Thursday, September 08, 2011

POEM: The Sky Bleeds Mercilessly

over us these last
few days
the shredded, skies
the angry skies
drops to
its knees
right onto our
shorelines choke
blue-grey from
the grip the river
had on its throat
i see misery as well
swell like dance music
in the distance this
music of a new moon &
high tide
envelope the urging
of its storm surge
over the deserving &
the innocent
while slumped
trees implore
like Job - “ how long o
water sluices
through roots as
if shoots as if
from the spiral
barrel of a gun
as if it might
just as well
have been a bullet

trees grip
swampy earth
whose roots resemble 
bunched fists
clutched tight
as a junkie's

if with a brush
of its watery-hand
it can sweep away
that truck
like a child’s
toy what chance
do i have?

anchoring prayer

POEM: The Day My Toaster Was Replaced By a Cactus

Today I went to make toast but the toaster had been replaced by a cactus.
I am not afraid of cactus, but toasters scare me to death.
When I was young, I’d heard stories of people getting shocked
sticking forks or knives into the trap-like slots that hold the bread for toasting.
I was certain that my toaster would lure me into its mouth &
I would be the victim of its sharp electric teeth.
Perhaps those living in cactus climates – Arizonans or Texans – have their
Own horror stories about cactus, of those impaled on barbs & left for dead.
Maybe there are stories of hemophiliacs bleeding to death after
A sad encounter with a cactus rescued from a local nursery.
We carry our orange-cone stories as a warning
but the things we acquire through saturation are hardest to quit
No cactus has ever threatened me
nor born me any ill  will
save for this craving for a single slice of buttered toast.

Tuesday, September 06, 2011

POEM: Storm Clouds

the saddened grass
has weak eyes
it has the slack jaw
of a coward
under the gray ceiling
of storm clouds

i hold coffee
close my true friend

the rhododendron seem indifferent
who am i to care?

the college kids so yellow
are ready for another school year

it is difficult to move
in the pictures i see

it appears
like film drowned in developer
under a red light.
in that way
so ghostlike

it rises like fog
crawls up like disgust
it covers up the chintz of living

the rain all over
everything. If

Sunday, September 04, 2011

POEM: Aztec Poems

Aztec Poems

I am soil
Flower is my heart
Held in cupped hands
I, a whisper
You, an ear.
Words are seeds taken to the wind
They plant themselves
In the walls of my heart

We are beaters of drums
We are makers of song
Daylight is just men and laughter.
Alive is the yellow and gold dust
That covers everything.

Only we know life
The song-makers
The root-pullers
Drum beaters of the deep.
Send out voices into rooms of the heart
And wait for an echo back.

For a short while I walk among the living
I break off heart pieces
The size of bees
And offer them as food as I go.
For a short time I am here
And cover you in honey
And eat flowers.

You have come for me
Shortened light angled
And in steep cold
Gold as pollen.
You discover my wanting.
Return, revoke, renounce
But never oh god rebuke.