There is
an unbearable existence
in words
an incomprehensible
torturous, elusive
poem
in existence
the poem
of anyone
the existence
of anyone.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Estrangement
January
wind, a feral motion
twisting in and
out between the days;
the days, suddenly
strange to themselves,
estrange themselves.
They turn
inward,
long fingers curling,
pale, digging into
their collars
and scarves,
to seek a warmth
not there.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Miserere
Oh God,
these pathless thoughts
and fruitless dreams encompass me;
be Thou the hope I cannot see.
Oh God,
my twisting lips
and hateful tongue destroy;
somehow, be Thou the word of joy.
Oh God,
my graceless steps
have murdered and entangled all my ways;
be Thou to Thine own Self the voice of praise.
My God, my God,
my soul stripped bare,
I lie unveiled to Thee.
My hope, my joy, my praise,
my prayer: be merciful to me.
Dry Oak Tree
dry oak tree
unlaminated
glistening
curls
a doorway of hesitant circles
low moan followed
clutching spasm
after slowly instantaneous
shattering of limb
her lying still
her turned words
and the darkness
like a sound of horses
growing rising bursting forth
descending out
from limbs and trunk and wind
a rush of wings
threshing of breath
harvest of caught eyes
outcry of blindness
fingers skittering across the stones
braided so deep into
the twist of height
becoming nothing
an arrow
splintering outward
from her break of bended bow
my bleeding temple
streaked across her spattered leaves
stirring against concrete
a new autumnal sound
as I go on
uplifting my destroyed wrist
and clear eyes
In Twirling Arcs of Soundless Light
There are spirits
like white foxes on the lawn,
passing through shadows and
becoming birds
who fall
in twirling arcs of
soundless light,
to land
as plastic bags
pierced through by headlights,
fallen angels or
the guardian stars
of wheel wells.
Withdrawn behind the silhouettes
of oaks and aspens
the moon remains
a coward:
setting--hiding--
waiting
for the light to go away.
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