Truth, may be cobbled:
first having been strong
as static clings
like poppy pollen in
the school yard, for-
getting what is known
of threat
in oleander chewed of
my family’s garden,
not knowing this
poisoned flavor - I
gather a pocket of stones
too smooth and flat
like the world has been
and wandering, find still water
chewing on each before tossing
having crumbled sand in the mouth
same I was too long held
in another’s
their singing so hot: I like glass
transparently, still not quite
traceable in bright light
the truth held firmly
too round to skim the water
or stack one on top the other
but gathered like a cairn
where the river turns.
Tag: Philosophy
strong sun
The sky was heavy the day
I decided I liked orange
and pink together, torn
down the gray, octopus curtain
and placed a flower-bombed
flag in its place
sprinkled bits of periwinkle
to calm the delight,
a shocked, blank edge
calling where the cacophony
of color concluded
and I would sink into the heat
of a long bath, another too
cold day - the sun has slept
for weeks in Seattle,
to float between the shattering
like when I was very small
like a torn hibiscus bleeds –
laying face-up in a kiddie pool
legs a tad too long and splayed
in the time-eating heat
I tried to rub the sun from my eyes
but it just sunk in more
until I could see it behind
closed lids
like a dream in focus:
my body a boat gone
adrift
and sought this halting heat
that pauses every thing,
this version of me –
just a little more time.
us, mirror
The way of a mind like a seed
on the wind floats up
instead of with the wind
somehow, or people born
wedged in sidewalk cracks
deep away from the sun
know where happiness
resides tumbling
upon its arrival:
in this I feel almost
a lucky misfit.
Even a self divided is
scattered like pages
lost within the house
with no binding.
I see windows in every room
that inform nothing except
where I have arrived from,
and, I, in every room
stitch a binding, day-
in and out, am
surrounded by a puzzle
of words on paper.
But aren’t us the
song? Aren’t us the
dream and
attuned to truth:
the paradox of remaining
genuine when a melody
unfolding.
