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Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

 

 

 

once even the sea

wasn’t big enough for you—

now even a puddle will do

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Of course it was awful, what he did, chopping

up his son to serve him in a stew to the gods,

confused somehow about sacrifice.

 

After that, the gods never let Tantalus be nourished again.

He was forever made to stand in a pool of water

beneath a fruit tree, its branches low hanging.

 

And whenever her reached to eat the fruit, sweet and ripe,

the branches would rise. And whenever he tried to drink,

the clear water would recede.

 

There are many kinds of prisons. Some

have iron bars, cement walls. Some deprive

you of your senses. But the gods knew some look like paradise.

 

Haven’t we all been confused before?

Haven’t we all made misguided sacrifice?

I’m not trying to defend Tantalus. I’m just saying

 

we all understand hunger. And no matter how many times

the branch is taken away, it is survival to want the fruit,

to reach, to reach again.

 

to see the image, click here

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(somehow leaving out the trip to Urgent Care, the lost bicycle wheel, the dead car battery, the mangled sun shade, the flood … )

 

 

turned into an orange kite

the tent tangles in pinyon—

hello Motel 6

 

*

 

riding the single track

so easy to be nothing but

riding the single track

 

*

 

letting the crickets

choose a key, harmonizing

a lullaby to myself

 

*

 

that squawking bird

with its one note song—

still, it sings, it sings

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Time Bend

 

 

 

Stepping into my children’s room

it is nine years ago and I almost trip over

the rocking chair that isn’t there,

can almost smell the calendula cream

I used for their bottoms, hear

the drone of the humidifier.

How different those quiet nights,

the amber glow of the night light,

the way their new bodies curled

so easily into the curve of my arm.

Not that I want to go back to those nights,

but how sweet they are now, how long

they were then. I want to tell that younger

version of myself that there will come

a day when she will wish she could

sit in the quiet and hold her children

through the night. But she wouldn’t believe me.

Too tired for belief. She just keeps

humming that lullaby, rocking back

and forth, her eyes closed as if to dream.

 

 

 

Dear friends, I’ll be camping the next few days, so no poems posted for a while … a bouquet when I return. xo

r

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after pulling thousands of weeds

all I see in the field—

weeds I’ve missed

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And when my dad said,

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,”

he meant, “I love you.”
And when he exclaimed,

“Christ on a bike,”

he meant, “I love you.”

And when he said,
“Turn off the TV,”

he meant, “Turn off the TV.”

And when he said,

“No,” I knew

he meant, “I love you.”

It was, in fact, easy

to translate, though sometimes

I didn’t like the native tongue.

But I felt that love in every word,

the love beyond syntax

love beyond lexicon,

love big enough to hold

us both for a lifetime

and then be passed on.

 

 

 

 

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Ways to Go

 

 

And if it gets colder and colder,

then I want to go out the way

the bean sprouts do—with their leaves,

though darkened, still in the shape of a heart.

 

And if it gets hotter and hotter,

then I want to go out like the ripples

that waver above the pavement

softening the edges of whatever can be seen.

 

And if Thanos really did snap his fingers

and half of all living creatures turned to dust,

I want to go like the Cheshire Cat,

my smile the last part of me to exist.

 

And if it’s a fast death, then

let me come back as a sparrow

so I can visit those I love

and sit on their porches and sing.

 

And if it’s a slow death, and I suppose

that’s what life is, may I talk too much about love.

May I go out saying thank you a thousand times

a day, astonished and gasping with praise.

 

 

 

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Finding the Miracles

How often do I miss miracles dressed in ordinary clothes? That’s the theme of this sonnet published today in Gratefulness.org. Check it out and share it!

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Cotton

 

 

It’s easier, perhaps, to understand the acorn.

A shell. A cap. Something tender inside

with the potential to grow a great oak.

 

But cotton? Harder to understand the tiny seeds

wrapped in white gossamer strands—

tiny parachutes that slip through hands.

 

So few survive, but those that do

live a hundred years and grow faster

than any other American tree.

 

They’re like ideas—weightless. Able

to travel long distances. Mostly disposable,

but then once in a while,

 

one of the 25 million seeds

released by a tree will take root.

I’ve felt it happen inside me—

 

how it starts so small. How quickly

it grows, changes the landscape. How soon

you can’t imagine the world any other way.

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One at the Chasm

 

 

 

just as I decide

I will never be ready

the unstoppable urge to leap

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