Skip to main content

there was a tree to draw (listening to Rhiannon)

there was a tree to draw and I drew it strangely
there was a sweetness to draw on and I smashed it wrong
there was a wall full of drawers and in every one an old body
there was a zipper to pull and everything went spilling lost

this is the wrong handwriting but it keeps looping
this is the quiet, finally, brushing me with its lashes
this is the fever we dance to with the deep deep beat
these are the eyelids we press with cooling fingers

it doesn’t stop for anything, it keeps me turning
it doesn’t wait for letters from the old back country
it doesn’t run smoothly through the rolling machinery
it doesn’t drink the things I drink, it doesn’t know from ice

how do the hundreds of hours fill with brisk-eyed wanting?
how do the hundreds of pages speak the dusty lines?
how do the hundreds of feet stomp the ageworn wood?
how do the hundreds of aches ever rest? 

------------

* today's Napowrimo prompt: Listen to a favorite piece of music and write. I turned Rhiannon Giddens' There Is No Other on and off while I wrote. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

I don't know what they want

I don’t know what they want so I offer cookies and lemonade I don’t know what they need so I proffer sleeping bags, toothbrushes I don’t know who they are so we start introductions I don’t know where they came from so we start drawing maps I don’t know what might be useful so I start pulling things out camera bags, wooden trains, tiny Lederhosen, broken easels I don’t know what might be dangerous so I pack things away sharp tables, Ethiopian daggers, rat poison, bleach I don’t know when they’ll be back so I wait I don’t know when they’ll be back so I wonder I don’t know when they’ll be back so I start vaguely doodling I don’t know if they’ll be back so I pack up to go I don’t know why it matters but some things make me mad so I try to remember: one foot, one day I don’t know why it matters but some things make me sad so I look for the music, I wait for the sunshine Oh I am the desert and those thoughts are like tumbleweeds I am the sky and the
Post a Comment
Read more

this is my quiet peace

the poems are tucked with the bicycle helmets the dishes are stacked in the fireplace the children are on the shelf with the cookbooks this is my house this is my dance this is my quiet peace overflowing yesterdays, question mark tomorrows empty hands marked with ghostly grime of course I drop the books. of course I catch the ball it doesn’t matter it doesn’t echo we have all the time the tiny little squares we stand on the giant poems bursting overhead the doubtful systems that we use it dreams just like us this is the stolen night it doesn’t matter today I swam in a paint-dry ocean today I waited as fast as I could today I kissed the unlovable world it didn’t matter it didn’t echo it is almost time
Post a Comment
Read more

Small pleasures (landays)

There comes a time when the well rings dry When the mothers and fathers live in empty houses When the day turns an unseen color When the letters we send shred themselves to confetti There comes a day when the trees grow tired A time when my bones walk slower than my memory When the signs don’t know how to read me When the comfort I get comes from counting surely down There comes an hour when we just stop short When the world streams by in all its hot cacophony There comes a moment when all is well The pebbles are smooth, the babies are rolling fatly When the roar of the unthought, undone Lets through ribbons of song from the basements and attics
Post a Comment
Read more