Tag: free verse

Serene

The word sounds like cutting 

across skin or a melon.

I hear red and sense violins 

like in a Hitchcock movie. 

.

A woman passed me today 

whispering “serenity…” 

and I answered, “insanity”

but there was no rim shot.

.

There are plagues that haunted

this long fucking day, small rages 

from stuffy old men to rabid dogs 

to line cutters in traffic. 

.

I wonder if I’ll dream of twins 

and a glass of water, as if 

in the form of a hawk 

redemption could be activated.

.

My socks didn’t fit today 

and I opened up like a fool

but mostly the world is rolling along 

regardless if I’m in it or want to cry.

.

I don’t want to be mindful 

about my pizza slice or my breath;

I want to gobble up the scenery 

and laugh until I pass out, dreaming flight. 

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A window

Glass is made so well now,

it’s hard to see if the tree is inside or out.

Watching the limbs sway, I can almost feel

the breeze as it pushes autumn forward.

.

Today I read a mid-century poet 

happily blinded by the face of his America, 

his city streets. I imagine his billboards  

tame with pinched and pearled women. 

.

I can’t claim a time as mine and

my poetry has little form, except secretly.

My sadness is from another era 

and my hope is eternal and stubborn. 

.

I love to watch fog through my window

as it caresses rolling hills, crawling streams. 

When I look at people, I see fog 

in expressions, wishing for quiet trees. 

.

It’s hard to tell if history or imagining

rules me. I keep looking back but sometimes 

it’s not a place I’ve been but it informs me

just as where I think I’m going tomorrow. 

.

I park near a hole in chain link most days,

the tear framing a mess of alleys and spires

in a little cluttered town with a history 

of floods and teachers and a smidge of art.

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Cultivator

There are things happening

around me like confused winds

marking their path

along my spine 

.

long jumping demons 

finding lots of places 

to grab hold

but they can’t quite get in

-and neither can anything else 

as I hold my breath 

for months 

waiting for a space to exhale 

.

I am at times surprised 

by my own detachment 

and bemused by the speed 

most people want to travel

.

long distances without leaving 

my chair is my speciality

yet I keep dreaming 

of lights, the forest, and knowing 

without a map

I am exactly where I should be 

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On our way to dust

It’s dark and getting darker. 

I’m tumbling through one self-soothing 

measure after another. 

The body requires more than I have 

energy for – the maintenance is ridiculous 

with the hair and teeth and cooking

and running through old events like

they just happened and imagining 

things that will never be. 

.

The days see numbers and cheese,

sun and soap, withering and humming. 

I don’t quite know the song,

but I think it’s three different tunes 

I seem to interchange, like fall leaves 

when they’re all brown and crackly – 

it doesn’t matter 

if they were oak or elm or maple;

they’re on their way to dust. 

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