I’ve always been more of a moth person rather than a butterfly person; subtle does have its perks…
I’ve started looking at conversations as poem starters. The first line is from a movie and the rest is what it brought out of me:
I miss the days that never came
summertime wet and sweet melon
rinds fly nibbled and misty wide
the days made of waiting, hungry
for tomorrow, lush with hope
when each moment could be anything
had yet to define itself by name
was aching with opportunity
filling itself up with honesty
and slowly, as not to alert my sense
of self, I became the average
of each noon passing, together
infinite, suddenly—done. Quietly
completed, without stout, full victories
one does miss the maybe-days.
a poem for my love on a day that feels like summer is here already…
The summer sets colossal –
Rolling over and over the incredible heat
The mouth of the desert kings were quiet
Dry and witty, your single bloom
The proof of lifetimes catching the certain seed
Most likely to live a second summer—last the chill
We stand at the edge, where there once lapped sea
Our minds a hollow port of memory—the summer sleeps
Deep below, a water-table, under our bustle, quiet-cool
Where once the sun was something lovely
Then hot and hateful, eating up all the leafy greens.
We are summer-swept, midday slept,
A hopeful violet in a dusty reign. We summer-wept
When the water came, ten thousand years of rain
When the sand remembered the sea again
When you & I were we again.
written in the back of a book just recently tapped, about our tree
Some are to climb trees–i suppose–when the wide earth licks up wise
branches and invites you in. i meant to climb this tree (as i have
1000 times) and look upon the leafing; the hairline sap splinters– below. but no.
the ants among her too studious to disturb and instead settled among
the short hairs of the in between spaces. not branches, not roots. in between:
a compromise of the all seeing & unseen. some mortal spaces where I can
devote the hour between four and five to the quick slap of a turned page,
a passing dog, a frisbee, and the optimistic flatulence of a tuba in the music building.
Bare feet bare minds–rooting in hopes that below in the unseen,
untapped soil of the wide earth our toes might intertwine…
no matter where i go, nevada will always be home
All the history I know
is the way the dust blows
cutting at the face of the earth.
from the sand-sculptors I find
to capture filthy the free—
Send off didactic calligraphy—
the lights seem to me brighter in my wisdom.
Boyhood and summer becomes them; I am
not a boy… I can’t appreciate this moment:
westward-boot leather-toe, like you can.
Wrinkled furrows of manifest, resent not
only the meager syllabic meanderings of verse
or worse, the sounds of unraveling
minds. mines. Mine. We don’t speak
of the syrup we pulled from the Rockies—
Instead revel in man’s triumphant sun-bulbs
blushing dry meadows with life. Nothing survives