What you need, he said,
is another trip to the edge
and beyond.
And I thought he was joking.
EASE OF MOTION
This fantasy that has deluded many,
that you could open the door and walk
into another place,
just like that.
AMONG THE BULRUSHES
It must have happened all the time, a woman
giving a child to the river. But the misery, to think
that chance could better care for it—the conditions of famine,
slavery and such—and the fantasy, that the child, rescued,
would come to recognize itself
at the last moment, and free the tribe
from its wretchedness. It must have been that commonplace
to become their story.
A MESSAGE TO THE GODS IN
THE BLOOD OF SACRIFICE
“See, we have horses.
Life is good.”
A SIMILE
That red red rose is like my love:
thorns below and thorns above.
ADAM AND EVE
It's the snake, they think,
that renders tolerable
this insipid garden.
SIREN
Moving her legs slowly against the water,
folding it.
In gelid light
small tufts
on either side.
SURVIVAL
Shock of the ocotillo's red spear
against the creosote's green and the yellow flowers
of brittlebush. Birds
melodically proclaim
there's a stranger here, while insects,
wild with delight,
bid me welcome as a source of liquid.
And the bees
suck at the mud where the stream
had overflowed its banks.
THE KING
Oedipus the Riddle Solver becomes the answer
to the plague's question:
“What sleeps with his mother
and murders his father?
EXILE
The pace of change being what it is
the homeland you dreamed of
is no longer there.
Like Troy
to the Trojans, no stone
left as a marker.
FOCUS
Whose greatest worry was to paint the petal
just so.
A decent restraint,
when the moon seems the largest thing.
HIS WILL
Stunned into numbness,
numbed
into silence.
Who could have imagined
any of it?
A SIMILE
Tastes like rabbit, the fox thinks,
slinking from the hen-house.
HORSE SENSE
There's many a slip
twixt the clop and the clip.
We call it luck
to die by increments.
A STORY
Dressed for the bridal bed
her shawl became the sky, her gown
the sea.
I imagined a broken glass thing
inside me.
My grandmother had a clock
built of mirrors in the form
of a palace. In my first
memory it was broken
and dangerous.
Lovely, the way it glinted.
This was the broken thing
I had imagined.
AND SO
You may go on to other things
now that you understand the mysteries.
The daily miracle and the daily curse.
Something about the dance
or stagger
of anxiety.
1 comment:
here... I corrected the spelling (a bit) from the letter that I sent you: here, minus the art. Maybe Mark Weiss
would appreciate seeing the?):
"your Mark Weiss’ post of poems ‘touched’ my Me….
entirely. Especially his
Adam & Eve & (his) Focus.
and then the note that follows…. ‘hits the nail precisely on it s head':
"and a third thing happens. Sometimes a series of short poems create their own world,”
when I get into a certain “place” in my Brush Mind”
(as he does in that Adam and Eve piece)
I
every single time that
when I get “suck” with nothing to (further) say or draw, I put in a snake…
as in these:
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