Daily Archives: June 7, 2018

Nothing Pretty

I really don’t have
anything pretty
to say. This
is a problem.

I’m supposed to drag
the good words out
almost on demand, 
certainly at my own command.

I don’t put much stock
in the idea of a Muse.
I don’t channel
anything, am no conduit.

Still, right now
the moments that get me in gear
to pull a stunner out
are just not happening.

I will not blame
anything or anyone for this.
I will not blame the President
or dark weather.

Instead, I will melt down
the rough lead I’ve been pouring
into molds for bullets and sinkers
and make from it instead

a dull gray god. An idol
for a religion of beauty
I used to follow, but cannot
put current faith in. 

Once cast I will set it up
and pray to it. I’ll ask it
to make my hand strong
and show me how to forge ahead.

I will wrestle up a vision
unlike past visions. It will not
be beautiful, but it will be 
true. I do not care what Emily said:

they are not always the same
but it’s possible
that they know each other
and that they talk;

I hope they do and when they do,
I hope they discover
that they both know
my name.


Green And Gold And Good And Spring

Originally posted 4-17-2018.  Revised.

It’s a good
spring day here —

good birds, good buds,
good sight of people on foot,
lightly dressed and smiling
as they see the good golden sun.

Hard to believe 
that it’s also spring in places
where the songs
come from ambulances,
the people 
are heavily dressed in blood,
and the sun is somewhere behind
the smoke from a bomb. 

My sky negates what their air whispers:

this could happen
anywhere
and everywhere 
soon.

My response?
I go outside 
and plant a seed.

 


For The Sound

Originally posted 4/25/17.  Revised.
 
You think of this work I do
(when you think of it at all)
as the opening 
of petals, or of veins,

no matter how many times
I tell you otherwise,
no matter that you know
how many years I’ve been at it.

If it were the opening of petals, 
I’d have long ago turned to fruit,
fallen to the ground, 
rooted as seed, regrown.

If it were the opening of veins?
How red would your hands be
every time you touched
one of my poems? Would you feel guilt

waiting to read
the next one?
Would you wash
your hands first?

This isn’t as easy
as simply blooming or bleeding.
It is indeed an opening
but one more like cracking a safe

or picking a lock
and then pulling 
a door
until it swings wide. 
Inside, maybe,
will be flowers, maybe 
buckets of brimful red.

You can have those.
I live for the cracking, the picking;
for the sound — my God, for the sound —
of those moving doors.