4/30/12
Today is the last day of my 30 poems in 30 days month of April. Also, it is the last day for my family in the Bay Area. The movers come tomorrow morning. I have a lot to say about leaving, but not a whole lot of time to filter it. So, I leave with one last poem. (My internet will be off as of ten this morning, so while I will still write tomorrow and this week, it may be spotty as to when I can get it up on the blog).
30/30
(a found poem, images from 622 43rd St. Richmond, CA. as I woke this morning)
The floorboard nearest the bedroom door
creaks like a grandmother's admonition.
The daddy long-legs in the corner of the bathroom ceiling
by the window, here so long he's become part of the family.
My daughter greets him when she wakes: "good morning
long legs, good morning."
The morning sun illuminates the rumples in her bedcovers,
pillows look more like they were wrestled than slept on.
It is too dark in this living room, blinds forever drawn
for lack of trust in the neighborhood.
The yard is overgrown now, behind an eight foot fence
but in the morning light, with the sound of Richmond
behind: interstate 80, an ambulance siren, a car alarm,
it is a harborage. It is spring, the birds all sing their farewells
at once, this is how I will remember.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Year of writing 119. 29/30
4/29/12
29/30
Oakland 1
I breathe slowly through clenched teeth
bullets have no place here, I think.
I ask with shallow voice, scream into
my elbow when no one can hear.
I walk the shore of a dirty lake,
exotic birds, local shame.
I watch the fog from this side of the bay,
wonder why its treasure is hidden.
I hold my children tight today,
tell them all to dream of acorns and sun.
I leave tomorrow with clenched teeth,
a bullet between; a memento from you.
29/30
Oakland 1
I breathe slowly through clenched teeth
bullets have no place here, I think.
I ask with shallow voice, scream into
my elbow when no one can hear.
I walk the shore of a dirty lake,
exotic birds, local shame.
I watch the fog from this side of the bay,
wonder why its treasure is hidden.
I hold my children tight today,
tell them all to dream of acorns and sun.
I leave tomorrow with clenched teeth,
a bullet between; a memento from you.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Year of writing 118. 28/30
4/28/30
28/30
Voices sound different in rooms
devoid of that which we collect.
There is nothing to absorb the echo,
to soften the edges of words. When
this house is finally empty of everything,
when it is just me and the walls, I will
tell myself this is for the best. I will say
this one last time, and I will listen for
the echo, for the sincerity on that razor's edge.
28/30
Voices sound different in rooms
devoid of that which we collect.
There is nothing to absorb the echo,
to soften the edges of words. When
this house is finally empty of everything,
when it is just me and the walls, I will
tell myself this is for the best. I will say
this one last time, and I will listen for
the echo, for the sincerity on that razor's edge.
Year of writing 117. 27/30
4/27/12
Tonight the sky split like
pomegranates, each star
spilling from the pithy dark.
I held two in my palms,
we spoke of dust and precious
stones; the things we keep.
I left them by the curb
in the soupy darkness, walked
backwards until I only saw night.
Tonight the sky split like
pomegranates, each star
spilling from the pithy dark.
I held two in my palms,
we spoke of dust and precious
stones; the things we keep.
I left them by the curb
in the soupy darkness, walked
backwards until I only saw night.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Year of Writing 116. 26/30
4/26/30
26/30
"One man's trash..." she said throatily,
like an excuse, her hand a dry leaf
fluttering near her face. She was small,
her head barely reached the lip of
our rented dumpster, tiptoes on rusty
steel. She poked around with a broken
curtain rod like a sad avocet, turning over
trashed shelving and dirty diapers.
"Is that a nail file?" I heard her croak
from my back yard. "I can never
understand why people spend so much
money on their nails."
I opened the gate and called out.
"Are you talking to me?"
"Sweetheart, I'm talking to anyone
who will listen. Is that a bag of flour?"
"Yeah, it's no good. I found it in the
back of our cupboard, it's been there forever."
"That's what they say about me, guy."
26/30
"One man's trash..." she said throatily,
like an excuse, her hand a dry leaf
fluttering near her face. She was small,
her head barely reached the lip of
our rented dumpster, tiptoes on rusty
steel. She poked around with a broken
curtain rod like a sad avocet, turning over
trashed shelving and dirty diapers.
"Is that a nail file?" I heard her croak
from my back yard. "I can never
understand why people spend so much
money on their nails."
I opened the gate and called out.
"Are you talking to me?"
"Sweetheart, I'm talking to anyone
who will listen. Is that a bag of flour?"
"Yeah, it's no good. I found it in the
back of our cupboard, it's been there forever."
"That's what they say about me, guy."
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Year of Writing 115. 25/30
4/25/12
The kind of tired that sneaks
into your house through the vents.
It hides in your vertebrae, behind your eyelids,
in the third joint of your little finger.
It whispers to you in the voice of your mother,
your sisters. It asks for soft things.
It shushes you when you speak, slides
thin fingers over your shoulders.
It smells like old books and rain, it's breath
scratches down your neck. Soft, it says. Soft.
The kind of tired that sneaks
into your house through the vents.
It hides in your vertebrae, behind your eyelids,
in the third joint of your little finger.
It whispers to you in the voice of your mother,
your sisters. It asks for soft things.
It shushes you when you speak, slides
thin fingers over your shoulders.
It smells like old books and rain, it's breath
scratches down your neck. Soft, it says. Soft.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Year of writing 114. 24/30
4/24/12
24/30
It was a red night when he came down from the tree.
No one knew how long he had been up there, we'd just
catch glimpses on balmy evenings while fireflies drowned
their lights against the pale yellow glow emanating from
cracked plastic covering on the porchlight. A bristle-twitched
tail, a tufted ear, nothing more. Interest waned, people went
on about their business: filling bottles with sand, chewing
leather, brushing the down from their shoulders. His
entrance was uneventful, a chattering lost amongst the
howling from the changeling in the bedroom. Ma saw him
first, scooped him up in one hand and didn't let go for the
entire night. She's still there now, cooing and feeding him hazelnuts.
24/30
It was a red night when he came down from the tree.
No one knew how long he had been up there, we'd just
catch glimpses on balmy evenings while fireflies drowned
their lights against the pale yellow glow emanating from
cracked plastic covering on the porchlight. A bristle-twitched
tail, a tufted ear, nothing more. Interest waned, people went
on about their business: filling bottles with sand, chewing
leather, brushing the down from their shoulders. His
entrance was uneventful, a chattering lost amongst the
howling from the changeling in the bedroom. Ma saw him
first, scooped him up in one hand and didn't let go for the
entire night. She's still there now, cooing and feeding him hazelnuts.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Year of writing 113. 23/30
4/23/12
23/30
I've never slept well.
As a boy I'd wait for all
the house sounds to stop,
one by one as my family
eased themselves down.
When the last creak
of the last bedspring
and the last guttural,
rumbling throat cleared,
the dripping could be heard.
It was a slow leak in the
kitchen faucet. Barely noticeable
by day, the droplets hung suspended
almost cruelly long before
splashing down onto the stainless
steel. I'd begin by counting.
1
2
3
4
The space in between drips
never varied, but seemed to increase
in length nonetheless. I began
to create stories in those spaces,
tales sprouting up like Oxalis in the
winter, only to be cut short by
the next drip. I never finished a story
between those liquid splashes.
I suppose if I had, sleep would
have come easy and soft.
These days in the dark, when the
breathing around me slows,
these days I sing songs of rivers
and oceans; I sing songs of deluge
and cascade. These days there
is no space for stories.
23/30
I've never slept well.
As a boy I'd wait for all
the house sounds to stop,
one by one as my family
eased themselves down.
When the last creak
of the last bedspring
and the last guttural,
rumbling throat cleared,
the dripping could be heard.
It was a slow leak in the
kitchen faucet. Barely noticeable
by day, the droplets hung suspended
almost cruelly long before
splashing down onto the stainless
steel. I'd begin by counting.
1
2
3
4
The space in between drips
never varied, but seemed to increase
in length nonetheless. I began
to create stories in those spaces,
tales sprouting up like Oxalis in the
winter, only to be cut short by
the next drip. I never finished a story
between those liquid splashes.
I suppose if I had, sleep would
have come easy and soft.
These days in the dark, when the
breathing around me slows,
these days I sing songs of rivers
and oceans; I sing songs of deluge
and cascade. These days there
is no space for stories.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Year of writing 112. 22/30
4/22/12
22/30
"Medusa" by Isla.
Things were different for her then,
before the sword and the mirrored shield.
She was all smiles and garden ornaments,
serpentine tea parties on the veranda.
She thought he may have been a suitor,
the day he came, proud and bouncing
on his toes. Didn't notice the winking steel.
She'd realize it wouldn't matter much
if her head had the capability
in that sack, none of her lovers ever
could look her in the eye anyway.
22/30
Things were different for her then,
before the sword and the mirrored shield.
She was all smiles and garden ornaments,
serpentine tea parties on the veranda.
She thought he may have been a suitor,
the day he came, proud and bouncing
on his toes. Didn't notice the winking steel.
She'd realize it wouldn't matter much
if her head had the capability
in that sack, none of her lovers ever
could look her in the eye anyway.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Year of writing 111. 21/30
4/21/12
21/30
In those sad hours,
when time seems to
spin like rotary phones,
look up to the ceiling
and trace the cracks there
with your eyes. These are
not times to unravel,
not times for bluster and lurching.
Do you feel your hands?
They are attached to your body,
remember this. Follow
the crack in the ceiling
to a corner cobweb.
Let your gaze linger there
awhile. They are not just
accumulations, they hold this
room up. Fill your lungs to the
point of panic. Now relax,
feel the embrace of your chest,
the expansion inside has limits,
there are rules to this. Trust them.
There is a window on the wall.
It is large and contains no glass.
Open it anyway, it is your heart.
Outside is a menagerie.
The animals are not making a sound.
No matter, listen to their silence, they are your teeth.
You still own your tongue, you always have.
Tilt your face upward, feel the sun on your cheek.
Where it was wet, it is no more.
Brush the salt from your face
onto your palm. Save this
for bland days when your teeth
lie sleeping. Save this for days
when the sun hides ashamed.
Save this for days when you have
security-barred your heart, and
your lungs can't be contained
in your chest. Save this for days
when your hands float carelessly away.
Remember the cobwebs.
Remember the salt.
Remember your eyes.
Remember your hands.
21/30
In those sad hours,
when time seems to
spin like rotary phones,
look up to the ceiling
and trace the cracks there
with your eyes. These are
not times to unravel,
not times for bluster and lurching.
Do you feel your hands?
They are attached to your body,
remember this. Follow
the crack in the ceiling
to a corner cobweb.
Let your gaze linger there
awhile. They are not just
accumulations, they hold this
room up. Fill your lungs to the
point of panic. Now relax,
feel the embrace of your chest,
the expansion inside has limits,
there are rules to this. Trust them.
There is a window on the wall.
It is large and contains no glass.
Open it anyway, it is your heart.
Outside is a menagerie.
The animals are not making a sound.
No matter, listen to their silence, they are your teeth.
You still own your tongue, you always have.
Tilt your face upward, feel the sun on your cheek.
Where it was wet, it is no more.
Brush the salt from your face
onto your palm. Save this
for bland days when your teeth
lie sleeping. Save this for days
when the sun hides ashamed.
Save this for days when you have
security-barred your heart, and
your lungs can't be contained
in your chest. Save this for days
when your hands float carelessly away.
Remember the cobwebs.
Remember the salt.
Remember your eyes.
Remember your hands.
Friday, April 20, 2012
Year of writing 110. 20/30
4/20/12
I want to let go
of all these balloon
strings, fall into your
breakwater arms and
breathe like sleep.
I want to be a rag doll;
you to be six years old.
Velveteen Rabbit me,
love me threadbare and
missing stuffing.
I want to be the pause
in your speech, the involuntary
catch in your throat when you
see something beautiful
in the corner of your eye.
I want to be the grass
at your feet, evening shaded
blue. Sink your toes here,
it's been a long day and it's
fixing to be a beautiful night.
I want to let go
of all these balloon
strings, fall into your
breakwater arms and
breathe like sleep.
I want to be a rag doll;
you to be six years old.
Velveteen Rabbit me,
love me threadbare and
missing stuffing.
I want to be the pause
in your speech, the involuntary
catch in your throat when you
see something beautiful
in the corner of your eye.
I want to be the grass
at your feet, evening shaded
blue. Sink your toes here,
it's been a long day and it's
fixing to be a beautiful night.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Year of Writing 109. 19/30
4/19/12
I fall in and out of love with rigid form poetry. Right now I love it, and the freedom that it allows within the constraints. Here is a Welsh form of poetry called an englyn cyrch. Look here: http://www.thepoetsgarret.com/celtic2.html#eng. In short, it has four seven-syllable lines with lines 1,2, and 4 rhyming. Line 3 rhymes with an internal segment of line 4.
Concrete and metal abide
plants and trees are pushed aside
smelted chain link at the core
where the poor people reside
I fall in and out of love with rigid form poetry. Right now I love it, and the freedom that it allows within the constraints. Here is a Welsh form of poetry called an englyn cyrch. Look here: http://www.thepoetsgarret.com/celtic2.html#eng. In short, it has four seven-syllable lines with lines 1,2, and 4 rhyming. Line 3 rhymes with an internal segment of line 4.
| Englyn Cyrch for E. 14th. |
Concrete and metal abide
plants and trees are pushed aside
smelted chain link at the core
where the poor people reside
Year of writing 108. 18/30
4/18/12
18/30
The vinyl spins.
There is an empty glass
near the turntable -
this is what it sounds like
inside the headphones
before the needle drops.
The needle drops.
The warm crackle of
empty space before the
song is a familiar bed.
I'd like to rest in this sound
awhile. It is home.
18/30
The vinyl spins.
There is an empty glass
near the turntable -
this is what it sounds like
inside the headphones
before the needle drops.
The needle drops.
The warm crackle of
empty space before the
song is a familiar bed.
I'd like to rest in this sound
awhile. It is home.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Year of writing 107. 17/30
4/17/12
On Fridays the team wore ties. Most
were handed down from me, same
with the oversized, ill-fitting button-ups.
Delvon said he'd only worn one twice
before, two funerals. The funerals didn't
stop, he remarked, just the desire to dress up
for something that happens all the time.
I never thought I'd smile with a tie on,
never thought it would look right.
On Fridays the team wore ties. Most
were handed down from me, same
with the oversized, ill-fitting button-ups.
Delvon said he'd only worn one twice
before, two funerals. The funerals didn't
stop, he remarked, just the desire to dress up
for something that happens all the time.
I never thought I'd smile with a tie on,
never thought it would look right.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Year of writing 106. 16/30
4/16/12
16/30
Sandbox Isla Villanelle
Shoes off, hair wild in the sand
She sinks her toes down to the cool
makes granules bend to her demand
Castles sprout across her land
She smashes those who doubt her rule
Shoes off, hair wild in the sand
A three layer cake, watch it stand!
A broken branch her only tool
Makes granules bend to her demand
A battle waged, evil rats have her outmanned
The leader spies her, eyes glow cruel
Shoes off, hair wild in the sand
The rodent onslaught she withstands
Just one left, she calls a duel
Makes granules bend to her demand
A tiger trap, a hole! She had it planned
She shakes her head at the ratty fool
Shoes off, hair wild in the sand
Makes granules bend to her demand
16/30
Sandbox Isla Villanelle
Shoes off, hair wild in the sand
She sinks her toes down to the cool
makes granules bend to her demand
Castles sprout across her land
She smashes those who doubt her rule
Shoes off, hair wild in the sand
A three layer cake, watch it stand!
A broken branch her only tool
Makes granules bend to her demand
A battle waged, evil rats have her outmanned
The leader spies her, eyes glow cruel
Shoes off, hair wild in the sand
The rodent onslaught she withstands
Just one left, she calls a duel
Makes granules bend to her demand
A tiger trap, a hole! She had it planned
She shakes her head at the ratty fool
Shoes off, hair wild in the sand
Makes granules bend to her demand
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