NaPoWriMo/NaPoREADMo #10 — Following this noise



Following this noise


My wife chews 

on a crunchy cookie
	as she breathes 
		through her nose 
	next to me.


Our child turns 

a page in her journal and 
	sniffs on the futon in the studio,
		headphones playing music
	we cannot hear.


Our two friends
	
—brothers—
	on the couch and 
  		in the child’s borrowed bed, 
	both snore softly.


Traffic in the six lanes 

out front swishes and shushes 
	in the rain and occasionally 
		clump-umps on a 
	loose manhole cover. 


The washing machine 

and a jet overhead 
	in the night
		scream descendingly
	in a soft duet. 


Our new neighbors, 

still settling in, move about 
	upstairs, unsettling nothing, 
		while I lie here 
	about it all
		on such a quiet night.












Keepin' the "Po" in NaPoWriMo....



In Valleys Like This


It was in valleys like this that 
the land spoke.  The earth itself shared 
its language of place and time.  The 
when and where of life was known.  The 
earth spoke in a forgotten tongue 
like fingers speak to hands, like hands 
speak to arms, like arms speak to chest 
and chest sings the songs of fingers,  
knows the beat of feet and feels the 
soles' words of water, roots and rock.

This song was known to the singer 
even when unsung, sprung from the 
same womb, as close as cadence, as 
rhythm as rain, as known as the 
nails of one's hands, unnoticed for 
its constant presence.  Its lack is 
the death of us all, its dearth is
a black wall that hides us from our 
selves, our once embraced, now banished, 
bare and prodigal pantheons.