Category: My poems

The Last Piece Of Ice Under The Sky

There would be no point in climbing this mountain,
not even to speak to the wise man at its summit.
He has no answers, no solutions. He is merely old,
and that’s no achievement when you live on a mountaintop.

There are two men trapped at the bottom of a deep well.
Were they to assist one another, it is possible they could escape.
Instead they choose to urinate on one another, destroying
their supply of drinkable water and ensuring they remain trapped.

The wise man can see the mouth of the well from where he sits,
because years ago a climber with no money gave him, as payment,
a powerful set of Zeiss Classic 20×60 binoculars, strong enough
to turn a busy colony of ants into a whirling dervish of people.

By the time the climber had reached the base of the mountain,
he’d realized that the binoculars were more valuable than
anything the old man had said, but the thought of re-scaling the peak
turned his stomach to ash and filled his mouth with regret.

Turning northward, the old man can see the last piece of ice under the sky.
Upon it sit two polar bears, and between them on the ice is
the last fish from the water, their final sustenance. Inevitably,
they tear one another in two, rather than the fish, their blood staining the ice.

None of that really happened, did it? asks the filmmaker on the summit.
He’s come to make a documentary about the old man, to record his wisdom
for a decadent, unenlightened age. But the filmmaker is an unbeliever,
refusing to accept what he can see through the camera’s unblinking eye.

The old man smiles and extends the binoculars, offering
the filmmaker a closer look at the world-as-it-is, as it, in fact, must be.
The filmmaker shakes his head sadly, packs his camera back into its case,
and begins the slow climb back to the foot of the mountain.

He reaches the bottom and passes the well where the two men are still trapped,
their lack of drinking water also meaning a lack of urine for their battle.
The filmmaker thinks he hears moaning from the bottom of the well and almost
goes to look. But refusing to believe his ears, he turns and walks away.

I don’t usually post two poems on the same day, but here goes. This is in response to the first-ever prompt from the new Big Tent Poetry. Click on the image below to enlarge. In many browsers. you can click on the bigger image, too, to make it EVEN BIGGER. Crazy!

all the world

in the hazy moments before sleep
I turn toward the window, think of you
my cheek resting on the cool pillow
I wonder where you are, what you’re doing
is your head cradled by soft down?
are you looking at the same moonless sky?
do you hold my face in your eyes,
imagine my warmth beside you?
once we walked along village streets
making plans for the future
now I sleep alone, think often of the past
memory is a vast theater of empty seats
the curtain removed years ago, the ushers released
I sit on the edge of the stage, swinging my feet
the echo of my heels hitting the wood
accentuates the exquisite loneliness of this room
a jolt as my body falls and I am awake again
face turned toward the window
cheek resting on the warm pillow
thinking, as always, of you

the chase

300,000 madcap monks
line up in rows

myopics who cannot follow
the treeing of the raccoon
by a pack of wiseacre hounds

the raccoon’s claws draw
molasses from the trunk

a dark glob balancing on its
nose like a circus trick

the monks follow the smell
to the base of the tree

where sits a Spanish violinist
who plays a jaunty reel

the monks begin dancing
the raccoon begins dancing
the tree begins dancing

the hounds circle round
find soft spots in the sticky grass
and settle down to sleep

Red is…

the color of the rush
the sound of the audience
the flame behind your eyes
the tingle in the fingertips
the vibration inside
the salt on the tongue
the cast of the rain
the taste of need
the washing over of the past
the end of the tunnel
the soft touch of skin
the hard echo of calling
the turn of the key
the clatter of footsteps
the remains of ashes
the promise unspoken
the thought unvoiced
the blush of truth
the cry of a hawk
the whisper in the hallway

Red is the ringing phone
that is never answered.

Red is the back that turns
to the pounding on the door.

Red is the question that
no answer ever rises to meet.

Red is the waning
of the moon.

Listen to this poem using the player above.

April

already the sinking of autumn
a rough sack of wet leaves
thrown over the shoulder

sternum aching from bending forward
the slightest cloud across the sun
renews longing

air smells of metal, predicts the coming rain
sidewalkers with downcast eyes
avoid the discomfort of contact

a woman on a concrete bridge
measures the distance to Ophelia’s bed
thinks better of it this day

there’s rosemary for you, that’s for remembrance
there’s fennel for you, and columbines
Ophelia waits, open-eyed

unready, she’s thinking, that’s all
the time will come, my sweet
when I shall cover you up with my watery sheet

Listen to this poem using the player above.

Water
(for Carolee and Jill)

all my poems are wet
soaked through with tears
of realization come too late

before the ink is dry
as my pen lifts from the paper
my eyes well up and it starts again

every missed connection
every just-closed train door
every unreturned smile

there are never enough pages
to soak it all up, to absorb all these years
why does it take so long to cross this river?

Listen to this poem using the player above.

Come with me, Shelby

come with me, Shelby
leave Dunkin’ Donuts behind
abandon the too-sweet smell of the batter,
the truckers’ glares,
long-separated from warm flesh
and soft mouths
leave your ill-chosen uniform
and the constriction of low wages
we’ll drive to the lake
sit in my pickup on top of the hill
try to spot the woodpecker
building a home
I’ll find us a tree
peck at it with my pointed intentions
burrow down
until the sap sticks to our skin
with a texture no glazed donut can replicate
we’ll have no natural predators,
feel no need to pray
content to perch
above the ebb and flow of this life
and to taste the sweet morning air

Listen to this poem using the player above.

My first conscious attempt to use projective verse.

Click on the image to see a larger version.

Listen to this poem using the player above.

Light

from an essay by Kwame Dawes:
“to be at home in a lace that is full of light”

and to be held in its grasp, caressed by light
to feel the tendrils, the wisps of light
wrapped around your chest, softly
slithering down your thighs, grasping
the tender parts of you, this lace
penetrating flesh, seeping into blood
the soft glow in your veins, the rhythmic
pumping of light from the heart, spreading
illumined corpuscles, erythrocytes, leukocytes
traveling toward the extremities, pooling
in the fingers, the toes, rising
to the top of your head, the tips of your hair
to be at home in this lace of light
this lace that is full of light