in the field behind the house I find a hole
deep enough to hold grief hidden behind unshed tears
I fill it with all the sorrows the world has known
walk back to await dreams in the night
in the morning I dip my hands into the new dirt
bring them muddy to my face
inhale the scent of deep sown happiness
then spread my fingers so that laughter trickles to the ground
body made of dirt and rocks
mouth filled with bones and feathers
heart dug into a hole in the field
mind weighted with rain-filled clouds
such fundamental knowledge
not a stranger
someone whose days I do not know
journeying to another shore
my heart breaks with this knowledge
so should yours though you do not see
her smile filling her eyes
her face mapped by life still being lived
let it touch you nonetheless
this is how we love each other
our hearts fractured by beautiful sadness
our hearts broken open
(for Beryl)
air so heavy with moisture that every breath begs for rain
vain hopes that the sky would empty at least for a time
and walking would be easier without the hot wet drape
clouds could return to above where once they belonged
the crows know something, as they throw their cawing back and forth
doomsayers on chimneys, sentinels on powerlines, guardians in fields
they wait but in anticipation of storm break? a murder, a murder, a murder
to get to the door I had to move
a box a chair a screen
and then the door was open
I stepped outside but could not leave
the door remained
to enter again would have to be opened
so I found and placed in front
a chair a box a screen
relieved that I would know how to reenter
I set out upon my walk
doors can be so problematic
push books behind shelves or remove them altogether
their very existence threatens something you cannot define
reading itself a subversive act taking the reader unmonitored
into a private interior realm where anything could happen
better not to let people read but to let them be read to
for better control and shape of ordinary minds
kill all the writers who will not give in
shutter the libraries bookshops and schools
think that in a few generations people forget
beware
words will appear in the dead of night
scrawled on walls and down streets
written on stones left in doorways
scribbled on leaves to drift in the wind
people will read them
someone will always remember how
you will not win
we lucky ones never fought in war
but we all love some who have
war that people argue over
tell stories about or refuse to discuss at all
war that took them away and sent them back
kept part of them in some far away place
war that made strangers of their hearts
sent their eyes into a distant gaze
war that continues to wreck them
wrecks us all as we try and fail
knowing this we decide again and again
that we will fight wars and
fighters will come home or not
in the end none escape
we cannot seem to learn
I was young once never young enough
to call myself a flower
dance barefoot in the grass
my lover wove garlands of clover
tossed them at my head
I threw them back at her laughed
within a year she was dead
I imagined I would follow
yet now here I am
picking clover on the hillside
missing her still
she swept her words into a heap
left them there on the living room floor
trudged up the hill to live alone with her silence
no one would notice them anyhow
they’d slam into the house like always
not even bother to wipe their dirty boots
demand their hot supper and cold tea
she wouldn’t be there to care
no more caring for these ungrateful men
they didn’t care to hear anything from her mouth
good bad or just plain tired didn’t matter they never listened
she’d fetch cook do only for herself now
spin all the tales she could laugh within her head
but to all who knocked on her door relative or not
she’d give them nothing but a wordless stony stare
point them down the rise with one sharp finger
and as they left her porch
shut the door hard enough to be heard down the hill
he said nothing when he walked out
there was nothing to say
years added themselves up
they spoke the reasons
doors worn by being gently closed
held shut by the immense swell of anger
walls battered beneath glossy paint
hiding scrapes from hurled accusations and objects thrown
a roof patched too many times
sagging beneath the growing weight of unmet expectations
his shoulders straight, his head erect
he heard the shrill calls of their endless needs
he left everything there but himself
he did not look back