I awoke unable to remember
how or why we write poems
or make these line breaks
alerting us to another way
of reading and seeing
now I remember
meanwhile
rainwater collecting in buckets
shines like something holy
I awoke unable to remember
how or why we write poems
or make these line breaks
alerting us to another way
of reading and seeing
now I remember
meanwhile
rainwater collecting in buckets
shines like something holy
the old man had lost something
of inestimable worth
more precious than he could ever say
now his burden felt a little lighter
a little lighter
as he went upon his way
there is no sorrow in my garden
only life and death
while she held on to my hand
and whispered soothing words
she had one eye on her car keys
and a quick getaway
there is no common currency here
just rates of exchange
that fluctuate wildly
in different circumstances
try calling the helpline she said
there isn’t one I said
well try calling anyway she said
so I did
many times
many helplines
fifteen of them
[first posted Jan 2, 2016]
blank like the stars are blank
and the leaf
and all the leaves
and the carpet
and the ceiling
nothing brings relief
when not even love has meaning
only breath
only breathing
you might have told me I was cast as fool
even if I knew
the part I play was given
by a truer hand and cruel
and now I am to play no part at all
but know
like some old stager in the wings
I’ll never get to play the hero
a hollow masque is my review
of this production
too slight a thing to be called tragic
too tragic for a farce
some wizard’s art – for my part
too fierce a magic
welcome to the party
that occurs every day
under an awning
blue often grey
the music is painful
and frequently martial
and people pass by
in tears or in laughter
if anyone asks
don’t say that I told you
those who invited me
both died years ago
I stick around
for something to do
awaiting further
instructions
welcome to the party
that occurs every day
now that you’re here
you will have to stay
please don’t think
you can just slip away
until the bitter end
and it is a bitter end
There is a way through the wood,
but it is difficult
and you must have a story
for the woodsman.
By my fingers and toes,
I do not have a story.
Then the woodsman will find you one
and you may not like it.