(big)horns

that red scent
from before, cut across the weedy pines

footprints from before, however long ago
maybe an hour, maybe millenia

the scent remains, consequence of time
what was lost there, what wore hooves

Decorated with girthy horns
the cornucopia biologico

and the bristled muzzle, teeth too
would speak no secrets of the sheath

or how they mounted, step by step
the cliff side miles

to taste the leafy wonder of the climb
however long

Advertisements

ECWpoetry

Beloved Followers,

When I first joined the WordPress world I was astonished to find a thriving community of writers and readers sharing and enjoying each others work. I am so grateful to have found you and to be part of this illustrious digital landscape.

I will continue to use and love this blog,

but, I have recently created a poet website to help showcase my work, which has been recently published in some local anthologies and digital magazines.

The menu above toggles between the two sites, with the HOME button taking you to the ECWpoetry homepage and the ABOUT button linking to my new bio.

Again, thank you all for making this a rewarding place to post and exchange ideas. I hope to be part of this poetry space for a long time to come!

-ECW

 

which is to say

reflecting on the travels my loved ones experience
that are somewhat diluted in their retelling.

which is to say


this, the shape of a fist
a temporary stasis, we will expand
          the universe deepens,
          man colonizes frontiers
          families dig motes between them
there is beauty in it, beside the chaos,
a quiet loveliness in moving out and over
the spreading, its own kind of journey
the distance, a pattern of language

which is to say,

we’ve gone from here knowing
left doorways ajar with the best intentions
of returning, but we’ve never come home
that part of us so vital, rearranged to fit new perspectives
cannot sleep in our childhood beds
or eat quietly
amongst our elders.

which is to say,

I’ve missed you,
collected trinkets for your giving
met strangers and we laughed under greek constellations
but none of it was ours
not even when
you shared it with me.

farewell phyllis

on hearing a patron is ill and will not be returning to the library. 

babies are born
and there is death also,
not one after another
like the plucking of a broad grinn’d
gerber daisy, but huddled
together like passengers on a ferry
there will be times of loss
and then, just as suddenly
bounty.
Who will keep such a catalogue
of misery and joy, who
will collect the timestamps
of lives like a bookend.
I sat in wonder and forgot
just as suddenly.
There were emails to answer
after all.

–ECW

filling

first,
the needle
a long
narrow
relief
and next
the drill
with its
many min-
ature bits
not sharp
but whirring
singing
like a light
sings on the
eye, brightly.
They hand me
sun-glasses
to numb the
intensities.

I am reminded
of diamonds
with two sets
of hands
in my mouth,
the assistant
dexterous,
takes and
offers tools
with her
littlest finger
while the doctor
wields the drill/
diamonds are cut
by other
diamonds
the strongest bones
in my body
are cut like
diamonds,
slightly, just
a little at a time.

I could fall
asleep if not
for the drill
and the vacuum
and the banter
above me,
over which
porceline
makes for the
strongest
molars.
A chuckle,
a shrug,
were they
flirting?
the assistant
and her pinky,
the doctor
and his drill
in my mouth
bite down
he says
measuring
either side
does it
feel any
different?
–ECW

the beetle and the bean

Fog came, higher up,
      despite midday sun,
the trees wore cloud-
cover and light rain,
      threads of sacred
ceremonies, the coffee
on the mountain ripens
as it grows, seasonless
relentless, each tree yields
for a human lifetime and
             recedes.

The island is the mountain.
Even the mossy pockets
forged from volcanic rage
      are quiet and fruitful,
      the coffee is steeped
in the seeds of meatier flora
in the pitch songs of Pele
who at the center of the island
churns a fearsome
              storm.

I come not for the mountain,
which is young
         like we are, but
the seeds and their companion
an invasive species of beetle
no larger than a grain,
             bore
with little instance of failure
into the belly if the bean
when it is young
          like we are
and together they grow
the fruit from the tree
the bug from the seed

It is a frivolous love
that eats its own bed
and sleeps in a pithy tomb
but the beetle is bound to it
as are we,
       newly wed
        freshly bathed
wandering through coffee groves
under the modesty of clouds
revealing in this yield a wet black
                   companion.

—ECW

inter.library.loans I

paperwork for strangers
is best left unfolded

since you don’t know how it’s filed
–whether in folios
          upright like reeds
–or envelopes
          dangling like wind-chimes
          from clotheslines

whose to say,
        the way
a stranger might file paperwork
        or not file it,
they might just pile it, up! up!
until it shifts under its own importance
        creating layers in eras
          we might discover
   after the roots have grown stiff
 and words are sap and honey.

paperwork for strangers
is intimate that way
      personal/impersonal
vital, lifelike, removed
written in secret–in a way–and not so
rushed. It takes time to say
  exactly what you mean
        to a stranger
        out of context
without clarification
  to say exactly what you mean
is best left unfolded
so as not to imply
            or assume
            or limit
the life of a document
      which you have sent away.

–ECW