An Ode to the Authors I Appreciate
I see the world
through a scrim of
books.
I ride on words woven together,
carrying more freight than
just solitary singles, side by side.
Sentences and paragraphs,
pages and chapters.
books – tap feelings and understandings,
echoing the fingers that tapped letters, words, pages –
and built, shaped my mind.
You, with warp and weft of words, created
this floating, flowing, close-woven
jewelled net-lace I ride on and pull
through the ring of my mind,
accepting joyfully your gifts.
Homes Are Ceremonial
Homes are ceremonial,
ripe with obscure patterns
absentmindedly repeated.
The Dining Room
where eating
is an uncomfortably full altar;
The Living Room
where family mementos and the tv
sacrifice lives;
Even the Kitchen,
recipeless and hurried,
has ghosts,
although its necessary
Partner, (for defecating and self-presentation),
tries to be polite.
So the young
flee and refuse the rituals
that triggered their fears,
So the older
submit to the comfort
of their ceremonies.
Letter to my Dead Parents
I’m decluttering.
Whatever shall I do with your treasures?
They hide
in front of me,
whispering how they worked
to shape who you were.
They distort
who I want to be,
cluttering my hopes
with their commands,
demanding I become
subject to their shaping.
Forgive me: I have accepted
only some of your gifts.
The Words I Can't Say
The words I can’t say
swallow me up,
choke me,
as I try to spit them out.
They are my truth
that I close my eyes to
and deny,
throttling me.
My teeth clamped,
my breathing rapid,
I gag,
then speak
and almost say
what I need to hear
so i can know
what I know.
Stone Stories
Late I came to love
what I’d lost,
fled from,
and clung to.
The cloud clotted sky
hangs over the autumn
fields – pale gold, green, and empty –
racing past
the life I built.
Finding the route
to my beginnings, buried
with only stone
stories, I grieve
my losses.
Open Window
Summer-like open window
Distant hammers, distant highway:
Memories from an old photo album
Untitled
Sometimes confusion or an unarmed feeling
explodes,
lit by words bursting
into meanings previously hidden in darkness and silence.
Rejoice:
a part of your brain has
new synopses
shaping your
Mind.
