I.
the sun rose to greet you
on mid-july morning.
the lasting sounds of
night owls moving off to sleep.
above, a brooding hawk
spots his mid-morning meal.
II.
as the heat waves create
ripples in the black sea,
the eagle is perched
on a low limb over 1,000
Acre Lake, hoping for
presence of rain.
III.
at dusk, the brooding hawk
returns hungry to his nest.
the eagle nestles in the
meadow five miles off;
the owl glides seamlessly
through the darkening sky.
IIII.
at midnight, the silent owl
watches you from the
branches five stories up,
waiting once more for
the sun to rise.
*written for "series with theme," poetry class, spring 2010.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
the lorraine motel, april 4, 1991
if you want to know what my lousy childhood was like
and how my best friend was a young girl of minority status
in a highly (corrupt, ignorant, American) prejudice town,
i will mind, but i'm not shy, i'll tell you. first, let me write
about how her dimples lit up like the roadside diner sign
and her eyes like diamonds, killing her sisters.
but one day she snapped and i'm not talking umbilical cord.
i'm not saying money troubles and mama's grocery list.
i'm writing of a much more inherent evil -
talking the fist that broke her jaw
and rose through my heart and climbed through my eyes
to shape the fist to produce the boy's busted lip.
i'm talking the bus driver's hands on my burning shoulders,
the "poor" boy pushing towards the window, blood on his teeth.
i'm talking the violence and violation i give freely back
since they decided to shower it so freely on her -
the satisfying plea of please, please, please -
the lion's reduction to mouse.
*copied from adrian blevin's "the other cold war" - written for poetry class, spring 2010.
and how my best friend was a young girl of minority status
in a highly (corrupt, ignorant, American) prejudice town,
i will mind, but i'm not shy, i'll tell you. first, let me write
about how her dimples lit up like the roadside diner sign
and her eyes like diamonds, killing her sisters.
but one day she snapped and i'm not talking umbilical cord.
i'm not saying money troubles and mama's grocery list.
i'm writing of a much more inherent evil -
talking the fist that broke her jaw
and rose through my heart and climbed through my eyes
to shape the fist to produce the boy's busted lip.
i'm talking the bus driver's hands on my burning shoulders,
the "poor" boy pushing towards the window, blood on his teeth.
i'm talking the violence and violation i give freely back
since they decided to shower it so freely on her -
the satisfying plea of please, please, please -
the lion's reduction to mouse.
*copied from adrian blevin's "the other cold war" - written for poetry class, spring 2010.
continuation of "everything" by srikanth reddy
on the 31st of may he found
the letter, wrapped in deteriorated
early century canvas paper.
he discovered that she was unwell
on the day he would marry
THE wench. when he arrived there,
she laid cold beneath a quilt
made of rags. they finally met,
and they were finally parted.
so he finished the bottle,
& he folded his map of the sea.
the letter, wrapped in deteriorated
early century canvas paper.
he discovered that she was unwell
on the day he would marry
THE wench. when he arrived there,
she laid cold beneath a quilt
made of rags. they finally met,
and they were finally parted.
so he finished the bottle,
& he folded his map of the sea.
dissolving in to nothing
what do i believe?
is not always what i believe.
two shots down and you were hanging
over the water on a broken limb -
you looked like you were going to fall,
but the water would have caught
you gently in its bed;
you, friend of foxes,
did you keep yourself sane?
we rolled over and in to each other,
your arms caught me in motion,
brevity relaxed to meet infinity.
you know how to keep me quiet.
in the middle of chaos -
when everyone is screaming,
we are silent, breathing entities:
we are the poplar surrounded by honey bees -
honey, let them buzz all
they feel necessary.
they speak without proof towards
things they will never understand.
isn't that our big question,
anyway?
when did they learn everything?
more importantly -
when did we?
do you remember december?
we were so cold we felt isolated in our bodies.
you put your arm around my waist,
and we looked like iridescent statues;
cafe con leche, you'd say.
isn't that always what we are?
statues of humans, mixed
in colors, mixed only
enough to keep us from
engaging in bloody warfare?
outside, only still lives
of arranged pottery;
an empty
ashtray,
a crystal bowl
of nothing,
a placid, dead
sea -
who are we to know anything?
is not always what i believe.
two shots down and you were hanging
over the water on a broken limb -
you looked like you were going to fall,
but the water would have caught
you gently in its bed;
you, friend of foxes,
did you keep yourself sane?
we rolled over and in to each other,
your arms caught me in motion,
brevity relaxed to meet infinity.
you know how to keep me quiet.
in the middle of chaos -
when everyone is screaming,
we are silent, breathing entities:
we are the poplar surrounded by honey bees -
honey, let them buzz all
they feel necessary.
they speak without proof towards
things they will never understand.
isn't that our big question,
anyway?
when did they learn everything?
more importantly -
when did we?
do you remember december?
we were so cold we felt isolated in our bodies.
you put your arm around my waist,
and we looked like iridescent statues;
cafe con leche, you'd say.
isn't that always what we are?
statues of humans, mixed
in colors, mixed only
enough to keep us from
engaging in bloody warfare?
outside, only still lives
of arranged pottery;
an empty
ashtray,
a crystal bowl
of nothing,
a placid, dead
sea -
who are we to know anything?
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