In the bone night

Posted on by
14 


When night falls for the bones,
Nothing comes from the dark,
Nothing goes into the light
and the marrow burns on its own.

The tunnel bends 
to its own demise 
and turns in its cold sack
as the sun dies 
and the skies close down
their colors.

They drown us in the hues of
someone else's nightmares while
our own forgotten dreams
lie down in the grass and

all we can do is lie down
with them and smell it coming 
like we smell our own sweat 
and wait for the rain to wash it all away.

From the darkness, from 
the depths, a crystalline air 
vibrates our structured souls 
until they shatter into light

while the bones beat and rattle 
within us, playing 
us like a single drum.

We

Posted on by
11 


we sit in circles
like dust settling
out of the room
like light fading
into the corners
like dark creeping
along the floor

we sit
and are ourselves
only to ourselves
to all others we 
are other

we stand 
like trees
like blades 
of tall grass
like birds 
on long legs
in the water

we fly at ourselves
and whirl about
our own heads

we the moth
we the flame
we the candlemaker

we hold ourselves
like little children
and laugh
into our hair
into the sun
and become 
light

Missing (part 2)

Posted on by
13 
[a series I have been working on]
[part one can be found here]




I wonder--did those strange scents jar
your memories and dreams toward
unseen collisions with silence,
that wrong kind of quiet made dense
with soft specific sounds that spell 
a place far deeper than our well-
used alphabet of ancient objects?  

Our limbic world just disconnects
over time.  Our temporal selves
get disheveled.  Cerebral shelves
do not suffice any more.  We
strive to hold things in place, but see
only place-holders and when age
eats worlds, the words fall off the page.

For my wife, on Mother’s Day

Posted on by
10 




This hand I hold within my own

holds the man that I have become,

holds the pieces of who I am,

takes them gently in and holds them

close, close as flesh is close to bone.

 

This hand I hold is the hand that

I will grow old holding onto.

We will sew dreams into our seems

with this hand, one smaller hand, and

my own--all I need to call my own.






~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~

A Happy Mother's Day to all.