Not the fireworks
But the smash and crash of the
Glass Monday morning
Tag Archives: Poetry
Am Writing
When one is task oriented and working to deadlines,
the work becomes scripted and static.
Sure there are moments that shine,
but they're in the initial spark of the idea
or reserved for the intro or concluding paragraph.
Never in the middle, in the meat of the piece.
When one is free to write for writing sake,
the work becomes invisible
or even ceases to exist.
When creativity has no bounds
it often flies away.
Beautiful and Terrifying
Outside
moss consumes everything.
Entire branches swallowed down and in.
To extract takes an unearthing you didn’t even know was needed
until the last.bite.left crunched underfoot.
At night
whales swam overhead, a beautiful and terrifying snow globe effect
as tidal waves stacked up on the periphery,
walls of water threatening your wooden stance.
There is beauty and potentiality
in design
intention
in terror.
You just have to keep the forces of nature at bay.
People Look Up
Stop
leave the key in the door,
turn right round where you are
See, feel, hear
the wind rush through the trees
Let yourself be lifted in its flow
the great whirling above our heads
that we miss
when we only look down
Deluged
In nature
I wonder how many streams
is too many streams
Excepting flood stage
what is the maximum
confluence
of streams
Because
we humans
are not smarter
than nature
and yet
we try to support
multiple inputs,
audio video sensual,
all at once
It is no wonder
our consciousness
shuts down
zones out
is washed away
Inertia
Low pressure
in the atmosphere and in an indeterminate one of four tires
13 miles till empty
Critically low levels of battery life
The evidence amasses in the case against energy
A body at rest tends to stay at rest
in these days of the tail end of winter,
the cold strung out to a sparse thread of frost,
the wind a constant movement that won’t blow it away
Weak sun filters through a constant cast
Broken branches brittle and gray
join at intersecting angles
skeletal shapes the only thing of interest on the ground
And yet no where near alive
What no one ever tells you
about your worst bout with whatever mental illness you’ve had
is you’ll put yourself back there
every. other. time. you struggle
forever.
Every time
you get oh so tired
or life’s bitter edge rubs sharp against you
or you just can’t crawl deep enough into the corner of the couch –
You will think,
here it comes again
it’s back
I’m falling down the rabbit hole once more.
And then, a flicker at the edge of your consciousness.
It’s midafternoon; you haven’t taken your meds
The sun hasn’t shone in days
A deep mood does not mean a depressive down swing.
But the feeling is so unsettlingly familiar
it sets off alarm bells
of a flame that once fueled an inferno
Ode-o-meter
Measure distance covered in the length of a song
Imagine geographic area given the musicians to roam
Number songs down before destination done
Hit corner by time clock hits the next minute
Shave time off ETA
Not late until start time elapses
Envision window into where you are
Just how close, closer,
every inch, every minute, every mile
Pray for a well-played EP
The Word
Clerestory
comes to mind
from the white light
spilling down
onto my bed.
A canonical,
conical
shaft from above.
From its singular point of origin,
w i d e n i n g
to envelope me in its illumination.
Just sit
and
Be still.
Breathe in the light.
Irrational Reptile
With tough, leathery skin,
it’s a wonder she moves without notice.
Yet she skulks and slithers
throughout the mind,
the soul,
the psyche
leaving a trail of bad decisions in the name of self-preservation
Seeking only comfort and survival
not peace or progress
After years of hiding in the shadows,
she is an expert at skirting around the edges,
dropping pebbles here,
rolling beads of water down there,
until they gather in a puddle,
pushing behind the eyes
pulsating in the inner ear
an ache in the chest
an unease in the soul
Don’t trust this,
she says.
Run the other way,
she says.
And if you won’t listen,
she whispers ways to sabotage
All so softly that you don’t even question that her voice isn’t your own.
Chopping Potatoes 