August 2019 S M T W T F S « Jun 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31
Waters surround, swallow sound
refract the light and I
weightless underneath the weight of seas
Lighthouses ashore, assured,
There is an ocean to wade through
though, first, one needs to sense
up and left
downside and right
but the sun is set
while gravity can’t lend itself to
the one situation where it would be of use
That’s physics for you.
Covered in deep
Lost so long as to think those navy ripples
could be sky-clouds
Trying to figure out a shape or figure in them
to pass the time
perchance they’ll assemble themselves
into some sensible meaning
But they’re no product of conscious consequence
Just chance patterns subject to a need
It becomes tiring
fighting the cold and numb
I’d drowse, succumb
but lungs won’t allow it
considering a resumption of their employment
inevitably comes with sleep
That’s the pons, you see.
So, rather than rest and drown
I’ll retain my breath
Someone must love the suspense
Fits hand-in-glove with the tension of
Pulled, quartered, evenly, so, stilled
as the will commits to simple existence Continue reading
A sense of guilt comes
with being unable to follow through with one emotional reflex
quip –roll back
born – beam
offense – steam
decease – grieve
but there knelt on the steps
I propose: it was the bleach
on my tear ducts
as I sliced those steps.
Those steps I sped down
countless times to race to the family room
(a nominal appellation for the place. Like saying, “home”)
Those steps I skipped up
to see how much of a gazelle I could produce out of myself
I think I got to six, once
Six steps skipped, with carpet burns, too
from sledding down the blue-sea slope
that was now pared down to plain wood
I kept slicing at them, the bleach kept punching
at my throat
moreso than the recollection of the view further along
another case of bare stairs to the basement
where the sheet rock held storm
clouds, one-dimensional charcoal blotches
that, thankfully, never fully surrendered
alongside the two-by-four framing
above the mound of liquefied plastic that contained a
I’m not sure which,
but which failed to combust the propane within the once-gray tank
Placed there for a failed purpose
And that image
juxtaposed with what could have been:
Could have been a “home” fire
Could have been I did not need to slice
since the flame would have cut the blots and steps right through
feign to consume whatever – all’s a lollipop, and what better flavor to boil than cherry-red,
fitting of a way for something to be rendered away:
the way it insisted on being: boiling
Not a stain or step left.
Yet the intent was not to save the toil of tidying up
just to all-else destruct with self-destruct.
A clutched crumpled reason was not enough.
Maybe relief should have met me, then.
But Plath did, instead,
and I said to myself
about the extinguishing, impotent:
“You do not do, you do not do,
Any more, black shoe.”
I was never scared of you.
All those spark-inexplicable attempts at explosions
and I am not reduced. Still.
Plume-stained and burned in places,
Just need to slice away your DNA from the steps I walk.
Better, replace the slats, clean slate.
The light fixture, too, with the bullet hole you put it through, like your own chin and skull,
can be new overhead.
Let tints and ways incandesce over their cold fluorescence
Fade like a Doppler noise
an unaccompanied memory buffered by clocks and ticks and tocks
and talk of your insanity,
for which I need not feel guilty; the release for which I need not feel guilty. Continue reading
A Windy Night
A cowered form hugs its head
to protect from impending debris.
Pitch-black, none of it can be seen
only heard and felt as the broken air vibrates and whirrs past eardrums.
Knelt down next to flowers,
which were stirred with a knee,
but couldn’t know it
due to the aforementioned blackness.
And the flowers, with their heads bent down in synchrony, too,
As if their crowns, growing heavy as they do,
tested stems’ tensile strength
to the point of snapping.
So these brightless suns dangled and quick-whipped with the wind
as did the limbs of trees;
although to a lesser degree, their sounds were all the more hectic,
nature’s undulated static;
their unseen leaves sung enough of a picture
for their hearer to be afraid,
again there, in the night,
with no white-scarred sky to emit
and no yellow moon to reflect any light whatsoever.
It was stupidly dark.
Made moreso (stupidly) by the nips and pelts of passersby,
even less aware of whom they were impacting
than the impactee, being formerly inanimate themselves.
And it was stupidly cold,
such that one could not know whether it was a bit of bark-mulch
that the gusts just threw
or if it was Jack Frost, and the unfriendly way he bites, that caused
more stinging on the right thigh.
It was probably both. Continue reading
Hebrews 12:1-2 on my mind today: Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that … Continue reading
~October 2008. Still pertinent. Nichole Sanderson Caught up in cacophonies of conflict and quarreling Ensnared in strongholds of pretension, insubordination, the vogues of my generation and conjoined; I can’t cut the link between who was and who should be, yet … Continue reading
Alright, so I’m finally a published poet! Except I can’t say “finally” since this is the first time I’ve ever attempted to put myself out there. And I can’t use the term “published” in its traditional sense because it’s an … Continue reading
Does life ever throw things at you that leave you asking, “Why in the world do I have to go through this crap?!” Me too! ———————————————–————————– Daniel Song July, November 2011 Nichole Sanderson I glanced down one day to find … Continue reading