I’ve always been more of a moth person rather than a butterfly person; subtle does have its perks…
Keep Writing
–ECW
Tag: Summer
Poem 156
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:
mayb
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.
—ECW
Poem 145
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.
–ECW
Poem 85 Revised
Some are meant to climb trees—I suppose—when the wide earth licks up wise
branches and invites you in. I meant to climb this tree (as so often before) and peer
out between leafy spyres, what dire distress it was to see studious insects bout their business,
too busy to disturb. Instead settled among the short hairs of summer sod, soaking in sap splinters &
cinder soil until the sun sauntered past the skyline and we were alone. The tree and I
a port of my soul settling deeper still to this spot where I’ll leave her. Neither of us ready to go.
Her roots more literal, of course, but mine just as sturdy, we would part; But I would
plant the seeds of my sincerity in such a space as to grow between the bows
to drown myself in sunlight and keep right where I left off, a bookmark of my better days.
—ECW
branches and invites you in. I meant to climb this tree (as so often before) and peer
out between leafy spyres, what dire distress it was to see studious insects bout their business,
too busy to disturb. Instead settled among the short hairs of summer sod, soaking in sap splinters &
cinder soil until the sun sauntered past the skyline and we were alone. The tree and I
a port of my soul settling deeper still to this spot where I’ll leave her. Neither of us ready to go.
Her roots more literal, of course, but mine just as sturdy, we would part; But I would
plant the seeds of my sincerity in such a space as to grow between the bows
to drown myself in sunlight and keep right where I left off, a bookmark of my better days.
—ECW
Poem 79 Revised
A cucumber could not taste as sweet
As filature along a forgotten breeze
Coaxing chatter of weather and what-not
Across eddies—ever eager spring—comes grass.
From eye level the deep trodden grass colors
Summerness; becomes the pressure on elbows
straining this afternoon’s sweet-sour sage
On a sunbeam preferring patches by the hour.
Watch the call of autumn opals oppress
The downy undress of arbor limbs unfold.
Ticking tedious the tremble of traitor leaves.
For now it is verbena on the lawn… for now.
—ECW
Poem 58 Revised
Some days I awake to the sound of my breath and remember
So vivid a vision—one year’s past—of a boy with a bottle
Of rum hum drumming against a summer sky.
These are the leeks that would linger amongst the bones.
These are the bones, I told him, we are the bones.
With sleep in our speech we still whisper of when
We might come back again, finish what we began.
I would write your name across the water if
I could spin webs from my fingers. Would call
Your cross crow to the night, if I did not fear the reply
Ask what became of the body of that boy:
We are the bones, darling, these are the bones.
—ECW
Poem 85
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…
–ECW
Poem 79
from last spring… it was spring today so it seemed appropriate
A cucumber could not taste as sweet
As arm hairs in a long forgotten breeze
Carrying chattering laughter of weather and what not
Across untidies—ever eager spring—comes grass
From eye level the down low dirt colors summerness
Becomes the pressures on elbows straining this afternoon’s
Latest failed attempt at slashing to to-do list
Waiting for the sun to prefer certain patches, clockwork
The excuses to-do nothing collect armies
Of cross hatched spear-seedlings: a barracks
Against the wide view of impending calendar crossing
–ECW
Poem 58
we might have had a conversation about it, and i never even knew it
Some days I awake to the sound of my breath and remember
so vividly a nightmare–one year’s past–of a boy with a bottle
of rum hum drumming against a summer sky.
These are the buds that would grow amongst the bones.
These are the petal faces, purse lipped around pretense
This was is the proper way to grieve:
A man with a camera in his hand; all irises on me….
these are the bones, I told them, we are the bones.
If defeat came in lollipop flavors it might resemble
a regretful bled of cherry and grape; some medicine
we feed our psyche night following night
with robust hopes of satisfaction through masochism.
These are the bones, I told them, we are the
candy wrapper crustaceans foraging the ocean floor;
the pastel public painting clown faces on our cheeks.
In my sleep-voice we still speak of ambitions:
I would write your name across the water if
I could spin webs from my fingers; I would
Speak my mind to the middle night if I did not
Fear his reply; knowing still what he’ll say to me:
Fear his reply; knowing still what he’ll say to me:
We are the bones, darling, these are the bones.
–ECW
Poem 53
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.
Conflict-construct deducts
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
but we—ay sayers—dehydrated sipping on silver.
–ECW
