mirror-moon and barely broken
downward dog and faintly spoken
i am hollow
i am raw
i am forgotten
i am refusal and predication
spitting out bitters
and smiling at wind-loose shutters
this is age and
this is mo(u)rning
and the narcissistic
narcissus
will never reveal
the long-etched key
to revival
.
.
.
there’s an oak tree
in the brush line
by the driveway
with a branch
that’s been hanging
since the ice storm
of 1991
i remember my sadness
at the damage of trees
i remember being young
and appalled
at life’s cruelty
i remember how
the basement flooded and
the lack of electricity
i remember that my parents
came to stay
it’s been 26 years
and that branch
is still hanging
and i wish i remembered
how to cling with tenacity
to a tree still growing
through bad storm
.
.
.
they said youth was the currency
and beauty the price
but we knew better
on the streets
of anarchy
where blossom
was never
as fragile
as ego
and thorn
was the tally
of vice
.
.
.
prom dress pretty
and filled
with fresh hope
the irony
of this tall vase of tulips
primp-sitting
all bare and innocent
amidst kitchen-table clutter
and the convoluted
detritus
of a too-busy week
but these are my days
and no matter how messy
there are always flowers
sometimes fresh
sometimes dying
sometimes too long
past gone
for shame’s sake
always
flowers
always a smile
on a short-sheet friday
and life’s
funny bone
antics
silk purse
sow’s ear
and all that
.
.
.
suddenly
there is all this color
all this light
shining green through
blue glass
and
it seems absurd
to think winter
equals hibernation
but i awaken
and there it is
a new year
that did not exist
yesterday
.
.
.
busy
and the days grab me away
from the paying attention
to that color, that lilt,
that perfect light
one breath
one moment
take it in
notice
this is what matters
this one fleeting second
of pure, silent beauty
remember
.
.
.
and i am still right here
these are the words
that ring through my head
on a hamster-wheel day
when running in place
feels just as exhausting
as covering distance
and all i really
want to do
is fly
.
.
.
spring comes and the birds start singing
and that’s not poetry
it’s truth in a dress
made from hope and hybrid dancing
but we wear it on days
when the swamp
spills over
and
every tiny miracle
understands the word survival
and thrive becomes the promise
of tomorrow
less season
than rebirth
perhaps even
a holy transformation
or simply life
refusing
to go gently
but the birds learned all this
long before Plato
and that
in a word
is
poetry
spring comes and the birds start singing
.
.
.
of your outrage and your joy
your frustration and your ploy
your glad-to-be-alive
or about-to-take-a-dive
the mystery of light
and the hollow of each night
your complaints and your praise
of survival and spent days
the youth that was lost
and the parody of cost
just sing
.
.
.
and are they
one and
the same?
the questions roar
and the answers
take flight
and the trees just
stand there
growing
.
.
.
