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

Comments

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...

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

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...

All is burnt. We rebuild.

Search This Blog