Sunflowers grow | beneath cliffs, a din heard in the mouth small sound of roots deep, stems bracing waves that crash high like a hand held to the face with eyes closed pauses all of it here, some will arrive by wandering but it is dark and so much unknown to wander freely or consider to stay. We see only their crowns as they breach the unseen, their beginning is close, just a step into a place the sun holds without ever saying, hello/ we could know them: their bright faces petals a happy yellow and lovely, framed in what some would say is joy but they are shaking their heads slowly no, yet again with each rising and setting, they follow from the place they would leave if only these deep roots inch by inch would pull free - Did you know stems grow in the night to the west so the head can sway to the east at sunrise. The stem guides like stars in the night, desert sky are persistent or pollen on a honeybee is small easy to miss but irrefutable/ they, are guided far round cold corners wide, clementine eye, happy and content/ how the heart keeps the mind stays the heart to keep on and the sound in this hidden place, brushing upon damp walls: the wind at the end of its journey over wave and accidentally in this hollow is song like woman who whispers, do not let me break, please but same way, rounds corners and rejoins the sky- wandering you may slide cliffside into deep ocean, not seeing it is a cliff where waves will slam the mark of this place, and will swim near a place dry but dark and cold when no one is around to see you. Wild sunflower grow, long stemmed and leave, I would say this old cave- eventually. Eye following the sun even as it sets with you, no madness or sad keeping of memory but growing round cold walls into the quiet beauty one day, of knowing nothing of the previously known.
Tag: Poetry
paper crane prayer
Blooming in dark alleys these bullets called innocence: children who discover the world sting my eyes these bullets called innocence pepper on the page sting my eyes and they are wet like my father’s when reading, The Little Prince and they are wet between the pages when reading, The Little Prince and I am riddled with responsibility between the pages a crumpled paper crane, a bookmark and I am riddled with responsibility leaning between pages now a pause a crumpled paper crane, a bookmark this tired from saving the world leaning between pages now a pause thinking what kind of story is as good as: this tired from saving the world and knowing/ the beauty of night jasmine thinking what kind of story is as good as: children who discover the world not knowing the beauty is them, blooming in dark alleys.
habitant
The people we play
the ones remembered
from memory or some story
a ghost beneath the nail we
scratch at hunting fathers'
tender and mothers' dreams
splintered beneath unkindness/
it's the mantle of yesterday
of what is loved and not
yet owned or even known.
Still we choose to be brave
to live a life kinder, flowers are
on the table because we thought
to walk to a garden, coffee brews
on a Saturday morning, little feet
already rushing beneath the sun.
My heart, does
a war rage outside the window?
Are the people who wage it
good? When I blow upon
the palm, even in this
dim light dust looks a little
like stars, and I decide
there the universe is
in my own hand,
and the children receive
this debt, a path lit
by this child we stay,
a joy that is owed.
dear wildcat
winter comes again in time and our
skin splits/ the heckling of stars:
the way implied, they could
be a sun, be the warmth
spoken of, yes I know
and we instead cracked
cups glued many times
hold fast.
how small the earthquakes warn
of a shatter and maybe
we choose to tie the rope tight
instead, tight around
our own eyes-
my dear friend, hold
the hands of your choosing
eyes shuttered and heart wild
with hollow rage like
a sun burns
from its self until done.
and what can we choose but
an anthem of joy or
despair?
dear wildcat, please free yourself
of the hunters trap and if
you must chew your own
leg to be free, be free
or if the rope is tight
and just right, I will try to
find you if you ask,
because I know your wild heart
and you know I am cracked
and full of nuance/ how you
came along and saw me going again
above the waves, breath held
to go down again but I stay
where nothing will rip
feet from sand, even
the crash all around/ but
you could see that I was tired-
it will be a choice, my dearest friend
to let an anger go that will not
destroy your enemies, at the
knowledge that nature is unjust
and will not strike down those who
would harm but give them chance
after chance… for you and I
to speak truthfully and
uncomfortably is
the only justice.
so pull the wound wide
and see like the ocean waves
there is no choice
but to return to the shore pounding,
flailing as a storm brews or in a sleepy slumber
beneath a still blue free of everything
but the pull of time, no choice
but to hold, “thought by thought.”
through the trees
I smell gardenias when I think of warmth,
feel smooth, hardwood under still new feet
how little hands can scale old
umbrella trees like that iguana
castaway one morning after a hurricane
I spotted arching up into the leaves
and little feet swinging in the air:
how I hid a small cache of treasure
perched on a branch
just like him/
shiny plastics from my costume
I wore during the warm, Miami nights
twirling and dancing in parades
flipping on the black asphalt,
sometimes landing on my knees still,
and unconcerned I’d collect the
shiny stones that fell off and
put them in the tree hole somewhere
high up- reminded of how I could shine
so bright when I moved quickly,
how people watched
entranced with my spinning.
One evening after dark
I played on the sidewalk on my own
an only child and wildly imaginative
and spotted the cactuses slowly opening their flowers
like they did every night: a night-blooming
cereus that I went over to put a tiny lizard,
a green anole, on its topmost point
of green just above the little spike
how it launched itself into the darkness
between itself and the ground way below-
my alarm and wonder at his tiny bounce
before he ran. What if, he had stayed
atop the blooms having been placed
so safely by my hand,
where the stars above were now closer
and the grass that usually towered, tiny
and inconsequential? And, I hoped
it would feel freedom like I did
up in my tree, free from all
the must-dos and perfection
the pressure to remain small
but be admirable. I found myself
closer to myself in every treetop
or perched on a floating log
in the partially frozen alpine lake
one spring or stepping further
into the warm waves of the Atlantic
where all that is heard now
is time and my own heart.
shatterproof
the crash
Truth is to forget underwater
how the waves crash
beneath the seam
how the waves crash
truth in seconds
how under
the shower I crash
how in dreams I
collide with colossus
and tragedy and conquer/
uninhibited, un-able to
drive seed to
stem. Truth: I forget
to crash beneath
and end up above
the waves in
love thinking this
is who I become now
like summers I swam
between mangroves and hot
sea surging, that perfect
storm on the horizon – I love
so deeply in truth
underwater in the crash
of waves: how the seam
defines if we will live or die/
the crash beneath
stormy skies
and showers:
and how wide
is the breadth of
a wilderness like I.
In Due Proportion 