

In the back of a sooty sedan packed with shadowy faces, a girl’s hand and her pink camera were framed in the rear window,
toward us, but really, over our heads.

Instagram and Facebook are full of luminous rose and gilded veils.

How far north and how far south did it reach?
Did you see it to the east?

It’s as though we’re all alight, together.

That Magical LA Sunset That One Day - photo by Ninette Shorter

There was all sorts of beauty. People outside the library where I raised my phone to take a photo were smiling at each other, momentary sunset friends united by the glory. Some just stood and watched, including a young boy. So fleeting.

—Ninette Shorter

What’s a “ring shout”? See the Wikipedia entry.

 
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