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you did step in it
  
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What May 29, 2007 7:01 pm
701 Views
The American Dream

I have served the sprawl of you,
your future forged
by the echoes
of concrete wishes
that traveled first,
usurped by the
immigrant heirs
already here.
I laid it out, all,
shelved the relics
of my father's fear
and spread thin
to greet our gambles
with success.
I was there,
a hidden spare
and surely
your penitence
for survival.
Your crime
lay only in your arrival,
but mine lived
in the thorned daunts
of overgrowth
and egress.
I formed the
sprawl of you.
In the space
where fielded wishes
should have grown like
unwatched trees,
your absence
is built
upon the compromise
of my disgrace.
5 Comments
Muses May 20, 2007 6:08 pm
846 Views
Do you remember
the Siamese space
between us,
how it twined
like a Gemini charm,
and how,
when shadows caught
the illusion
of separation
we were not
alarmed?

Do you remember
the wanderings
through nights
magicked only with air,
our breathless script
carried across
the tandem rush
of wind and tide?

Remember?
how we held,
hand-fast,
faithful
against
any jolt of decline
and our woven pose
stood resistant
against the wreckage
of leaving,
stilled
and ever
siamese wound?
9 Comments
The Green Man May 14, 2007 7:23 pm
801 Views
The green man will not live here anymore.
His grain dissipates into the sodden soil,
His leaves, sun-laced, fray and break
with each turn of the dial.

The forest floor remains, a mulch of weakened chaff
And wood and air and rain blaming down.
It remains in weathered footfalls,
and the burrowed animals
that long for his return.

He has gone at long last, tendrils of his reign
Tremble on, glimpsed only through the wooded gate.
His lust now is planted deep in the moist hollow
of some dim and fertile erstwhile place.
The land raises up no more
Her spectral embrace.

The green man is lifted on by the hands of lore,
He is the song of ancient circles
And the wooded path we take alone.
He is the core of our craven longing.
And though, in the final greening of a day
His branched arms reaching in tired amnesty,
He cannot live here anymore.

**The Green Man is a mythological character symbolizing the earth's fertility. He dwells in the forest, mingled in with everything that is green. I question whether, if the Green Man were real, would he stay here...could he stay here as we slowly punish and destroy the only home he has ever known?**
6 Comments
Brother May 6, 2007 6:51 pm
651 Views
*Brother*

Your garden was
remarkably free from pests.
Everyone said
I ate
the paste
of an artichoke
and that
even then,
the texture
of your teen-aged
hand
forged my taste.

We waited
for our mother
at the kitchen table,
your yield spread
in some graceless feast.
It was then
your legend was granted
and waved on the spoon-end
of an artichoke.

There was no assurance
from year to year
and who knows
which day
the rabbits and deer
overtook the garden.
Whole seasons were spaced
hoarding
against the unspoken,
and the question? -
what of all those extra
vegetables?
Even now
the planting remains,
entangled and seeding.

Later,
you would wrap
yourself in my winter smile,
and in the late-ringing distance,
you spoke in tones
of crackled sun-split corn
and acorn squash
you had left in hardened lumps
of plunder
for the deer.
4 Comments
Night - Muse May 6, 2007 10:29 am
729 Views
Night

A weave of tarnish
dims the sky
and clouds
like dusky smoke
rise
in bruises
that yield the light.

Asphalt shadows
line the hour,
caught in the
neon fist
of the sun's final
gaze.

And as the salt of stars
turns the luckless dust away,
the steadfast
twist of night
takes their glint
before
they reach
the brim of morning.
7 Comments
Left Behind Apr 29, 2007 7:44 pm
810 Views
It is only a migration
at best,
leaving the months
of warmth,
whole days crested
with partnered flair,
gliding through
unwittingly
like a wounded loon will lean
toward the winds off the shore.

There is the moment
before.
And then the moment
flaps away
and in the sudden jerk
of flight
the other, the tagged loon,
the watcher's bird,
is left behind.

The spin of hours
greys through
the greasy slip
of her.
The boulders ponder on
beneath the flightless weight
and, though, head turned
against the wind,
she cannot dive or turn back
or score
the settled rock.

Like so much
emptied carrion,
her soft remains
to sift through wells of air.
No longer faced
against the wind,
her cries storm out
an echoed song:
do not merge
the oceanic tides for me.
Do not try.

Now,
eastward now,
she is breezed,
hanging
in some balanced arc,
and half poised
for her ascent.
10 Comments
A quickened death Apr 27, 2007 8:24 pm
72 Views
As slowly

Is there ever-pain
when the slick
and fast surge
of a knife
halves
the instant
tremor
of death?

Is the labryinth
of time
tightening
it's borders
as the body limpens
before
the last breath
expels?

Or, in the simplicty
of restitution,
(like the lover's
elegant relief
toward isolation),
as the tip
thickens
through sinew
and stone,
is the mind departed
and forgiven
in an instant
severed
and solitary
too soon?
0 Comments
H stands for... Apr 22, 2007 6:24 pm
713 Views
Methadone

I remember you, ashen,
in the corner of that summer day.
Oh, yes, I held sway
over the parliament of landscape
and children greening.
I held sway.
How could you stand?
What welfare held you straight,
your innards stoic
against the folded sky?

I remember you,
funnels of smoke
erasing you
as we barbecued
and croqueted
and dodged
the vapor of your haze.
What power held you in place?
In the soured grip
did you cringe
or laugh away
my innocence?
Did the frantic flushing
echo every hour?

I remember you,
doubled and bent
by blame,
the sun plying down
as you breathed out
in heaving silent flames.
How did you not stay home,
some sickness alibied?
What thick discretion
led you to that day,
flattened
within the sweetness,
bordered
in completely,
and married
to your agony?
7 Comments
The moment before Apr 19, 2007 6:40 pm
901 Views
Bliss is the moment before knowing...
when the first page lays unturned
when the colors are still unrevealed to the gloaming sky
when our death yet forwards us to the future.

Not knowing is the reverie of before,
the steady pinprick that makes time trickle on in swerves of delight and the chasmed brevity of beauty, it allows a golden survival in the sweet hour of despair and leaves room for one breath of deep perfection in the morning air.

Lives are spun in the years that leave us alone, love a mangled fortress standing on against the blind trudge away from the known.

Bliss is the marriage sustained, the stain of staying, the junk of happy innocence. It is the purchase of solitude and the short hour of elation, the tangible presence, the thick tongued sentiment glued with prayer.

In the very moment of before, revelation begins to bind us in some fixed fashion, it's secret haze a flare against our escape. Colors, no longer a ruse in the Autumnal sky,
spread in fathoms,
pages flutter,
death is one step forward,
and our tears
are forever
in the now.
10 Comments
There is a Certain Freedom Apr 18, 2007 9:42 am
807 Views
There is a certain freedom
in grief,
a motion
that flies us on
through shards
swiftened
by the sharp
iridescence
of night.
We seize the clarity
of flight,
eyes yet sensitive
to the vast
undertow
of space.
And still
we soar
against the pushing wind,
as we slant
a final glimpse
down
upon the stream
of solidarity.
6 Comments
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