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The Photograph ( #4 PouncePunk25)
the fire sped through with efficient speed
taking everything in its hot maw
leaving the only fallen bricks of the wall
and this on the ashy floor beneath a dirty boot print
a black and white photograph, torn at one edge
taken of the house just after it was built
empty yet of anything but anticipation for years ahead
constructed by a frame of dreams and hopes
those laid waste and now in charred ruin
though the scent of burnt memories still hung in the air
as I picked it up, I silently asked it
did you know somehow what lay ahead
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Frantic (#3 PouncePunk25)
though certain events press us to be frantic
and the marketplace is busy with worry
remember this is always so
and likewise there is always an antidote at hand
let the winter season that rests the field rest your mind
since you must walk with care, pay even closer attention
each step its own journey, a remarkable gift
stop for a moment, let your eyes gaze with new sight
open your ears to hear without immediate judgement
feel how you occupy that particular space
you might find the fence post or street corner
changed because you changed
in such small ways do we transform the world
peace by peace by peace
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Crystalline ( #2 PouncePunk25)
and let the rain fall from the sky
run down my face to hide my tears
these so concentrate with sorrow
they drop to the ground as glistening gems
each one shot through with silken filaments
fissures of experienced compassion
that fractured open my heart’s facade
these rise around me a crystalline mountain
shining to return light wherever it be found
and the flowing streams around this calm
radiance dancing from surface to surface
even the weighted lowering clouds gain relief
their burden thereby transformed
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Fight (Pouncepunk 25)
I was never to his war
bloodied land, rubbled homes, shrieking wounded
but he brought it home to me upon my doorstep
the ugly desperation of those who returned
so haunted by not dying that death trailed them
whispering constantly names of the killed
it’s only the wind I told him again and again
he could not hear me through the endless moan
until one night I learned how heavy a gun can be
when you remove it from a limp hand
how futile comfort offered seemed
against the stark reality of a bullet casing
I never heard the shot
how do I say he lived, when he never left the fight?
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The Dead (Poem)
do not tell me the dead do not change – they do, for I have seen this myself
they morph and writhe just as the living, and just as seldom rest in peace
we hold them tethered here in loving bonds or bitter chains
we do not let them go beyond
those who lay beneath the ground, burn into smoke and ash
have their bones picked clean by birds
but leave behind no one to grieve, they moved in such silent ways
though they might have done inestimable good
these will be the truly free
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Beautiful Poisons (Poem)
but look! there upon the shelves in bottles of iridescent glass
are arrayed the beautiful poisons, there displayed to dazzle the attention
five lustrous containers, their very appearance preoccupies
I remove one to drink my fill, then heady with ignorance I reel and fall
to find myself within the calm eye of the storm hearing the destructive winds turn into laughter
with a snap of my fingers this disappears, and I return the vessel to the shelf
I am neither a dot nor an enclosing line but both and space itself
poisons, like demons, are not to be feared
befriend them, for they are more helpful than gods
remember what treasures they are
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Time In January (Poem)
though I would like to hold time in my hands
cradled to gaze into its prismed fragile depths
I would be shattered by what I would see
the ordinary moments with the power to undo
the icy fragment of morning slicking the pavement
the juddering echoes of the bone white moon
the sharp blink of a crow’s eye destroying across January’s eons
the sudden crack of a gunshot felling one hapless deer
and somewhere else men are falling dead
these passing brief are already too hard to know
I cannot repair with my current meager tools
myself being in constant dissolution and dissolve
unbecoming and mostly not there
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Quandary and Answer (Poem)
as a child, I often considered where to place my grief
if I buried it deep in the ground, I feared what might arise in season
a poisonous plant, a nest of spiders, a revenant with sightless eyes
if I threw it into the sea, I knew it would wash ashore somewhere
a killing algal bloom, a stinging jelly, a jagged sharp of broken glass
if I sent it upward into the sky, I thought of all that could already destroy
a hurricane, a flooding rain, toxic smoke from nearby mills
and could not add to these because I knew what it was not to be able to breathe
in the end I decided best to keep my sorrow and make it a friend
the world had woe enough
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The Vixen’s Stay (Poem)
and when sorrow comes unbidden
makes herself a nest inside your day
a dolorous vixen in her natal den
ready to birth more woe
allow her a resting place
a brief tender acknowledgment
grief ignored has sharp teeth
will bite to remind you she’s there
you do not have to make her your own
she arrived so likewise can leave
you gave gracious shelter without offer of harm
bid farewell and let her depart
watchful for the next to arrive