Skip to main content

My own lone self (ghazal)

I wanted a minute’s breath to quiet my hectic own self
I wanted the voices held away from my frenzy-prone self

I thought, let me close my eyes and hold my face in my hands
Just like that I was in a world apart with my unknown self

It was meant to be only a moment, to still my jangled thoughts
But I stayed there, unhooked, unplugged, with my dreamzone self

I’m a little girl. I’m a gawky teen. I’m a weird aging woman
I’m a dancing fool sitting stone still alone with my own grown self

Just me and the quiet. Just me held safe in my own cool hands
A circle of peace around this jangly shaky-bone self

The magic is usually deep in the snaking threads that keep us webbed
Tonight I cut them all to spend time with my sole lone self

I’m a silent rebellion, a party of one, my face in my strong cool hands
A prayer of my own in this alien world, hauling home my far-flown self
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

even better

even better than the writing is the not writing even better than the rooms are the hallways even better than the fingers are the missing rings even better than the cookies are the empty greasy spots on the baking sheet how will I know, she wondered, and her backache said, just start but where should I start, she said, and her sore feet said, right here and when do I stop, she asked but there wasn’t a good answer even harder than the aches are the wants even harder than the fists are the open hands even harder than the waiting is the being even harder than the trees are the countless, nameless, hopeful flowers I walked over a bridge, she said I opened a letter, and I learned something new I closed a book, and I missed so much I sat on a bench, and I laughed even older than the sense is the nonsense even older than the aches are the hollow rooms even older than this poem is the waiting even older than the end is the constantly shif...
1 comment
Read more

Last day (san san)

If this turns out to be the last day we can speak will we feel foolish for the unsaid words? the baby bucks head-butting in the yard will go on play- ing, trampling our unsaid words. The world might creak to an end on this last day. Frightened away, maybe the baby words will find each other in the yard, nest under the hooves of the wannabe bucks, on this last day we could have spoken. The silent bucks will come to rest. (This poetic form is called san san, which apparently means “three three” in Chinese. It rhymes as you see (a-b-c-a-b-d-c-d), and also repeats, three times, each of three terms or images; in this case, last day, (unsaid/baby) words, (baby/wannabe/silent) bucks)
Post a Comment
Read more

Alakazam

All of a sudden the bakery All of a mouth the creature All over hot the driveway All out of pocket the pickers All over town the regret All of a piece the rumble Alakazam, the belly All over now, the shouting All of us masked, this peacetime All over shy, this spring All of the worst, over now? Always already the bakery
Post a Comment
Read more