Atlas Fallen

I watched you hoist the world above your head
and make them all retreat in holy dread.
Hero in a world fallen far from grace,
martyr for those who've been frozen in place
and handed to the whims of great unrest--
a savior's role you played, and played your best.
But 'neath such weight you were bound to crumble--
never too infallible to stumble.
And as the fateful wind sliced cleanly through
and whispered of the pains reserved for you
your body buckled 'neath a timeless dread;
as I looked on, the world crashed 'round your head.

Blackberries

Protruding from the wiry, spindly brush
with skin pulled tight like the head of a drum
encasing sweet, warm droplets of sun-ripe
ruddy juice--delicate and plump, teasing,
drawing a covetous gaze as velvet
tempts you to graze it with your hand or cheek.
Dark with soft, placating sheen collecting
all energy and light like small black holes
of deep summer, they ensnare and transfix
and you salivate and long for a taste
and the event horizon is traversed.
What could approach perfection so nearly
as a warm burst of tartness on your tongue
that stains your mouth, seeps into the creases
of your hands like hairline cracks in your skin
and just beneath, a reservoir of blood?
Oh, I remember blackberry-picking
and how the sting of nettles scrawling bloody
scratches on your arms was worth the reward--
pain for sweetness on your tongue, an exchange
some will never choose to make. But I hope
in my life to always pick blackberries.

Implosion

Like a parade
my beating heart before me marched
with meticulous measured meter
and the pregnant palpitationis ruptured
the membrane of my heart
like an overripe tomato
made sick by too much sun.

And like buckets
dangling in the fabric of everything
I saw the sloshing stars
brimming with everything
my heart could not contain
and splashing it across unending lifetimes.

And a sigh
like a sword slit across my throat
and it slid across my lips
where the wind whirled it away
an ocean and a world away
to strike an unfurling tendril
where perched a crystal dew-drop
which slipped silently away

like a tear-drop
sliding cool across my skin
weightless, unladen with encumbrances
of sighs and pounding hearts which
(faced with wind and trembling leaves)
escapes empty and shatters
soundless, while the drumbeats inward turn
and slow to fainter rhythms
whose painful, poignant peals
could never spill a star.

Painted

A smile sits stark upon her cheeks,
ghastly-cold
as the beam of the moon--
smile-in-a-can,
a bastard, conniving,
masking and mocking
the true tale told
by the ice on her brow
and the sigh in her eyes;
chaos is her face,
a lie finely penned--
contentment, poise--
but the discerning eye
perceives the lie
in an un-beautiful smile,
her painted hiding place.

Flesh Like Grass

First light trespasses
upon your eyelids
and you grouch
and pummel the SNOOZE
and banish the sun
for nine moments more...

Ah, but
no day lives long
before twilight breaks
and it seems still early
when the sun is subdued
beneath sweaty dewfall,
an anemic glow and
bullfrogs' and crickets' laments,
which choke
on the pale dust of morning
and are never re-sung.

Love vs.

The unexpected
sundering howl
of a silly girl whose
hair ignites with
fireflies. Light brings
terror, a bit, to
every darkness.

...

What We Need is Here

Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye,
clear. What we need is here.

--Wendell Berry

Night Rending

She believes he is asleep
at her side – but he silent lies
to watch a moonbeam paint her hair
and to eavesdrop as she weeps.

A single crystalline tear
he spies, perched atop her raised cheek
like a secret cast in quicksilver.
Then a sniffle, never meant to reach his ear.

Shadows ooze along the wall
like molasses. He smells the brine
of meekness under brazen sun –
deciphers her heart’s encrypted call.

Two souls the thick night somehow cleaves,
one with back turned to hoard its sundry
wounds, one helpless to breach the divide.
Death claps at the window in dry oak leaves.

A tortured mind begs wordlessly for grace
to right what it never knew was wrong
with love. He turns to sleep, dreams stained
by a moonlit tear upon a stranger’s face.

portrait (in flavors)

eyes like marbles of
boldest chocolate--71 percent cacao
(with fine espresso flecks)
garnish a face of
smooth simplicity--
framed by dark-roast tresses,
mild and subtly nutty

and a steeping bouquet garni--a mouth of
fruit and spice (orange-ginger essence)
conceals a cayenne tongue

and a mind like jonagold,
sharp and sweet, permeates aroma
that strikes like a serpent
and adorns concealed complexity

a mélange of marvels,
forbidden flavors enticing
to savor sweet fire

and forever sedate sense and reason.

Descent At Dawn

When the mind is pried open,
nothing is real or false
and all else smears into sepia.

The long, heavy sighs of the ignorant
in flux with the waves
behind the shutters--
deeply rooted in time-circles
and phantasmal places made up
(or forgotten?)
and colors
that stream like chalk in the storm
that was sure to come.

And then...
Rays upon the eyes
and cold feet on the hard old floor,
a knick and a shave...
and rubber oatmeal with stale, steamy coffee.

Genius
effaced like the star that blazed
ten million miles through heaven
and flickered and sank silent beneath the margin of sky.

To Love a Willow

For sturdier affections
some cage their hearts--
for limbs that are thicker,
to sand that's not so quick

for fear of a whim,
a pain, a tear
when sadness scars
like thin-skinned grapes
burst with new hurt.

The weepy, wispy willow cries
each time the reckless wind sighs
and the daytime is too hard on the eyes.

A risk, a chance...

Some are willing
to love a willow.
Others... are hollow.

...

Penumbral parade,
wax-dripping moon
scalding tenderness revealed
on a solo promenade
through time and back
to seasons underground
and wishing that breath
were less finite.

Acquainted trespassers,
silent pulsing
eyes of the cosmos
observe the same,
filled with winking and
telescopic chuckles.

Poetry, etc.

I thought I would share a little bit of my poetry here. Does the ability to write really inspired, moving poetry just come and go? I find that sometimes I am filled to the brim with creativity--poignant images, sharp words, impeccable form. When I can write like that, I feel like such a master of the English language that I can completely form and shape it into something that is mine and is beautiful, like a lump of clay in the hands of a potter. But then other times I get completely dried out, and nothing flows from my pen except a few awkward, flaking phrases that never bond to make a coherent piece.

When I wrote this in October 2003, my mind branded with the image of the bright orange pear trees outside my dorm window, I felt like a master.

Autumn

It comes in fire--
a polychromatic explosion
igniting first the tree-tops, then
spreading hungrily, swirling flames
ablaze in the air, excited
by infrequent gusts of wind,
a conflagration raining to the ground
and devouring the remnant of life
from months gone by--
yes, it comes in fire, terrific brilliance, but
leaves behind sheets of ash,
amassed in crevices and gutters,
ardor's cold dead residue.

The creativity that this poem sprung from--why can I not access it all the time? Will I really have to wait until fall to be this acutely alive to the earth again? I wish I knew some foolproof secret to being a poet every day, every moment.