My favorite

I'm ending the evening with my favorite. This one has always been my favorite. It started the whole poetry and photo project, I sure wish I knew where those were.

Witness

There was a second when I thought to breathe,
to feel, to crawl under my own skin, turn it
right-side out, claim nothing more
than capability. As if disrobing
mid-sentence were entirely normal (accepted).
More likely it'd find you half undressed
with as much life as an eight (times 7) year old
hound stuck somewhere in Iowa exhausted
with July and it's knee high corn, serving him
as much purpose as you, naked on some corner,
skin all upside down and backward, stumbling over
your words, wondering who's idea was this anyway?
Still there was that second when I thought to breathe,
to touch myself as if I cared a great deal.
You came to watch and did so fascinated,
it was hard to see which was more beautiful,
more natural; you struck silent, or me
struck alive at your witness.

I really do like this one. I don't give a shit that every single person that reads it thinks its about masturbation. It used to bother me truth be told but now, not so much.

Power lines

Power lines, trees, and the human condition

My lover hates power lines
the way they barge through his sky,
as if he were the owner.
Still he hates them. Distracts him.
His mind spins a bit faster with
the buzz in the air.

Though he does love the trees
the way they scent his air,
as if he holds special claim.
They calm him. Lending shade
without a thought.

Not like people
with their penchant
for measuring this and that.
He doesn't care for them.
Rightfully so with the corner tree
struck clean through it's middle
with power lines.
As if man had finally
gotten his fingers
in every bowl .

Joshua

The poem below was inspired by a poem written by Jane Kenyon, and dedicated to my son Joshua

I hope it shows the respect I feel for all of her works, as well as all I feel for him.
She was an inspiration, he continues to be much the same.


In the Grove: The poet at Thirty

She saw him stretch;
long and lean -
the timothy bowing to his form.

A plane rattled the window,
sliced the lone cloud -
one shape bending the next.

Silent he shifted visions.

Somehow, before awe
turned intrusion, she left him
to his day.

For Michelle

This is such an old poem. I rather doubt I will change so much as a comma in here but it is slightly immature, perhaps it needs to be. Perhaps that is my justification for letting it be as is.

For Michelle on losing a friend.

Some days aren't so bad.
Others wrap themselves
like Boa Constrictors
around your chest,
force you to gasp
wild gulps
of grief.

On those, it's me
you thank and call Angel,
for offering platitudes
of simple people.

Could be you don't see,
when your days tighten,
pain steals my breath
and I can do
no more.

Ok so I changed a comma but not much more. It does hold a special place in my heart so I'll stop.

Love Letter

Love Letter

Yesterday I drove to the snow,
. thought a bit of you
. a bit of me,
the clouds pressed against the mountain
seemed to be waiting for the sun to back down
so freely they could roam the sky.

I wonder, would you think them cowardly?
Sitting on the mountain's edge
like Mother Nature's Cinderella
alone at the ball, fingering a strand of pearls
not quite comfortable in the power of magic.

I prefer to think them polite,
standing down like the step sisters would have
if Cinderella had once, found her voice.

You, my darling, would see yourself
the sun, the hero. Asking only the chance
to share the sky.

Oddly enough I would agree.
Still, hardly oblige.

Change in theme

I'm going to use this blog to sort through my poems. Goodness knows if I'll find anything decent in there but I need a small distraction and maybe just maybe I need to get back in touch with my writing. To start off I am going to post a poem that never fails to catch my breath; it is not one of mine. It does how inspire and I need that if I am going to go through my things!

North Rim
Edward Abbey
(July 1970 Grand Canyon, Arizona)

Everything conspires to haunt me here
with memory and thought and sense of you:
the fragrant lupine and the quiet deer,
the hawk that soars against the icy blue
of noon, the silver aspen on whose bark
I carved your name and mine within a heart;
the night you came so softly in the dark;
the day I came to you at last - to part.

My darling girl, is there no end to love
which lives despite all loss, regret and tears?
that flourishes on mountain rock, above
the plain, and grows against the wind and years?
Let it be so. I''ll consecrate my days
to loving love, and you, and all I praise.