the only thing
i have ever seen
from looking inside
is
the insides of my eyelids
Category: Poems
the hollowness of paper (20170907)
the crow pecks at the ground
slim pickings in this heat
he can remember when it wasn’t
too hot for picnickers
and little kids covered in pale sunscreen
half their faces hidden by too-big sunglass
he remembers pulling trash
from the cans at the park
especially after birthday parties
when there was the chance to find
a partial hot dog still in a bun
old dried cake with the frosting licked off
crepe streamers to spread on the grass
maybe some broken doritos
his brothers don’t know
how good they had it
and now drink water from the gutter
and peck among the slivers of
squirrel gnawed pinecones
he remembers a piñata
the sound of wood on hollow papier mâché
the glittering explosion of candy
for a moment he forgets to peck
framing (20170906)
this is a window
but you think
you are outside
i pull you back
until you see
the frame
the sill
the sudden reflection
of light on glass
your own ghost
like pigment transferred to acetate
marbled, colorful, but hardly there
a film’s second exposure
and through that the world
you think you see
with your eyes
pulpectomy (20170905)
the sky is a blue jaw
filled with scattered
broken teeth
no blood
no pain
just exposed and shattered enamel
pearls left to drift
carved out and
carving out
like ivory islands
which is another way
to address the bones of
the sky
look up to keep
from looking
the other birds (20170904)
the metallic squawks
of other birds
rise and scream
ascend descend ascend
and count and count
and count and demand more time
and you’re out
jump free
of your chains
bury yourself in sand
laughing squawking counting
image from late summer (20170903)
the grasshopper on the wall
as long as a dodger dog
leaps at our approach
smacks-face-first-bam
into the wall opposite
falls into the rosemary
promises of moonlight (20170901)
the clouds are maxfield parrish
strata, pulled, ripped
strawberry pink and orange
creamsicle dripping across
a cooling blue expanse
the sun at just the right angle
look back after looking down
and every color has been leeched
to gray
but the color of lead offers
its own comfort
signalling a purple sky
promising half a moon
tides (20170831)
once more i want to stand
upon that beach
remove my shoes though you know
i hate the sand against my skin
but i want to stand at the edge
of the sea
my feet in the wet sand
the water swirling around my ankles
i will stand against
the pull of the water
as sand is drawn out to sea
and i sink feet first
i want to remain there
as moon toys with tide
ground down like sea glass
the ocean and sand polishing me
standing still
sinking into wet sand
until the sea is over my head
and my edges have been smoothed away
Day 30/30 of the Tupelo 30/30 Project (20170830)
My final poem is one stanza of a renga that all the Tupelo 30/30 Project poets participated in. This marks the official end to my participation in the challenge for the month of August.
I had a good time.
I’ve said elsewhere (and to anyone kind enough to listen) that participating in the project was harder than I thought it would be. I’m used to writing every day. I’m not afraid to write a bad poem; I’m pretty sure I’ve written a lot of it. You can’t avoid it if you write every day, and I’ve been doing it for a couple of years no. I can usually manage to peck something out on the keyboard. Some days it comes more easily than others, and this was true for the challenge as well, but overall, the challenge was just plain harder. It seemed that I had to call on different wellsprings of energy or inspiration.
It’s possible that committing to raising money for Tupelo added some kind of pressure to the old wavy matter sitting thick and still in my skull. But, no one stood behind me cracking a whip. It was very much, “We’re just happy with what ever you can contribute.”
And maybe that’s it. The idea of being a contributor. Sitting alone at my computer, I can write something I like, or hate, or think is funny, and hit the publish button. Some of you are kind enough to let me know if you like it or think it is funny; some of you will even call me out for taking the easy way out in a poem. no one has said they’ve hated one of my poems, or that I’ve ruined their life. Yet. And I enjoy being part of the community, interacting in the comments and sometimes in email.
But that still seems to be fundamentally different, that being a contributor. Contributing implies you believe that you have something to offer. Contributing means that others, who are on the receiving end of your beneficence, expect that what you are submitting has value. I don’t usually think of what I do as a valuable thing. It’s just something I do because I need to do it.
So, for all of you who have willingly or otherwise treated me as a contributor, I thank you.
The renga is available to read at the Tupelo 30/30 project page.
Words and Feathers 