Tag Archives: Poetry

Your hand

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your hand

fragile

replete with vitality

laced with veins and arteries

padded with springy muscle

elegant bones the support trusses

you own this hand

it will fold whichever way you dream

each digit an extension of your unconscious

this hand can beckon, halt, support, negate

lose balance and it steadies you

cry and it wipes your tears away

 

All you artists,

let your hands give something form

and watch them express

what you never knew was in you.

All you workers,

allow the tasks to fall into place

marvel at what

your hands have wrought.

All you parents

brush hair, wash faces

prepare dinner

caress the infant

whose first unconscious expression of love

is the grasping of your fingers

in his warm little hand.

 

We are alive

how wondrous we are

with such capacities.

we wreck, we pet.

We let our hands lead us

these finite tools

a hand’s breadth

a finger’s length

flushed with redness, with vigor

Are we really

made of such things?

Are we really made by them?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Weredog

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Definitely on a silly streak lately. Not one thing I wrote last night made much sense.

 

 

 

The weather affects us all.

Soon the harvest moon will turn

And I will turn with it.

Life is complicated.

I change from dog to girl

And back

But my food choices do not change inside me

And something deep within is alarming.

When I was changed

I ate something a human shouldn’t eat.

My body is a mystery

My dog body doubly so.

Today I’m putting hot sauce on all the turds in the yard.

My human self must train my dog self.

I sit in the yard

Collar around my neck

Waiting for transformation

And thanking God for privacy fences.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Open

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Hands

Spreading tree, fractaling humanity

Tips of tips trace gently, massage, explore, withhold

 

Neck

Miracle of engineering, steel support cables, connection to the senses

Here taste the vibrations of your voice

 

Eyes

Soft raw secrets

All is bared, reflected

 

Languid skin, humid aura, belly to belly we share everything

You are everywhere so smooth

Except where you are not.

 

Muscles

Contract

Arch, tense,

 

To the breaking point,

 

Pushing beyond human limits, torture,

 

Flashes of colors and geometric shapes torture torture,

 

We are nothing. We are the cosmos

 

Then

The massive overspill

Pressure eases

Breath returns

Vision lightens

And

You.

 

You.

 

You.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bison Woman

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I don’t usually post on Saturday but I don’t want to leave that mopey shit up all weekend.

Here is something I wrote long before the blog was born. It’s the weirdest thing, I still love it.

 

 

 

No Martha

Don’t you tell me what to do

I have enough problems already.

Go to bed

And give me your dentures

‘Cause last night you bit me

And it’s bad to sleep with them in.

 

Take me to another world

A dream

Where everything smells better

And I can jump

Like a gazelle

Do gazelles jump?

They bound

I could bound like one

I could bound through a grassy savanna

Away from the tigers

Away from the bison

Away from you

You disgusting bison woman

Give me your teeth goddamnit

Why are you fighting me on this

It’s like you want to bite me.

 

I don’t know.

This isn’t how I’d imagined marriage

Maybe next life

I’ll come back

As something asexual

A self pollinator or cloner would be nice

Reproduction

Is not worth

This battle.

 

Bison woman

I think I love you

But I wanna know for sure

Come on and hold me tight…

 

…YES I got the teeth!

Sweet victory!

Sweet, sweet victory

Sweet dreams

I don’t know

Her teeth

Even when in my hand

Are so strong and square and darkly toned

They intimidate me

Ruminant teeth

Why would the dentist

Choose such a color

I guess he knew what matched her best

It’s more an art than a science

Like much of life

Like marriage

Sometimes brown is as close to white

As you can accept

And that’s not very close to white at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reverse Midas Touch

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Never good enough

Never good enough

Try a little harder

Punish

Self castigate

Mortify the flesh

Is this good yet?

Is this?

Am I still

A disappointment?

 

I wrote all evening

And nothing good happened.

The reverse Midas touch, I wrote.

Everything I do turns to shit.

But it wasn’t good enough either.

When will I be good enough.

When will I be satisfied.

What am I looking for?

 

When I write, I write what I felt that day.

So I didn’t feel anything today?

No. I felt inadequacy. That was sharp.

I need to write what is wrong

I need to write for me

I need to write for therapy

I need less judge.

I read a really bad story today by another writer.

Relatively, I’m an incredible talent.

I read a really good story today by another writer.

Relatively, I’m a half-wit.

What can I do

Why do I try so hard

Why do I try

Why do I care

Why can’t I just be happy

Writing stories and poems should be fun.

When I was a kid

Even then

I was a harsh critic.

I must have been eight

I remember judging my little kid poetry

For rhyming wife with wife. What a cop out, I thought.

I remember being displeased by my corny poem conclusion:

 

“What is the way to be happy?

There is only one thing

And that is, to sing!

Oh, what a good way to be happy!”

 

It felt wrong. Of course that wasn’t the best way to be happy.

My parents thought it was adorable

But I knew better.

I always know better.

I never trust praise.

I know my flaws.

They burn my eyes

They scald my soul

They cannot be extricated

They cannot be exorcised

They can only be

Embraced

Every day.

Practice will patch the holes

Acceptance will allow for flexibility

Some days are hard

Some days are easy.

I will never meet my own expectations

So I must not allow expectations.

Oh, what a good way to be happy!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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