Old Trees

Old Trees

The old trees don’t talk much anymore

They just are

Watch towers

Watching the rapid progression of decades and

The decay of stones

Stalwart totems

Faces stacked with furrowed brows

Mostly projecting distain on us

But sometimes

In the cool of the forest

Amid the tallest of evergreens and the thickest of moss

A weary old oak might whisper

“I like you. Yes.

I did think better of you once

Long ago…”

“Before you lowered the sky and drank all of the rivers and left us

With all of your cares

Alone”

Fatigued

Fatigued

We ran out of gas

Me and I

A sputtering surprise

Coming to a fuming end?

Not yet done, but stalled

Stabled – don’t old stallions need more rest?

I dreamt of a butterfly with a torn wing

A tiny slice that made it impossible for it to fly

It crawled on the grass, seeking ever higher blades

Unable to ascend on the wings of wonder

There’s an old dog under my porch

Hiding from the sun, panting dust

It is an unquenchable thirst

When we lose hydration

For fluid living

Stalled, a forced respite

A time of dis-membered re-membering

There once was a man from

Somewhere

Things are a bit blurry today

Was that yesterday or is this a dream

Yes, a

Respite

For settling

Memories and dreams

And scores

Gathering

Gathering

They arrive

Specter gaps

Remembrances of the lost

A selection of life

Partnerships that mattered

Passed-on temporal mates

 

They arrive

And take their place about us

Powerful wisps in ubiquitous spaces

Tugging sprites of love lost and dreams

Dreams realize

Remembrances

 

The first ones teach us the abiding

The means by which they remain

Never lost. Never gone.

Comfortable grief

Breezes brushing about us

 

Liken to the rush of wind upon acquiring the peak

Or the levitated hair on spooked necks

And then fears and spectacles become familiar burdens and we abide

Together

 

They arrive one by one

Gathering to accompany us along

Asking for mooring in our mourning

Twilight dwellers, they congregate

Upon us

 

Until we arrive at a time

When there is small room among them all

Left for living

For us

And we grow weary of it

Comfortable in it

 

The space in which

We arrive

The Sunrise at Home

The sunrise at home was beautiful today

I started to take a photograph and share it with you

Its orange waves stroked with clouds of violet and gray

amber hues radiating

almost hurting my eyes

I wanted to capture it and send it to you to enjoy

Post it for you

but the photo would have failed

us

what a photo cannot capture is all of that sunrise

on that day at that place

it can’t capture the chill in the air

the crispness of entering a morning with a body rested and a mind alert

the burgeoning day

cannot help you see

 the hope that stood before me

the grief that weighed within me

the work that had to be done

that somehow was captured and held still in that moment at the site of that evoking orb

so I did not take a photo

I wrote these words

And

I did not share them with you because

there is no longer a you

to share with this view

Waning Man

Waning Man

Green - stop

Red - go

We know that’s wrong

From learning

Thinking, believing

We have vast signage

Signals to stop us

To

Yield to others

Blinking permissions

To

Move forward in our assigned time

And way

So

Why am I stuck?

Frozen

Brakes locked

In trepidation

Of the moving forward of me?

If we can arrange the world’s traffic

Paths

Our road

Ways

So simply with blinking lights and orange

Barrels

Signaling our assigned courses

Why has no one provided

Neatly aligned cones

For knowing

The growing

Older, old,

The waning

Of

Me?

Coming Upon A Clearing

Coming Upon A Clearing

Coming Upon A Clearing

In this place, this clearing
    Void of infringing noises
    Removed from cluttering filters that make twilight of midday
    Free from creeping cares, stagnant puffs of sweat and grime
Here, I find a momentary respire
    Unencumbered rays of clarity
    Stark recollections of brisk caresses
     Echoes of nocturnal whispers and sweat cooled skin
In this place, I am assaulted
    By the beautiful agony
    Of the absence
    Of you
 

Repose on Peace

Peace is an unsettling thing

                Stillness stretched forth, a painter’s canvas pale

                Empty abundance of orderly tasks falling in line, satisfied plans

                Détente abiding in between

                                Sadness and laughter

                                Conservative and Liberal

                                Mania and depression

                Lithium flat lining, routine, calm mundane

                Smooth sailing on languid currents

Do we not crave a bit of turmoil then?

To calm the unease of placid seas

A respite from unbearable order and predictable breaths

                Oh for broken, shuddering orgasmic gasps!

                Pounding adrenals, fearful uncertainty seeking

                Now, present satisfaction

What, pray tell, would we be

Without a dose of insanity?

Moonshine

She is Moonshine...

Harvest moon, radiant blast across the horizon
diminishing anything near the sound of her light
taunting us with the threat of reverting to a simple, normal
part of our world if we look too late or move too close.

She is Moonshine

Full moon, raising werewolves and iconic myths
making day of the darkness and drawing
florescent strokes across every able bodied pond
waving boldly coming too in due cycle

She is Moonshine...

Shiva moon, a promise and goodbye
deadly waxing and waning of war and peace
the confidently ignored reminder of our mortality
veiled carelessly by translucent clouds

She is Moonshine...

Day time moon, pale and out of place
whimsically demanding to be seen
unafraid of the brightest sun or the bluest mood
a broad daylight

She is Moonshine...

To drink, clear, forbidden and dangerous
Intoxicating, even in small portions
Promising to burn you from throat to belly
And warm your bowels through the coldest doubts

She is Moonshine...

and she needs light, bright hot
consuming fire to pour forth upon her
flares of character and promise to reach
out to her for her light is
in all its shapes and sessions
reflected from another one.

Before I Lost My Mind

Before I lost my mind…
Before wanderlust and stark dimensions…
Before the fever came

Hot, Sahara heat smelting away coherency
Leaving slag filled days and dross coated nights


Before the fever broke, breaking certainty

Glass slivers and shards scattered on lost streets

Before my mind melted

Running hot
Oozing molten memories into yesterday
Pouring fantastical realms into a mundane cast
Burning frost bite, shivers
Shakes, shimmers beyond the veil

There was the shadow that spoke, the tired fawn eyed gaze, the promise made
It burns. It burns it.

Gasps
Whispers reaching from the shadows, taunts and pleas
Oder of smoldering flesh chilled in waif whimpers

My precious. Have you found my precious? It's here. It must be hererrrrr...
I caught it, I did. I held it close, felt it burns, my PRECIOUS!

 

Exurbia

Exurbia*

To walk about, head proud

Proclaiming our correctness or preferred brand of mis-fit-ness
The minority of our making, our place
Our belonging, our homogeneous, deserved, radical identity
The unique flavor of our claimed exurbia


While in the city, the alleys of me
Lies

Less than the echoes of truth but more than falsities
The scurry, hiding like rats from barking terriers
Mange chased mutts, cowering from chastising
Owners swinging broken leashes

Another me, The Fisher King thee
Nouwen’s healer takes walk-about privilege
 
Between here and there, played to jaded, directing
Succulent sewers flowing with purity and possibility to mend


Us to a transparent and intertwined majority
Of one

________________________

*Exurb - a small, usually prosperous, community situated beyond the suburbs of a city.

Precious Visits

Precious Visits

Before I lost my mind…

Thimble, thimble, who has the thimble
There’s the king, everywhere ruling, drooling


Before psychiatric diagnosis…


Schizophrenic dimensions and delusional fabrications
Voices rising from looming peaks and squeals, surreal

   
Before the fever came


Hot, Harad lands smelting away coherency
Leaving slag filled days and dross coated nights


Before the fever broke, breaking certainty


Glass slivers and shards scattered on lost streets
Crushed into powder, worming into our soles


Before my mind melted


Running hot
Oozing molten memories into yesterday
Pouring fantastical realms into a mundane cast
Burning frost bite, shivers
Shakes, shimmers beyond the veil

There was the shadow that spoke, the tired fawn eyed gaze, the promise made


It burns. It burns it.


Gasps
Whispers reaching from the shadows, taunts and pleas
Oder of smoldering flesh chilled in waif whimpers


My precious. Have you found my precious? It's here. It must be hererrrrr...
I caught it, I did. I held it close, felt it burns, my PRECIOUS! They took it from us…


And the shadow’s muted screams faded and I saw it sparkle
In the corner of the room
And it is mine…
 

Abusers

I tried to write about abuse
How the hitting makes the
Hurting ease
The shame and fear rage out and strike
Bleeding, pulsing - crimson shrieks and shouts
Curling fists and guts
Determined to be done
To be finished with the fear and frustration
Cursing, blaming, hating another person
And yourself is somehow easier
More natural
When loving isn't easily
There, anywhere
Absent from us like
Light in the darkness jumping shadows

But then, I wasn't sure
If I was writing about him or her...

On the occasion of the death of Wilburn Esters Cox, my step-father.

 

 

Eulogizing

 

Death always takes us

Willingly or not

To the edge of this

This life we weave with determination

Gathering our fears, spinning them taunt and defiantly into beliefs, faith we call it

Constructing ideologies and routines to help us along the way

Wrapped in such fabrics

We protect and present ourselves

Whole. Secure. Saved.

 

Death always takes us to the edge

Willingly or not

Where we, stunned

Stand starring into abysses 

Pelted by torrents made of one part anger and two parts fear

Shards rip us bare

Clothing us in our particular loss

 

Death always takes us to the edge

The translucent boarder of this

This being

Willingly or not

And then stands there with us in the void

Holding our hand

Until the unknowable breaks ...

Ergo Ego

Skinned knees and scraped egos

Heal slowly

Scabbing over and puffing up

Before growing new

Skin and tender humility 

Covering

Today's hurt and tomorrow's

Maturity   

 

 

Sweet Sophia

Sophia wind comes.

Yesterday the ignorable breeze.

Today, furnace heat.

From incomprehensible flutters to overwhelming screams.

Within the flit of a thought and obsessive dreams.

Revealing consort and coy muse.

Sophia.

My bothersome, demanding, essential imp.

The Holidays...

The drive that lasted for 4 hours and the wait that was longer
The deep, abandoned, rolling to tears laughter of children
The wraith like memories of ripping wrapping paper
The twinkling lights and flashing fancies from yuletide strands
The raising of the tree
The ritual prayer of our token cleric
The feast marked by odd dishes and common routines
The retelling of stories, forty days and forty nights worth of heritage
The settling into familiar seats and sighs
The late comers and early deportees
The insertion of Tab A into Slot B
The luxurious and the sorted
The games and the game with both having scores and winners
The holidays

 

Tilted Off...

Tilted Off...

tilted...off

                           balance

unsettled...dis

                      eased

you seem so earth bound, so in place

all of you...well...many of you

no matter

for my restless and my peculiar sprite

                    screams...unheard

muffled into whispers

by convention and intentional

limitations...imposed on me...embraced

by me

for

there

is comfort in the arms of not doing...of shifting upon

the pea in the mattress...limping away from the stone in the shoe...enduring the unpleasant

incessant prodding

of ... of... you

to...for

too long

OH, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD----- STOP!

i give up

...fine..now what?

tell me what to do! damn you.

---------silence----------

i need a translator for this constant, loud, chattering white noise...

 

 

Lost and...

Viscous
The light rises
Lifting the veil of morning


Gazing into pools of possibility 
Ripples of mist and moments
Pushing aside delirium


Daring to dance
Eyes shut tight
Thoughts and head a tilt

You left me yesterday
Or
Was it the year before
Everything aches, still


Tenuous mourning.

On Writing Poetry

 

Sometimes, I have an idea...a fancy
A particular phrase that gets my attention 
                                   or 
A bothersome feeling that just won't be captured in prose
Then I write it down in short
         Broken lines    

                                            and
                        Phrases

          and 
See what comes out.
Then it stares back at me
Talks to me
Calls my name or yours
As I look at its particular shape
Hear its weedy voice
 I might tweak a word or two to get it to look
Or feel or sound a bit better
As it speaks about you or me
Our living, believing, breathing, selves
 Then I name it Poem 
– Because I have to --
Then I hit post and hope it has value to someone else.


(Because of a conversation between poets. Thank you. You know who you are.)

My Poems Know Your Secrets

See them hiding there…behind
The ass-umptions
Peeking within the cheeks of clauses
Phrases 
Phantoms daring to pronounce
Your memories
Best forgotten and sullen
Actions 
Pole dancing impressions on the axis of
Anxiousness
Sliding silently along the line
From hip to clit
A cocked look from the slit ‘tween
Consonant on vowel
a.e.i.o…you
Know the no-nos
Whispering around conjunctions
Reminding you of other _unts
Too old or too young for sanctified hosts
Oh God…please don’t tell anyone
…still
God knows and my poems…
My poems know your secrets

 

This one is a bit naughty...and more true that any of us want to tell. Yes?
— -Kim