Saturday, October 26, 2013

"For My Mother" (2006)

As i scrawled in the Black Book: "She gives me so much. I write her bad poetry."


If the world were a different place --
If I could have any thing -- I know
I'd want the wide sea in a silver bowl.
I'd want the moon on a golden chain,
And a glass of the scent of the grass when it rains.
I'd want a bowl of my mother's milk,
And a bottle of her tears --
I'd feed my mother apples and pears.
If the world were a different place,
I'd give my mother bread and wine.
I'd be a little vine
That twined around her waist
And bloomed in all the colors she loves best.
Oh, I'd have a bowl of my mother's milk,
And a bottle of her tears --
I'd want to soothe her skin with silk
And wash away her fears.
If the world were a different place
I'd reach into the deeps of space
And gather seven shining stars
And set them in my mother's hair --
I'd give my mother a crown of stars.
I'd give her a pearl for every year,
And a  rose for every day,
A yellow rose for every day
And a red rose on Sunday.

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

cat (bouts-rime ii)

cold nose curious whiskers     cat
discreet, white-mittened
steps precise as poured tea
sits proud     stares over grades
(its own estate complete)     late
sleeper, long napper    cold
eyes sliteyed peruse the noon
then s  t  r  e  t  c  h spine spunout glass
nose windowpresses     trees
outside whisper green green
whisper brown

Friday, October 11, 2013

Bouts-Rime I

A branch longfallen, rotting quietly
Serene among its fellows, by the creek --
Beneath, inscrutable and dry, a toad
Glares lidless. Somewhere a saucy finch
Details to the wide creekside society
His exploits of the day -- A fit of pique
(finches, you know, are flighty), and the load
Of his tune ends. A twitter and a pinch
And the wide sky is his road. His glide swells wider
Than all his boasts and chirps. He hops and skips
From wind to wind, a mirror to the water-striders.


Oh Child
Your eyes, so tender-wide
(I am not the first to draw this spiderline)

soft skin and tender petals
faintly fuzzed--
From Eve we have loved so, our similes
cut canyons --


the sweet hungry curve
your smallbird neck
stretched so fracturable-strong --

Your mouth, your twotooth smile
confidently sweet
as a wide, bright summer sky --
you bite

two teeth and gums
Into this life
Into this crisp and sweet --

Your little clouds blown past
You have not reached
the grainy, mealy bruise
the hard and bitter seeds --

Your birdmouth opens
hungry, wide
to bite this world
so new, so crisp, so sweet