NaPoWriMo / NaPoREADMo — Days 20, 21,22, & 23 — The “Missing” poems


(Four-for-one today, because I have been Presently Absent or Absently Present or....
well...Missing...and I may come up Missing again.  Anyone who actually listens to all
four gets a cookie...and my undying....umm...curiosity?  Awe?  Stupefaction?)



Missing, part 1

How many times did you wake up
in the night, find an empty cup
and wonder where your mind used to
be, your self alone and just you
in the bed, and just the one bed
with unfamiliar sheets, your head
on a strangely scented pillow?

I would have brought her there, you know,
for you to hold, and not for me.
You needed her more.  I can see
that now.  I would have stood close by,
just a ways, and averted my
gaze; let you have your time alone
as I tried not to turn to stone.





Missing, part 2

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.





Missing, part 3

Do you feel the rain where you are?
Is there water there in the far
reaches of memory? Does time
fall through the air, like brittle rime
crusting the sea? Is this weather?
Tenuous shifts of the tethers
that tie us, each to our own place?

I stand in the rain, raise my face
to the falling sky as my sight
becomes a part of the pale light
that is left to us, and wonder
how we can all be so sundered
and still hold together all this
madness, beauty and darkness.





Missing, part 4

Are your words still with you?  Did you
carry your stories deep into 
the night and leave them like luggage
on a railway platform, an age
and more down silver tracks, with just
the wind, the stars, and leaves like dust
blowing and hissing in the dark?

This silence leaves a fading mark.
The thing that took you left your face
in bodies unknown to you, lace
filaments tracing what the eyes
of others cannot see: the ties
that generation takes away;
the look in eyes that cannot stay.














NaPoWriMo / NaPoREADMo — Days 15 & 16 — Hum(m)us & Oysters

(two for one today, again, because yesterday was a cock-up and today we get weird...)




Hum(m)us

Hearth of soil and soul of 
stone, gather us 
to your bosom.  Hum us
like warmth into
winter’s close conjuring.
Hum us into 
the bellies of our love.

Heirlooms live in 
ancient ovens leavened 
with our tailings, 
leavings telling of our 
ordinary 
meals, the most sacred shared
by us, alone.

Pulses from one 
to the one that sprang from 
her very soil
(earth murmurs), the maker
passes on the
notes of a melody
for the making. 

Six simple gifts, the land's 
material,
ascend in scales, soft sound 
offerings of 
humble place; ordinals 
older than words;
sounds fat and round and full 

of life.  "Fully
formed and transformed by the 
mouth’s own making,
the soil's song sings itself
in tongues' silence,"
mumbles humus, a tune
down in its roots.





Oysters

We went into the streets 
and squared our shoulders 
against the coming night.  

The clouds hung low in 
our minds, eating us--
eating our thoughts.

The rats were everywhere, 
walking over our feet and
chewing our fingernails for us.

We twisted our hearts into 
animal shapes and 
gave them to the rats.

They did not want them.
They wanted the bones of 
our world to gnaw on.

They wanted to be 
the humming birds that ate 
the fairies of our hearts.

They wanted to filet the blue 
fish of our minds.  
They wanted to burrow 

through our marrow 
and delve into our guts, 
coming up with fresh oysters.






NaPoWriMo / NaPoREADMo — Days 13 & 14 — we & We, too (a haiku sonnet)

(two for one today, because Monday is our day off...)




we

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





We, too (a haiku sonnet)

We hold each other
to gather our disparate
selves unto ourselves.

We cry and laugh at
the utter absurdity  
of our existence.

We do not know when
we begin or where we end
and our answers are 

questions in guises
of light.  We listen mutely
in the darkness while

our wisdom falls wetly down 
upon our bare feet.







NaPoWriMo / NaPoREADMo — Day 11 — The will of things

(this one was tricky. kind of want to re-record it but no time today.)





The will of things

These things I know
like I know the hand on my back
the hand that will crack 
these things 

I know

what you mean 
when you say I grow
tiring when I speak with this lack
of capacity when I stack 
these things I know

that you mean

these things will 
grow into towers that tilt 
and yawn and threaten to speak 
what has drawn these pages
into pictures of what
these things will

spill across the lawn