House Of Spring
Hundreds of open flowers
all come from
the one branch
Look
all their colors
appear in my garden
I open the clattering gate
and in the wind
I see
the spring sunlight
already it has reached
worlds with out number
–Muso Soseki, Japan
Poems
South
the stench wafts up
something indistinguishable
against your will
you taste the air
trying to identify the smell
what is that
putrid garbage onions
slowly you sniff sniff snuff
until a big whiff chokes you up
like the burning of bleach
gasping for a sterile breath
i live in a prison of you
The Ceiling
The view swallows me whole
from down here
it’s cold
i look up
into the light
outlining my hands with darkness
as i reach
past my station
and my level
and my class
and my knowing
into tomorrow
pushing a lil further
the sticky bits of yesterday’s dreams
clung to my skin
broken stems of possibilities
scrape and bleed
past more dusty realities
ineffable
straining my arms until they were sore…
further still
To The Us
To the us we
never needed to be
To the ends
and tentative beginnings
To the leavings
and returns
To everyday in between the then and now
To Ophelia
Doubt thou the stars are fire,
Doubt that the sun doth move,
Doubt truth to be a liar,
But never doubt I love.
O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers. I have not art to reckon my groans, but that I love thee best, oh, most best, believe it. Adieu.
Thine evermore, most dear lady,
whilst this machine is to him,
Hamlet.
–William Shakespeare
The Real Has No Eascape
reality is slippery
sand in my hands
eluding
The real recedes every morning
until
I’m not sure what I live in
Everywhere
in the eyes that stare
in the crisp air
in a stranger’s hair
the way he sits in a chair
in my reverie
lurking
i see you everywhere
Football
I take the snap from the center,
fake to the right, fade back…
I’ve got protection.
I’ve got a receiver open downfield…
What the hell is this?
This isn’t a football, it’s a shoe, a man’s brown leather oxford.
A cousin to a football maybe,
the same skin,
but not the same,
a thing made for the earth,
not the air.
I realize that this is a world where anything is possible
and I understand,
also,
that one often has to make do with what one has.
I have eaten pancakes, for instance, with that clear corn syrup on them because there was no maple syrup and they weren’t very good.
Well,
anyway,
this is different. (My man
downfield is waving his arms.)
One has certain responsibilities,
one has to make choices.
This isn’t right and I’m not going
to throw it.
–by Louis Jenkins
Let’s Be Weak
telling someone to be strong
is like telling a building to be still in a hurricane
only the trunk
that bends to the wind
can weather the storm
don’t be afraid to watch someone crumble
don’t be afraid to be on the bottom
build yourself back up with tears of grieving
or dancing for bricks
learn to bend like bamboo
and backsides
swivel the weight around your hips
like a hula hoop
if the world is too much for your shoulders
The Poetry Corner 