she stayed a few days longer
even after she left. i felt
her presence when the cats
looked up from napping and stared
bewildered at something over
my shoulder, circled twice
and laid back down to dream
of worlds we will never know.
From Awaiting the Images
I found you near the river’s
edge after the soldiers left.
Your child breathed softly
in your arms, eyes glowing
with wonder. You were asleep
to this world, wide awake
somewhere else. A shade
by our sides, perhaps,
or galaxies beyond our sight.
I whispered a word and walked
away, and the autumn light
flickered in your child’s hair
like flecks of gold as I carried
him across the fading horizon.
This is the first poem of mine ever published by a journal. It was published by Offerings in its 4th Quarter 2000 issue. I have no idea whether the journal still exists, but I am thankful that it encouraged me to keep writing, as I encourage you to do the same.
High Tide
He is too far away from the sea
to notice the sun dance on water.
He will never hear waves
pound against sand.
Too far away to play with children;
to believe sand castles
will never fall, then rebuild
when they do.
Instead he is fifty stories above
ground, grinding towards
a muddled dream as the first
floor fills with water.
the machine believes money
is love. honor and prestige
parade through the town
with cash clenched tightly
in their hands. they build
monuments to honor sport
while souls are crushed
under the clamor of their
self-congratulatory speech.
* From Awaiting the Images
He sits against a fence
listening to the wind slip
through the ragged slats –
Whispers, whines, groans
too low for the soul to bear.
Light drips from the willow
overhead, illuminated shapes
spring across the dirt and grass.
Wind. Nothing else. Emptiness
filled with rays of brazen life.
More than a blanket
that covers shame,
you are an elixir which
removes wretched spots.
You dissolve in blood,
are carried from veins
to the depths of rebirth.
Something eternal stays
behind: specks of light
scourging dark cells.
he always desires the gentle way,
and hobgoblins delight in the choosing.
for they know the path leads
through overgrown green fields
spotted with wild flowers.
on occasion he stumbles upon
another traveler and nods his head
in unison, a pained greeting disrupted
by the uncomfortable sound of feet
trudging through thick grass.
at the end, he finds himself
standing alone,
a fatted calf awaiting the slaughter.
If you haven’t already discovered Richard Hugo’s The Triggering Town, I highly recommend it to any writer, but specifically to poets. It has been a great help to me through the years when I get stuck in my creativity, and I hope it serves you well.
If you have already read it, please leave a comment of how it helped you.
I wrote this poem over 20 years ago in a creative writing class, one of the best class experiences of my life. There were four of us in the room: the professor (William Virgil Davis) and three students. Each week we would discuss our poems for three hours, ripping the work apart line by line, making sure our words said what we meant for them to say. It was as brutal as it was wonderful, and I wish that type of experience for any writer/poet visiting this page.
Separation
The ancient skiff glides
through thick fog
upon a waveless sea.
The mariner draws
full nets of fish;
throws them all back.
He guides the boat
away from shore,
afraid of finding land.
Why do we sometimes stay as busy as possible and then complain that we don’t have time to slow down? Many times it is because we fear what we might find in solitude.
inside
even in the silence
there is such inescapable noise.
the thoughts we bury
merely sprout and creep
back through the darkness.
but we keep the background
music on, the fan humming,
the conversations muffled
to stifle the whisper
of a weary, waiting soul.
Awaiting the Images 