i am you
little junco
though the dog did not chase me
though rough hands did not scoop me
from the grass
though i was not cupped protectively
to still my heart and calm my nerves
nor carried to safety
but
when you opened your beak
in rage so profound
you could not make a sound
when it looked as if you wheezed
because you could not articulate
your displeasure
your disgust at requiring rescue
then
little bird
then
i am you
Tag: anger
nursery rhyme (20210413)
i’m a little teapot
short and stout
ain’t got no handle
ain’t got no spout
when i get all steamed up
can’t even shout
gonna blow like a porcelain pottery bomb
the green tea and tea flood demands
pour me out, you sonofabitch,
and don’t forget to wash your hands
you can’t leave fingerprints
if you don’t have fingers
seed/fruit (20161110)
i hold a seed
the size of an almond
in my fist
a dried out husk
covered in thorns
when i squeeze
it pierces my flesh
the soft spot
below my thumb
i bleed
i squeeze harder
feeling the bite
the seed is thirsty
but i won’t be
enough
to satisfy it
though it would
certainly blossom
and bear terrible fruit
crimson drops decorate
the floor
the sizes and shapes
of cherry blossoms
i contemplate
tossing it into the fire
–being done with it
–being free of it
but i worry
i will miss
having something to feed
i will miss
the feedback of that sting
anger (20160601)
i can speak of anger
fluent in hard words
clenched jaw
balled up fist
tight-lipped mouth
that allows no human words
i can speak of anger
sudden blindness
urge to wrap your hands
around a throat
around the neck of a bat
and swing for the cheap seats
but instead
i will whisper to you
of forgiveness
that soft feather
brushing against your cheek
and beg for the same
——
Poem 20160323
the fighter wraps his wrists
each tight wind of cloth
a means to focus his rage
down into the hammers
of his hands
he channels the acid
fermenting in his gut
back up into his mouth
where it turns into venom
swirling around the razors
that are his teeth
and his eyes are flames
heat without smoke
so hot that there
will never be ashes
Poem 20160306
every loss
is a taking away
negative
subtractive
a chunk of you or me
lost to time
or circumstance
or maybe malice
and you feel it, a vacuum
i suppose
in that emptiness
in your stomach
in the surprise asphyxia
of certain moments
in the way your eyes try
to see a missing item
–can you spy the difference
in these two images–
but if a loss is only
a cutting out
a phantom limb aching
below someone else’s knee
why does it weigh
so damned much
Words and Feathers 