A day
Writing and sitting and writing and
sitting and writing and sitting
And so on.
With others
Read
the same poems but hear them differently
Read my poems and hear them
differently.
Write
White
Lies
On
a page
What is truth?
Where does it reside?
In a full
bladder?
In a sleeping foot?
In a crystal Buddha?
Breathe in
the smell of ink
Hear the sounds of pens
See people gathered
around
A flower
A pile of bones
A towering vase filled with tears
Gaze raised to the silent eager faces
Intent on capturing the
moment.
Be still
Feel the tension
Settle
Relax
Open slowly.
The sharp edge of sadness
Rubs against the grain
Slices through formal logic
And opens up my heart.
The edge of the seat
Holds my butt
Suspended
Balls
dangle against fabric
Cock trapped in the folds
Held back lest
it spring forth with sensation
Crying for attention
Ignored
Shut
down
The flow blocked
Drowning in silence
Make room for
quiet rage.
Sleep throws its blanket
around me
And wraps me tightly.
In the middle of a thought
I
find myself
Asleep.
Sadness fills my
eyes to overflowing
Calm tears watch the birds sitting on sprung
branches
Gentle hands hold a cup of tea tangy with the scent of
infused flowers.
Dad tells tales of
parents, aunts and uncles
All but one or two now dead
Yet they
were so alive last week
When you spoke of them to me.
I see
them still in us today
They are our own
Personal stories.
How hard
It is
To hug
Someone
You
love
When they
Need it
The most.
The sky grows dark.
The window, a small square, frames the
transformers.
Where are the rainbows?
Tall skeleton of radio
transmitter,
A techno-trident cutting through the lines of power,
Reaching toward the heavens,
Giving the dralas a way to come here.
A prayer wheel of poets
Sweeps its arc around the room
The dragon is at the center of the circle
Banishing all fear, all hope, all doubt.