Skip to main content

Blue Street

I only want enough quiet to read by
Silence that I can see in
Pale light washes all the color
From my skin like paper ash
Grey blood through my charcoal heart

Hostile buildings spit lamp luster
My eyes stinging I rise and pace the decks
My knees debate the insistence of gravity
As my spine longs to press cold metal
A shadow squawks over the black water below

Shadows drag men to the edge of decency
If my mind could push them into the bay
To put an end to the vulgar uproar
My scruples would be tested
Windows shine like apprentice stars
And surrounding stars applaud

Make it enough

In the morning I walk the blue street
Tile chips fleck the black top
Like splinters of fractured day in night
People make sounds as they pass me invisible
Their implications lost on me

The others hear the sounds and know their meaning
They smile because they like knowing it
Or they laugh or just look on and care
A white-haired man bends over the sidewalk
Pushing leaves toward the street

Sun pours through a frosted glass canopy
The pavement is soft as warm butter
And the old man glows like disembodied joy
Wisdom stems from his pores
Breaks through the seems of his doorman's jacket
Sprouting in the filtered light like fountain grass

Make it enough

A side street carries me on its bending back
Archaic craft sit in patient abandonment
Waiting dutifully by narrow staircases
Winding curves twist from me any sense of place
Of where I am going or where I might land

Slanting walls stamp out the distances
I rise and fall with the assertion of the street
I am lazy and unashamed
I want nothing asked of me
I ask everything to happen to me

To be proud is to miss the point
When I give there is no charity in it
My passions are unforgiving of doubt
The wind blows and I remember gentleness
Trees stand up and tell me to reach
Children sing and I believe in the connection

Make it enough

I'm talking to no one but myself.


Bohemian Girl said…
the images on your site are mysterious and alluring.

if you are the photographer...well done.
Shaz said…
amazing words and expressive feelings. I so enjoyed reading, and as boho said your pictures gorgeous.
Il Be Back.
blackbank said…
The opening lines are amongst the best I've ever read. BB
Brian said…
Quiet in the streets; quiet in the mind.

Very moving and flowing poem, thank you for sharing.

I liked the last lane, that speaks to me the most.
Clockworkchris said…
The first stanza and repeating line spoke to me the most, until the last line. But it did seem all along that perhaps you were talking to yourself. Brilliant piece. Look forward to reading more.
twilightspider said…
Hauntingly honest. I love this sentiment:

"I want nothing asked of me
I ask everything to happen to me"

That feels like the heart of your observing narrator - being there, seeing, talking to yourself.
chiefbiscuit said…
Thanks for dropping by my blog. Our son is in Japan (Kyoto) teaching English. This is his third year - he arrives home in NZ today! for Christmas ... haven't seen him for a year so it's very exciting for us to have him here with us again.

Your poetry is nicely done - very much a 'deep imagist' style. Great last line, and I like its meandering style.
Rethabile said…
A concentration of images. Pleasant walk down your street.

Popular posts from this blog

When I See It

I don’t believe in time.
There's much more world left;
So much more to learn,
And I don’t believe in time.
I believe in shadow birds flying
Through the green of mown grass
Under the squint-bright sun;
An ocean dappled with clouds
And the white sails of small boats
Crossing my shoulder;
A thousand dynamic blooms
That I can’t name, speaking
With voices of children
And laughing as they pass;
The reassuring chatter
Of great wooden beasts
That sermonize patience
And continuity.
But I don’t believe in time
Or the limits it implies.
I don’t believe in the failure
Of the manifest soul.
I don’t believe death will result
From the cessation of habits
That feed my blood,
Because I won't believe
In a future nothingness
That I can’t see from here.

Dawn in an Hour

Dawn is in an hour;
in a night.
A light on the long street
on the grey river,
on a long walk of broken clays.
It takes only a streetlight
to bare the sighs,
the yawn of dark alleys,
of quiet honesty;
the great peace
of telling without cause,
without want.
The arm stretches
and guides the body;
the body doubles its warmth.
Laughter snaps
against brick and glass,
and the eyes combine;
heart combines with heart.
And dawn is in the hour,
in the night.


I think, sometimes,
that I can do anything,
but that can change on the way
to the elevator.

I prepare for outside.
Rain makes it easier,
bends my eye to the ground,
to the architecture;
turns everything to gold.
The new gravity holds me,
turns the voices into hums,
the walkers into clouds.

But outside my door,
there are voices already,
breaking through planks of wood
that should mean security,
and I’m in their path;
every word an arrow
tipped with poison.

They’re only voices.
They are not harsh;
they do not threaten.
They’re not aimed at me
at all. Yet I suspect,
hidden from me,
there are faces attached.