Tag Archives: poem

Samsara

What ends will begin again
the distant observer reminds me
                                      hidden in shadow
their eyes reaching out with their own light
           metal things – sharp like ice
                                    seeing me fully;
where presence, thought, and action
                               coincide
                                               all the moments in between.

           A brutal transparency
that turns the veins to stonework.

We lock eyes over long,
                       each of us
                                          throttled by the others gaze
only one of us
                                             haunted by it,
until the day ends and a new one begins.

In the morning

                           I will wake
to see myself staring once again
                                          eager,
but patient to take my place
                to see through these eyes
rather than the emotionless space.

The Rot

A strange beast hides amongst the trees
waiting                            patiently
while the world –
                     the world grows around it.
Cradling it,
in flora             and                     fauna,
until that darkness
                                   is
                                       unrecognizable
…only the foul stench remains.

Above,
            the clouds break-
                                            the sun stretches again,
the errant thought of that rot abandoned
                                                  to the weeds,
the corruption it hides
                        left in the soil

far beneath.
                       The day continues with a calm wind…

A late summer afternoon will find
many friends in the forest-
                                                weaving through the green
in    waves   of shadow and tufts of grass;
The harsh sun
                        a gentle hand reaching
through the canopy
            combing the coat of the earth.

It pauses a moment
when brushed against that malignance;

that strange beast that hides amongst the trees
born of those it never sees

Sinking

The sea aches with the setting sun,
where immutable forces meet
something stirs.

Eyes catch but a glimpse
before the light is pulled beneath the waves;
the curled fingers of Poseidon
throttling the form.

Resigned to the demise below
the last hope of a tired dream
                                      dies,
as the dreamer did long ago.

An Indeterminate Number of Trees and Rocks Behind the House

If I die in this place
                        who will find me?

Like a piton
this thought, is stuck in my mind

My sneakers were made for lazy days
for sidewalks and classrooms
they fold over rocks like jerky
       slipping
                  more often than
                             catching.

They are quick to remind me
I don’t belong
                                                 here.

but the height makes me quicker still
               all the while still wondering…

If I die in this place
                         who will find me?

Scaling the cliffside
I look for rebellious roots
terrified brittle limbs
confident rocks
eager to help a hand
miles away
                                                                  my home is empty
the sun is setting
                       and my mind echoes…

If I die in this place

                           Who will find me?

Ode to the Pen

To you who are so confident in the sharp angles
               who will not bend by force
                          but will shape the mind,
the scales by which our history is judged
        the catalyst for all intellect divined,
I ask, what shape would be made of us otherwise?

Through you we’ve explored our history

Through you we’ve reached

                                                         Out
                 into the future
                                      and found a place there

Whether

                  Quiet

       Or loud.

Through you we have a voice that
transcends
                     our isolation.

Time

There were a thousand years behind that hand
the cloth, pregnant with water,
hides the universe
gestating forever and always.

Together they press against an ancient brow
weary more from years than heat;
a symbolic gesture.

The way the sun hits the falling water
shatters it across the stonework.
At this altitude it looks like
anthropology screaming;
an echo of countless others
refracted exactly here

[None of this is captured on the magazine cover
only so much can be seen in pictures]

Surprise Visit

You sneaky bastard.

I knew you were there
felt you behind my closed lids                                                 (always)
slinging your weight at the ends of my hair,
but I thought
                  with my eye on you
I’d catch you before you pounced.

Yet here I am,
reduced to fetal leavings
and you drooling over me
through a smile that stretches for hours.

All I want is endless darkness
a silent forever
to think

                    ‘it’s going to be alright’
but believe it.

The War Between Two Balloons

His opponent – Dashed against the rooftops
               the victor floats away
the punctuated fabric of their balloon
strained in its ascent
but the ascent is meaningless now.
His opponent – Dashed against the rooftops
becoming more distant with the passing moments
yet closer to him now than ever before.

Further below
their shared heart looks up from the earth
blocking the sun with her free hand
her face twisted
like a bird caught in the strings
               the victor floating away.