you’ve heard the old story
of almost throwing stones,
how they dropped
them and turned
despondently back
to their business.
but i returned
a few hours later
and picked them up,
one by one, enough
to fill twelve baskets.
i didn’t know the crushing
of bones would be my own.
Tag: writing
topography
there is a place inside of you,
a place that can never escape.
a place where you once were
but is now inescapably within
your mind. it haunts you,
but you haunt it too. you keep
going back, and it revisits you.
landscape changes as a setting
sun’s long shadows fade away.
practice
presence, awareness,
awake now and breathe.
inhale. exhale. burdens
give way to small birds
sounding transformation
from nights into dawn.
all is silent in between.
the cemetery bench
wind weaves through the graves
whispering names long worn
from the headstones. we visit
on anniversaries, speak in low tones,
but mostly sit, as if before a mirror,
wondering what face will appear.
how many years will these ghosts
stay with us, whispering secrets
we will only understand when light
fades giving way to brighter sight?
* From Awaiting the Images
Visions
Do you still see the dead
walking among the crowd,
in the library, on the bus,
at the playground? Everywhere
but the old stone church
where bones grow brittle
beneath its crumbling weight?
You once said they smile
and whisper words you cannot
fathom, turn, and walk away.
They carry light in glass jars,
brushing against the living
like a winter wind through
a forest of barren trees.
A Week or More
So I’ll be on vacation for the next several days. The triple digit Texas heat is a great excuse to get out of town and head to the mountains. My posts over the next several days will either be photos or repeats…but hopefully inspiration will strike.
Be well and write on. You never know what the next word will uncover.
Anthony
Photo: Windmill farm in West Texas.
Summer
The sea shells scraped the bucket
as we walked slowly from the shore.
The shock of the burning sand
quickened our pace, and we skipped
on tiptoes to escape the pain in our feet.
At some point we turned and ran
back into the ocean where it seems
we have waited hours for the sun
to spill its fire into the surging sea.
* From Awaiting the Images
uncovered
the hinges of the hidden door
groaned slowly with time’s passing.
then the room, the open window’s
breath of wind faint upon my skin.
the soft yellow morning light
magnified the grey layer of dust
astonished by the memory of years.
present
the tires on the borrowed car
cannot grasp the ice beneath
we slide spin turn accelerate
then the dull thud as the lincoln
crashes against a bank of snow
caroms unharmed across the lot
we laugh scream wild with life
until another drift launches us
somewhere we cannot imagine
* From Awaiting the Images
perfect loss
into the fire
out seared
beaten
battered
immersed in water
the afterglow surges
steams
spatters
enters again
unyielding
Awaiting the Images 