Archive Page 2



                            I'm through. My word. Will it go on?
                        Not gone…
                     I'm out. My dream. Will it touch anyone?
                            Not done…
              I'm blank. My kiss. Will it die unknown?
                                Not alone…
       I'm lost. Change? Good or bad, overblown.
           Do tell them, love, what all I've written down
           if but to keep some scrap of me around —
                                       not gone, not done, not alone.


Faintest Ink

                                   "The faintest ink 
                                   is more powerful than 
                                   the strongest memory." 
                                          — Chinese Proverb
My faintest ink will its own memory
indelibly transcribe in absentee
reminders of a dream I'd tried to think
immune to fading. Words I've drowned out sink
in silence smudging visions I'll foresee. 

Not long from now, what's credited to me
will tangle up with indistinct debris
until it's all gone gray. These lips will drink
                                   my faintest ink. 

Yet I'll outlast my feeblest poetry
in fancy only. Words are always free
to take on new lives, whereas past lives shrink
to ghosts' remembrances, a casual blink
what might've come if I'd but chanced to be
                                   my faintest ink. 
                                          [posted for Sara as of date written]

As Winter Came

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"Then the weeds, which were forms of living death,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Fled from the frost to the earth beneath."
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀—Percy Bysshe Shelley
As winter came calling, we were caught
still too far south, missing out on any shot
making it back home icy roads. Immune
to magic, cold hard facts of time laid ruin
to any step we'd dreamed past where we got.
Like stubborn weeds, we should've known to squat
beneath the malice pelting us like hail's onslaught.
All hope at survival was to've died as soon
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀as winter came. 

Summer so quickly forgets the love it brought
to life.  Shadows stretch out.  What's not
living off its death, under the weight of a moon
overloaded with frost, sank in its tomb
abandoned, faded to an afterthought
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀as winter came. 
                                                                   [posted for Sara as of date written]

Impossibly Simple

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"Things should be made as simple as possible 
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀- no simpler." —Albert Einstein
To them, it's impossible making it through what I went through
coming out the other side in one piece, my alter ego's déjà vu
inverted through a seizure's wormhole there and back, that sim-
ple, that uncomplicated by relative motion, by random whim.
To them, what happened's too straightforward for it to be true.
One need not be an Einstein.  What one seizure bypasses, two
back to back can't miss.  Had I not first found someone who
knew me by heart… I've tried to make simple what I had with him
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀to them.  It's impossible.

I'm told they almost lost me back then.  I turned midnight blue,
as dark as the empty sky into which my forgotten dreams flew
to find home.  Nothing all that unusual.  Just a different dim-
ension together with a separate vector of time, one synonym 
of many to this standard reality.  I can make sense of it to you.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀To them it's impossible.
                                                                                  [posted for Sara as of date written]

Impossibly Fun

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"It's kind of fun to do the impossible."
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀— Walt Disney
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"Sometimes I've believed as many as six 
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀impossible things before breakfast."
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀— Lewis Carroll
To them, it's impossible what I did back then, writing over three hun-
dred poems one month, then hundreds more before my head went "Done."
Yet there it all lay in black and white.  I wrote poetry wildly as though
I knew I had so little time left.  Faster than one could humanly go
and inconceivably far, I dove headfirst into creation's blazing sun.

You were there.  You used to come in from work and catch me run-
ning breakneck pace.  You heard my unspeakable word like no one
else could.  What you see and know to be me, I could never show
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀to them. It's impossible. 

Intolerant of any truth they can't possess and control, they shun
miracle before its rhyme and meter and metaphor's barely begun
to birth itself, settling for what they think to be the status quo
only to damn their dreams to wander somewhat farther below.
They will never find the cold hard fact of living and dying to be fun. 
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀To them it's impossible.
                                                                                       [posted for Sara as of date written]

Ruled Out

             When it's my time to be leaving,
                   don't take my ticket away.
             That won't make me any more yours
             nor would it spare me your grieving,
             let me be leaving when it comes my day.
             I've been good careful to all my telling
                   so not a word of it do I need taking back,
             not even that one done for someone else
             since who it was aimed at's done compelling
             whatever my words could've lent that attack.
             I won't be needing no bedside confessor
                   trying to make me sorry to go
             not first seeing to what's not ruled out,
             picking at my words like a second-guesser
             with his ideas over all mine as though.
             Don't hold me back from the edge of the scissors,
                   not if you know me all too well
             like you say you do, like you do say.
             Give my best to all my well-wishers
             and leave me no marker where I fell.


             Here, this would've made a timely poem
             for yesterday. Hold on to it
             to read back to me tomorrow
             when I'll've forgotten it all again
             and can't think of the names for things
             and you. Let it come. Let it come.
             Here then, this poem will be for yesterday
             when I was taken back to the Saturday
             downtown farmer's market. So familiar
             it all used to be, according to my notes.
             The melons and eggplant and piles of beans
             and squash and brussel sprouts and fall peas.
             All the scents I should know by their names,
             the oils and the herbs and the spices.
             Faces that smile to see me back doing so well.
             I came home with onions and green tomatoes
             and cucumbers and tarragon and sweet cicely.
             Here then, let this poem be yesterday's
             when I bought vinegar and sea salt
             and spent the afternoon pickling.
             Preserving. For future consumption.
             Here then, this poem can be pickled,
             what was freshly picked yesterday
             salted away for tomorrow. Let it come.
             Here, yesterday. I sit staring at these jars.
             I won't remember them after the next time.
             I won't know their names. I'll know the words
             but won't make the connections to tastes.
             I sit and stare. I scratch a few words down
             trying to make a label. Sweet pickled onions.
             I stare more. Here, this is for yesterday
             or today, when fresh, when preserved.
             I look up today's date and add it to my label.
             Sunday. September 9. I add the year: 2012.
             I sit and wait for more words. These mean nothing.
             They will not bring back yesterday to me,
             not after I've let it come again. Let it come.
             Backwater. This stretch of water is for then.
             Let it come. Let it come. Let it come.
             Am I next in line on your god's hit list?
             You belong to him. He can't reach me.
             So like the others picked off one by one,
             will he send me away to lull you to sleep
             and get you to forget? Let it come.
             After everything has been long forgotten
             and after everyone his lies free and clear
             and after even your god's kiss has gone cold,
             here, this poem will be for the yesterday
             we'll've reached. Like the others, let it come.
             Come open this jar of sweet pickled onions
             and taste what's preserved in vinegar and salt
             and know what my simple label can't say,
             what I'll lose when your god sends me away
             and you'll say so, will say let it come.
             Don't take it so seriously. Here, it's a poem.
             It's not like I'm asking to to sacrifice
             who you are. It's just sweet pickled onions,
             just backwater, nothing but yesterday's poem.

formal attire

short of breath

  • @magewing always and unfailing love thank you ○ 5 years ago
  • Cyn & Denise perfect love ferocious & open thank you ○ 5 years ago
  • @poetalias thank you ○ 5 years ago
  • all of it in good hands, as will be my child - thank you ○ 5 years ago
  • all of it now handed over so I can conserve remaining strength for my final creation ○ 5 years ago
  • how is it i remember what the word 'intrinsic' means, yet i can't figure out which beliefs are intrinsic to me vs having been read to me? ○ 5 years ago