tell me again
what’s wrong with me.
I’ll pull up a chair,
like a child listening
to a bedtime story,
while you list all the ways
I will never be enough,
remind me why I am alone,
sing me my failures,
question my abilities,
paint my inferiority,
hum my inadequacy,
strum the notes of my wrongs,
then ask me
why
I don’t
believe
in
myself
anymore
secrets like a tree torn of leaves,
each one a truth untold, even
the desperate grip of branches
could not stop the fall. sun stares,
demands honesty, reveals deceit
in her glare. his wooden arms
are no match for her golden gaze,
so all of it falls, half-truths and lies,
and he becomes bare, only bony
fingers of regret, reaching out,
as if she would forgive. she covers
her eyes in clouds and turns away.
(today I decided to walk out deep into the woods until I came up with answers to the questions I have been pondering. after walking more than 7 miles in the heat, I found myself lying face down in a grove of trees, with no recollection of what had happened. i took this photo then. i was injured, dizzy, and in no shape to walk the remaining 5 miles back to my car, but i realized that, not only did i have no phone reception, but i had no one to call to come help me. somehow i made it out. i was in the woods for almost 5 hours. after i got home, i found this poem on my phone. i wrote it today, but i have no recollection at all of writing it. i think that says a lot.)
eight miles out i fall
black out, wake up
stones edge tree lean
ask. no reception here
no one to call. leaks
from knees, red, and eyes,
clear drops of alone
air crush with know. no
breath. out of focus all.
lost. alone. maybe here
home after all.
He is a hero
so many stripes on his shoulders
and medals on his chest
salute
Commander, aviator, protector of the free,
danger, deployments, tours of duty,
then accolades, parades, promotions.
Back at home, we
crumbled
in silence, while he was gone.
No one noticed,
not even him.
memorial
days
When Mother gets angry, the children are not safe,
clinging to walls that collapse around them, crushing
childhood beneath her wrath. She roars at us, and throws
our things about, for they mean nothing to Mother
when she is mad. She’ll unleash torrents, and we will try
to hide, but Mother knows all the hiding places.
She will knock them down or flood them with her rage, until
we are gasping for air, begging Mother to forgive us.
And when she calms again, Mother is nearly silent.
She never apologizes, only watches us through cloudy eyes
as we try to pick up broken pieces of Mother’s fury.
We hold the children and shake, and try to explain, but
we can’t. Haunted by the cruelty Mother has unleashed
on some, we whisper and hope, and glance up warily.
Do not make Mother angry.
The first time was at dusk. The Hudson River stretched
like an invitation in the gentlest glow, both banks’
forest green arms holding me, as I rose with the bridge.
And at the top, nightfall’s vision sang, and I held,
floated there, watching the city catch the river.
Her skyscrapers gathered and huddled and whispered
of the night to come, and began to switch on spots
of bright into the fading light. And beside, tiny, immense
Liberty stood, knowing the city and flowing the river,
and lifted us all across the bridge.
When I returned, it was morning. The light was harsher,
less forgiving. The climb to the top of the bridge seemed
steeper, somehow, for us all. And I saw signs, along
the railings, read them. “Don’t give up. There is hope.
Call the hotline.” Street signs. Bridge signs. Signs.
At the top: “Do not jump.” On this, the North side, only
the river, the fall. And the ghosts that had put all the signs
on the bridge. I could still see them jumping. And my car
would not float but wanted to stop and fling its doors
open for me. But the sign said, “Do not jump.”
On the Sun’s day, she called for a walk,
so I obliged, and listened to the birds of Spring.
They sang to each other, but left me out of their songs.
My steps were slow, while walking, to know.
And back in the woods, so far that I was alone,
they began to come, each at a different place
on my path: those that I fear most –
the snakes. They wound right to me, looked through
my eyes, never stopping – though I could not
move. They each wore different clothes, but none
feared me; they approached. Stopped.
Spoke their silence. Froze me in the leafy moment.
Seven times, seven snakes, seven silences,
each of them with something to say.
Her name was June, but she left in May,
before the sunflowers could bloom and ask
for more days. In the stone church, whispers
spoke of the claim: cancer, a brain tumor.
Stolen summer laid her cold, draped in flowers
taken in their bloom. They would die soon.
I kept my head bowed, listened for June,
waited for the preaching, sobbing, and hymns to end.
In the front of the church, in a purple dress
with a black bow in her hair, June’s daughter sat;
I knew her well. She looked straight ahead and made
no sound, and that is why I kept my head down.
And when the cars were gone, and I was alone
I wept, and I wept to the church and through June.
The last months of her life, when the brain tumor
grasped and haunted her head, June had changed.
And her daughter, so many days, so many different
colored bows, would tell stories of the crazy things
her mom would do and stay. And it wasn’t June.
It wasn’t your Mom. I cry because we have lost
part of summer, but I weep for her girl in the purple dress,
and the June she remembered as she sat on those steps.
In the tenderness of morning, the fog
wraps the horses in promise and paints
the yellow blanket soft. The horses
speak their quiet, feel their Spring,
dance their velvet noses in flowered field.
Silent are the pines, watching
through dew drop eyes, hanging
their needled peace in the foggy morning.
Early morning hoof prints mark time,
yellow daybreak, flowery fog of pineful watch,
and I am silent with wonder.
ones that walk away without saying good-bye (good-bye)
leave me shiver the rain (looking for shadows)
reasons like questions wrap me still (you left)
empty trains ride the know (without me)
the bench of the station, cold iron feel (alone)
blankness of silence, fog of your go (I wait)
no words you left, no solace or explain (mined hollow)
just gone, only gone, words secured with you (I fall)
disappeared and all, away, and spared nothing (not me)
walk away within
inside, through and stop
wait, hold and go
away and away
fall and watch, wonder
hurt, pause, see fly
hope and then hope
collapse
(wake up) not asleep, but reading,
(write) she sits the edge of my bed,
tilts her head, waits. silence. (think it
to know). Sylvia, i am tired.
(the write will you), but how,
(ask the sky). and she stays,
to feel, asking cry (I know). pulls
what i push down (inside rain),
closing windows on day (tumble words),
and in sleep of dark, my name, cloud
whisper, pen gripped unwritten (Sylvia),
fly, write us both home (again).
Hi Friends. I’d like to share two recent publications, so you might go check out the poems as well as the wonderful journals in which they are included. I don’t write much haiku, but two of them were selected for publication recently, one in the latest issue of Paper Wasp and one in the next issue of Heron’s Nest. Please check out these fine publications if you get the chance!
has words for all, gather and follow,
crowd me to the corner, unseen.
what do they mean? what do they
mean? words you’ve already given,
taken, turned, used, played, bestowed,
i don’t want them. i take silence,
shelter here, covered in real. alone,
away from crowds of more to claim
you, to pull, hold, own the words.
spread your imprint, your follow,
pieces for each, exchanged for devotion,
fill you up, adore. I, alone, more, silent,
gone.
Listen, hear, I am but a gull whose feathers
raise against offshore winds, but the sea,
the sea sent me with words for you.
I waited by the shore break, passed
many days, tides, and angry rain, for the sea
spoke, called forth the sun. As I rode
his rolling surf, he sung of his love for you,
the furious storms that frightened you away.
He knew you trembled in your sleep, dreamt
of being swept away under his dark waves.
He quieted, and waited for your sun to return.
“Gull,” he cried, “She will come back. Tell her
not to go. Look upon my gentle calm.”
And I was part of the sea, and believed.
You sat with the sea all that day, felt, heard,
listened his song of calm, until the clouds
pulled across the sun, though he fought them,
they were angry, and dark. The sea tried,
and tried to hold his calm but the dark
clouds and wind were joined, and the waves
swelled, and louder, crashed, higher and soon,
you were trembling again, and left. I was sorry.
And the sea still cries for you.
the path leads
whispers unknowing,
draws you, pines,
tomorrows to follow.
walk it with tender feet,
mild heart, searching
blind corners.
the path speaks
silent tones of hanging moss,
fallen logs, pine cones,
hear with your eyes,
color the symphony,
of so many days
walking ups and downs.
the path follows,
shadows of feel,
learned and passed,
crunch of golden pine
needles, fallen back down,
looked sweetly upon
by the sun, and the long
path, and always, you.
and then there was you,
and shadows bowed and carried daisies,
for the sun returned and sung the sky
to my blue. maples and oaks whispered,
wove their leaves in the breeze, throwing
dancing dapples of sunlight around me.
and i laid my wildflower days in your music,
wrapped like summer and water’s float,
ten thousand balloons, each one called hope,
stayed floating in my new sky,
because there was you.
Doctor: I saw how you tossed my file
across the desk, and all of the papers
spilled out onto the floor. Symbolic.
But you, you were annoyed, that you
had to pick up my pieces and jam them
back in the file, weren’t you? I know.
I heard your annoyed sigh as I walked
away, and you reminded me, again,
that I could find another doctor.
And all I was trying to do was make it
out the door without letting slip
the torrent of tears that began to build
back in your office, when you said,
“You make my job difficult.” I lost
my words then, so you continued:
“And how I am supposed to work
around this eating disorder thing,
or whatever it is?” My eyes were
on the floor, but I still saw your look
of disgust at my 100 pound body.
And did I even care how hard it was
on you that I didn’t want to take more pills,
but for God’s sake did I realize I have
a brain tumor, a divorce, no family here,
I am not sleeping or eating….and, you, doctor,
said five prescriptions are what I need.
When I said I just needed time and support,
you said I was difficult and uncooperative.
And I stopped speaking because,
what could I say? And you called me
noncompliant, that I was tying your hands
behind your back in attempt to gain power,
and my mind whispered……no, i am trying
to survive. But you didn’t hear, because
you were drawing up a document for me
to sign that said if I kill myself, you are not
legally liable. I signed it.
so I could leave. you never looked
at my face. or you might
have known
the damage
you
did
to
me
and all and clear
to know nothing
beyond now sky
gathers you grows
you to float while
moon spins within
shadows follow
other paths silent
you wander them
go and nothing
is color hold of
flower pillow open
up real let go feel
all another and
more everything
little pieces of happy
rain down like sunbeams,
shine all the way through
lightness of how,
eyes that feel me,
shelter with blankets
of woven words.
it spreads, the know,
kindness filling cracks
light collected, wonder,
together, whole
shine back at the sun
little boy and little girl
met under the oak tree.
he gave her the sky
and an empty box.
she put them inside.
closing her eyes, she
smelled blue and heard
light linger by the boy.
and she gave him wind
and float of tomorrows.
gravity listened and smiled,
dreams of then and now
remembered, and within
embrace stayed. and the
core of all was poetry.
This day the glass cracked blue,
the mirror was a window, no longer
empty space looking back into churning seas.
I hear you shriek, and shriek again,
this time it’s real: the uncut grass,
the bees and balloons, the shadows
and the moon. And you, you are the embryo,
the gift, the color of the sky that blooms.
There is a space for love.
But you haven’t gone, Sylvia.
You still whisper to me in colors, and when
I say “not good enough,” you turn my mirror
into a window. The words you send I write. You know.
I feel. You sent me lost, so I could be found. Sending
me your darkness, so I have hollow bones and cry
shadow tears, and you say ~ write. I try, Sylvia.
Don’t swirl me lost.
and then Sylvia said you must.
squeezed my hand until it wrote.
and you. and all. now was before
to still. swirling know into colors.
and colors were feel. colors
of the core but not time. moon
felt. she said stay but there was
no leave. inside the sky. within you.
you know. nothingness is really all.
here is wonder. open. through.
and now hold. rise from ash to moon.
watch. outside in. begin.
standing on the beach
as the tsunami of your resentments
overtakes me, leaves me gasping for breath,
but all I breathe in are words that seethe.
i remember, once, you called me a house of cards,
the cruelest thing you ever said
before
but now i am that, as you slam each card
with bitter brown water, swirling it,
pulling it down with years of angry.
there’s no house any more,
just a bunch of lost cards
you are trying to drown.
wait. wait.
listen. feel.
hope and wait.
wonder.
connect.
understand.
travel inside.
share the moon.
unlostness.
confusion.
questions unanswered.
enigma.
now. think.
i don’t.
talk.
to.
me.
silence.
wait. wait.
Talking to the Clouds 