Skip to main content

Artless Blue Benches

I’m rearranging the sidewalk
With my mind,
In the dawn-like spaces
Of magic hour light.
Behind me is a sea,
In front of me a street,
And if I had to dive into one,
I’m not sure which

Would leave me colder.
Hawks are circling

High above me,
Dipping their wings
And soothing their brilliant bellies
In the wavering daylight
Of the second bright day of spring,
Hours decaying
Like empty shells on the sea bed.
Passersby crash like waves
Against the stretching maple shadows.
I’m afraid to tell them
That they won’t ever die.
No one wants to know
That there is nothing to dread.
Ask them and they’ll lie,
And then you’ll know.
I’m beginning to think
That I’m imagining that tree.
That crow would have me believe
I’m crazy.
But I don’t even see it anymore.
I can’t tell what I’m recognizing,
Something familiar
In the shades of green

Against brown walls
And white wisps of atmosphere,
The leftover gold leaves

Under my boots;
Not just a season or a place,
But something akin
To the elusive lost sense of home.


Rax said…
i love how you nonchalantly coat the depth and raw emotion of this piece with such stark vivid imagery. Masterfully done!

my favorite is the ending:
"Not just a season or a place,
But something akin
To the elusive lost sense of home."

Popular posts from this blog

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.

The Day My Brother Flew

The day my brother flew,
I prayed for the last time;
Asked for his acceptance,
A chance to say goodbye.
Stood inside the chapel,
Whispered through the motions,
Knowing in my chest
I did not believe.
Months gone from that day,
I stood inside a basement,
Staring out the window,
Chainlink in my eyes.
A host of white lights came,
Gathered right beside me,
Waited till I turned,
Slowly sank away.
I never told my folks.
They could not believe it.
I don't know what I saw,
If I’m lying to myself.
The day my brother flew,
I sat down on a stairstep,
Fingers in my hair,
Asking why I breathe.
He lived and enjoyed life.
I don’t even like it.
That was '91;
The answer never came.

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.