Watermark

Snapshot Poem | 22 April 02013

 

In the late evening, when I go to close
the shutters, I see the cold moon
in the eastern sky. Snow, still,
in shadowed places.

My dog is going deaf. He takes
the stairs with care. The cat,
startled, leaves bloody slashes
along my arm. I scar easily.

I wrap myself in my house, like
an old, favored sweater. Well-
worn, shabby, stained.
Comfortable. Familiar.

Shall I think the best of you and so
be taken for a fool? Or the worst,
and so be safely cynical,
sophisticated, shuttered-in.

 

Poem-a-Day #7

 

Stranded

stranded along the road. Too soon, their laughter
rises and goes
"Not the Song, but After" by Nicholas Friedman

I went out in the night
to look at the moon
but I couldn’t find it.

I scanned the horizon
from east to west
but the only light

was electric, making
a shimmer of falling
snow. Too soon,

I was cold and turned
away, leaving the moon
alone in its fortress

of clouds, and entering
my own.

 

 

Poem-a-Day #6

Today's prompt was from a poem by Linda Hogan, one of my favorite poets and favorite people.

 

Measures

The weight of a man on a woman
is like falling into the river without drowning.
"Two" by Linda Hogan


There are things that can’t be measured or weighed.

The length of a liar’s tongue.

The number of nudges required to push
a specific person off a particular ledge.

The weight of a man on a woman who loves him
compared the weight of the same man
on a woman who does not.

The number of stones a single heart can hold
without drowning. Stars in the universe, feral
cats in the woods, fallen sparrows.

The speed and trajectory of a kind or hurtful word.

The number of molecules in the scent of lust.

The location and direction of a particle
at once. How many moments it takes
to make a life.

How many wounds to take one.

 

 

Poem-a-Day #5

[I remind myself that the goal is not to write, every day, a masterful, moving, original poem; a suggestion, a hint of a poem, is enough.]

 

Edges

There will be no edges, but curves.
"Sci-Fi" by Tracy K Smith

there are no edges
our eyes are not engineered
to see the embrace of molecules
that everything is just
one thing

 

 

Poem-a-Day #4

This one is the most challenging I've tried in ages, and it's nowhere near done. CRITIQUES WELCOME. 

 

Belief

First, all belief is paradise. So pliable a medium. A time not very long.
“Monday” by Lisa Robertson


Five days I sat on the ground
in the Carnival Man’s booth. Such
delicacy bloomed from his mouth,
his hands, from fire, from thin
rods of glass. I watched him make
ponies and cats, spotted giraffes,
ballerinas with pink slippers.

He spoke to me in a language
I did not know, but understood:
caballo, gato, jirafa, bailarin.
He sold them. But at the end
of each day, there was one for me.
For my attention. For my desire.

Fragile treasures, too ornate
for beauty, but pleasing to a child’s
eye. Time – dust and dusters, cats
and the curious, covetous hands
of children – made them dangerous.

The pony lost its head, the ballerina
cannot stand. Mended and broken
and mended again, sharp-edged
and enticing, too pretty for boisterous
life, unbalanced, they lean against
the back of the antique china cabinet.