July 24, 2015 § Leave a comment
No one promised to be there, except the rain.
In the October downpour she choked on the afternoon light.
Too bright to take it all in.
Her eyes were wide open in momentary wisdom.
Her fear had faded to wonder as she rested her damp
head to his sweaty chest.
The sunlight struck her face like a spotlight
and she meditated on the rise and fall of his breath.
It would be hard to hold onto this man
it would be best to let him go and not to bother,
let the moment float away from the fairytale with this one
he was not capable, too much flesh to explore, too young
She sighed away the kisses from the previous evening,
and allowed the freedom of her breath to separate from his.
She exhaled into the force of nature and mourned nothing.
Tiny promises splattered against the window pane
and streaked the glass like memories
as she dissolved into the light’s dust.
May 9, 2015 § Leave a comment
A new poem, no where near complete. My mother died last year, and I’ve struggled to find a way to write about my feelings of loss and grief, to express my loss, and I just have not been able to. In fact, as far as writing goes, it’s been so quiet, or I feel too tired, or cliche– I’m stunted.
About a month or two after her death (which was an unexpected and sudden death) I had one of my very few dreams about her, and in this dream I woke up with the words: “black dawn she is silent now”.
I wanted to do something with these words; after all they came from my deepest consciousness. They were given to me like a gift, like a message, but more like a code that I have lost the ability to decipher. Today, was the first day that I made something, anything from those words. And, something, anything that can even chip at the surface of my grief is something to me. It’s not a completed poem, the same as any poem that is published here, but at this point to put anything on paper, and then to transfer it to here is an accomplishment for me. So as it is, it is untitled.
the cock crows is
blue luminous light, a blink
a slit, below the horizon line
of earth as far as
we can see
from our own perspective
but, our eyes are closed.
We are all sleeping
except for the ghosts
who watch us
wishing they could hold us
I see her in my dreams
As I rise from my living death
she returns to her death,
languid, somnolent, cries:
don’t leave me.
She is silent now,
and I’m awake.
March 17, 2015 § Leave a comment
Anis is not only a wonderful poet, and a powerful presenter of his inspiring poems, but he’s also a great person. I’m grateful to know this man.
Here I Am
Shake the Dust
If you want to know more about Anis go here.
March 15, 2015 § Leave a comment
A painfully touching, and powerful poem.
January 4, 2015 § Leave a comment
Dutchman- you, with the orange beard
standing with your palette and brush
like a supplicating Jesus; a God
in a golden field.
Do you see them?
A murder of crows flying
out of thick brushstrokes of wheat
raining dark feathers, teardrops,
soaking your sunflowers.
Lift your eyes, profit painter,
you’re a bleeding heart, literally, bleeding
red drops whipped and splattered,
like a Pollock painting.
No money for starry nights spent in night cafes;
so lonely, man, so alone, and look at you
waking early to watch the harvest women,
bending their round bodies
over rows of crimson and purple grapes.
There’s madness in your trees, in your lavender lilies, in
your wounded ear. Madness!
Where’s your love? I’ll tell you:
It’s there relentlessly crying
in empty rooms. Puddles of ink.
Poor lonely son, more wanted in death
than life. I think of you in that last moment;
I’ve sat with you.
You, a single golden wheat,
smoke curling at your heart,
vermillion dripping at your feet.
November 25, 2014 § Leave a comment
He was September cool.
We ate peaches. French music played in the background, and a car door slammed.
The Soundtrack to an evening with the man in the red tie.
I rubbed my hands over the pockets of his dark leather vest and straightened his red tie- from left to right to tighten it.
Lastly, I ran my fingers through his coarse Turkish hair fixating on the silver at his temples.
We told stories of kindred love. Or, at least, I did and he went along with it.
Flirtatious illusions like bullets moving clean through him and he was sweating.
I awoke to the train. Alone, in a blank hotel room. A single black cord held the light from the ceiling. It swayed like a ticking clock.
And nothing else, but the memory of a man walking away.
In the morning, I walked to the spot where we had met, inhaled the past,
held it in my lungs: cigarette smoke, musk, and hints of whiskey shots,
got high on the story I created in our drunken romance.
Who is to say it wasn’t love? A small momentary speck of love?
No one can say anything.