if you could find
a nail from the cross
what color would it be
stained red and
glistening yet
after all these years
or just a pile of rust
(still the right color)
but destroyed by the
slow burn of oxygen
and time
floating and leaving no trace
if you could find
a nail from the cross
what color would it be
stained red and
glistening yet
after all these years
or just a pile of rust
(still the right color)
but destroyed by the
slow burn of oxygen
and time
Here it is, the last post I am adding to the November Open Mic. It is my own piece. I realized that I couldn’t close the month without contributing something. My wife even told me that would be “bad form.”
I thank you all for listening, and for checking out the November Open Mic page for all the other great contributions.
Tomorrow is the first day of December. Start thinking about what you want to post this last month of a very long, very turbulent year. How many artists did we lose, how much hope, how much starlight gave way to the pitch of night?
Just remember, we’re all stars. We all shine. We can fill the night sky with fire.
Crow
long enough (words)
just below the ribs
that’s where i feel you
like a hand inserted
under the bones
fingers warm-soaked
cradling my heart
i feel every whorl
of your fingerprints
every crease of every
line in your palm
leaves a mark
and i beat
sit still long enough and hear
the universe howl in your ears
bees dog-piling on an intruder
the rim of a wine glass
flicked by a broken acrylic fingernail
the silence in the house
when everyone is gone but you
sit still long enough and feel
the universe press in on you
the falsity of gravity
a grey boundary between
your ass and the chair
your skin expanding at light speed
while the universe expands a little bit slower
sit still long enough and regrow
your amputated limbs
stop hitting yourself
taste blood as it drips from sinuses
into your throat
stop hitting yourself
drool as you teethe with a low-grade fever
sit still long enough and you won’t have to wait
for last rites
for burial
for cremation
for eulogies
stop hitting
for silence
——
revised: 20161130
the heart of the stone
makes no noise
when it beats
the heart of the stone
does not bleed
when injured
the heart of the stone
splits in the cold
cracks unseen
the heart of the stone
is the heart
trapped in my chest
the rain overflows the gutter
a waterfall cascading
to the flowerbed
by the cold fireplace
i hear drops pelting
the chimney
wonder why a flood of soot
and nests and bones
doesn’t wash down
a cartoon tsunami
but the chair is warm
and there is peace
in the rain
a sleep-inducing rhythm
a gentle melancholy
that closes your eyes
but promises to open them
black night dog walks toward me
sees my dog and stops
turns, and walks the other way
send your
tendrils
into me
flower
seeking water
i will quench
your thirst
become
your medium
flow out of
your brush
a brighter pigment
than grass’s verdure
or indigo sky
So, before the day gets away from me completely and I slip into a carb/gravy/pie induced state of torpor, I just wanted to say, thank you.
I’m pretty technologically oriented. I’ve worked with computers in one way or another since I had the original Commodore Vic 20. If you had one when they came out, then you’re old like me. I wrote my first computer program by copying it out of a magazine, typing it into a BASIC compiler, and saving it to a cassette tape. Magazines, BASIC, cassettes… how Fred Flintstone can you get? Anyway, you’re probably a little better at figuring out smart phones than your parents are, too. And while I enjoy the gadgets, the internet, and all it has to offer, I can honestly say that this is first time that I have found a community online that I feel I belong to.
I’m not sure what drives traffic to my site. I know that a year ago, I first began to see real growth in the number of visitors I’ve had. I won’t lie and say those lives and views in the dashboard are unimportant to me. They matter because it means I’ve connected.
So thank you. Thank you for connecting with me. Thank you for reading, for commenting, for liking, for coming back.
I may be back with a poem of my own later, but to tide you over, here’s one that showed up in my inbox from poets.org this morning. I’m just providing the link, but it’s worth your time.
See you after nap time.
i am thankful
for the knife
that is made
of kind words
that cuts
without opening
the skin
that pares the fat
of my soul
(if i have one)
that makes a hollow
around my heart
(if it still beats)
i fold my hands
in gratitude
that i only bleed
on the inside
i lower my eyes
in humble appreciation
of the merciful cut