I began my morning walk
not knowing when I’d return.
I had time, or rather,
time had me by the hand
and led me somewhere
I had not been. A field
with wild grass stretched
to every horizon except
for one tree whose leaves
were the colors of dusk.
I stayed a while past lunch,
my pockets full of things
I thought I had lost.
Category: Poetry
Fragmented
My burdens are invisible,
internal struggles, depression
whose weight grows each year.
It hasn’t always been this way.
Not like this fading tide recedes
into the deep with wreckage spinning
underneath the constant waves.
* * *
I’m doing better now than I was when I wrote this poem. If you are dealing (or have dealt) with depression, there can come a day when the waves are calmer and the storm subsides.
Contemplation
I return more for the place
than the lessons spoken there.
The silence after the words,
the breath taken and released.
The reminder of beginnings
and ends, the spaces we take,
the lives we shape. The words
are pointers, signposts, maps.
The living is in between.
you
i remember the scent of honeysuckle
as you drove us through the countryside,
our bloodshot eyes still stinging
from our all-night charade in the city.
you said – I don’t want to do that again.
Ever. – and then you said nothing more.
i don’t remember when you fell asleep,
only the car lights blinding my eyes,
the grass wet with mist and blood,
and the smell of smoke. i couldn’t see
you pinned beneath the car, glass
scattered on the ground like shattered
bits of loss, irreparable, irreplaceable.
* “you” first appeared in Panoply, Issue 7, Summer 2017.
The Trade
I do not like their smug faces
or lavish grins. We eat it up though,
feeding the beast in them and in us.
A feast of lost life and sinking souls
exchanged for glitz and curb appeal.
Summit
Up here there is no shelter
from the sun or storm,
only rock, grass, wild flowers,
water, and the tree line
far below. I sit like a guru
gazing across the valley
at mountaintops miles away
who, like stone masters,
disregard my glance, impart
wonder beyond description.
alma mater, part ii
the hallowed halls
ring hollow with words,
reeking of self-preservation.
indeed if ghosts
still pass through these walls,
the living do all the haunting.
* This is a follow up to my poem alma mater. How far will they go to build monuments upon the souls crushed by the machine created from sport and bloated endowments?
what we learned
we try to translate love
by expanding unfamiliar
rules in directions favoring
our comfort. most times
we succeed only in pulling
the blanket over our heads
at the expense of souls
shivering in our shared space.
fading light
the woodpile runs low
while the cold closes
around us, lightly tapping
our faces with flakes
of snow. how long
can the fire rebuff
the frigid wind,
or do we waste time
staring into flames
rather than the eyes
of those around us?
Ending
I had not seen her in years,
but she was gone long ago.
A living apparition
of flesh and blood, a blurry
tintype that haunts forever.
Now it is over. Shade
transcends from the shadows,
and something more like light
spreads through the quiet air.
* From my book, Awaiting the Images