sometimes

the things i don’t tell

you could fill a room

with questions

but they don’t.

instead our house is

filled with silence

as i waste my time

playing video games,

watching television,

reading poetry,

feeling guilty

about not making art—

hoping to find my voice

the things i don’t tell

you haunt our nights

as we fall asleep

to the sound of our breathing,

the crumple of sheets

as we turn our bodies

over and over

sometimes facing each other

sometimes side by side

sometimes quietly embraced.

excavation

they came looking for roots

tendril of family names

branching out into the striated past

constant rhizomatic search

you dig and

        you dig and you

dig deep into the bone of history

the spade glances off something hard

and resolute, all that force returns

to the unsteadied hand

you scrape away the top layer of dirt

and what is revealed is everything

you did not know

the past is a hidden country,

let’s say, the past hides

facts about our families:

this one married their niece,

that one abandoned their post,

this one was an angry drunk,

that one spent the family fortune,

this one died by lightning,

that one drowned in the river

under mysterious circumstances.

all of them had reasons

too complicated to write down—

the answers buried deeper

than you dare to dig.

and so the question

and so the question:

is there any way

you could let me know

when the moment is right

and you no longer so broken?

concert

i wanted to tell you

you played beautifully

tonight. as we gathered

in the living room

with friends and family.

we sang the old songs

with smiles and with tears

all our voices blended—

a deep sounding

we find the edges

of tradition, where

yesterday and the moment

meet. no need

to put it on the page

just let it find a home

in voices as they rejoice

in the stories of all of us,

the shared adventures of failure

and triumph, the ways we left

the motherland

an echo in every word.

the old songs

recovering the songs

is never easy

one generation

stops listening

one generation

stops singing

the words are emptied

and full of noise

they become a jumble

of vowels

a string of consonants—

nonsensical rhymes

is it possible to know

what the song is about

when we have no idea

what the words mean

find someone

who knows the old songs

pressure

there’s always pressure

determine direction

find a quiet place

perhaps a garden

perhaps a valley

with soft edges

where you can face decision

wait for answers

for questions without answers

squeezing the blood

hematidrosis

ready yourself

with what will you brace?

where did this start?

all this weight

might be a treasure

there is only so much

time to spend

carrying our little regrets

haemolacria

eyes diseased

you must wait rightly

fix your gaze

wade into the river

face the current

whether it pulls or pushes

follow it home

or let it bear you away

knocking

how fiercely we

protect ourselves.

we build walls

to keep pain

out and end

with only walls.

we were hurt

by love or

maybe “love.”

or were we?

maybe we simply

abandoned the field

of play, or battle.

i heard someone

once say that

love conquers all.

i try to believe

that. sometimes

i do. sometimes

i believe

the stories.

where love

has a name,

and it finds me,

finds a home

in my mouth.

somewhere

there is insistent

knocking.

will you rise

or remain hidden.

wind

you’re always

taking sides

your words

directionless

or rather

they lack

purpose

moved by wind

first one way

then another

you play

the middle

where

edges blur

advocating

mystery

or rather

a fog of opinions

wall full

of holes

nothing

bleeds through

you find

crooked paths

down

wards

distracted

by weeds

the garden

edged with flowers

that may

be useful

to offset

pests

small things

entering

every small

space

one way

or another

family

what a fragile and glorious thing

is family. so full of drama

and regret. ripe for hope.

we find so many ways to hurt

one another. through commission

or omission. you know how

we behave so monstrously.

and yet, there are moments of grace

where somehow none of that matters

or not at that moment. when

love is not just words

but releases itself in action,

pushing into our fear

and past all those years

of using words as weapons

or silence as leverage.

let family be a gift then,

and not a weight.

a basket, and not a net.

a joy, and not a burden.

quiet

the soft still voice

is so soft and still now

i wish it were not so

that i might be attuned

relearn how to attend

return to the source

where the song is birthed

where conversation begins

where i ask you questions

when you give me answers

searching

rhythm of the line plumbing against the measured response of belly and ache hiss along the spine when they find us in the throes of space edges towards the infinite proliferation of maybe

smell of power and this the gift of what may be or may not be a promise to hold the memory of you in the passing of flowers fading into the story of how everything becomes new again

drip drip drip of something wet stirred by the fantasy of possessing or surrender of choice cuts of me at the border of home and hearth fire instruments prodding the flesh of the past and where are you now?

the way things get done

slowly.

hands dirtied in pockets of time.

deeply.

uses and abuses and we all have secrets.

indeed.

find me another way of possible.

quietly.

there is so much work to be done.

finally.

this is the way to get things done.

bodies in motion

and then there is that moment

when i find myself moving beyond words

and imbedded in the smell of your skin

this is where i make the stories grow

as our breathing fills the room

and we are buried under this glorious sky

there is always the unexpected

joy of repetition as we return to this moment

wrapping our bodies around it with grace

names

there’s something about your name.

i wish i could say

it is always on my lips.

it is not.

it requires attention

to fix my thoughts on you.

a reminder of all that is good.

rehearsing the story

only gets me so far

searching for the edges

the threat of the sacred.

this is a sword

this is a sword

it has two edges

they are equally sharp

this is a symbol

a metaphor

for words

words need a home

a sheath of some sort

perhaps a body

we can share a bed

keep the lights on

lose ourselves

there are wounds

there are scars

we can share dreams

hope is an anchor

that too is a metaphor

let it be a home

fear is a sword

where is it buried

close that door

Conversations

I wish it could always be like this.

Good food and conversations

about art, deep and honest questions

exploring meaning and

the artist’s responsibility.

Passion and laughter fill the room

as we share the afternoon.

As it bleeds into evening

I only wish we could speak more

about all these things, more often,

openly. Engaging the ideas

that shape the world, that

challenge us to change, to begin

a different conversation again and again.

Morning

The morning brings its weight

as I sit and sip my coffee, and

butter my ontbijtkoek.

There’s still snow on the ground

and it’s mid-April.

No sign of tulips

or crocuses, only

patches of yellowed grass.

My wife joins me

in the silence of the house

for her quiet time--

books piled next to her,

tea hot and steeping.

My children sleep still

or are quietly reading.

This is a season change

the earth tilted 23.5 degrees

on its vertical axis,

northern hemisphere

tilted towards the sun

bathed in light.

I can only sit and wait--

describe the day,

break it into pieces.

the wood

i was trying to find the way

but at every turn i found

gates, chains, locks, walls.

even the windows shuttered.

my maps were useless,

friends’ directions insufficient,

sources of light sputtering.

it’s not because of storms

or wind or rain or other

atmospheric effects.

let me claim it was a spell,

some darkness named

and given free reign.

the way we plant a wood

out of abandoned hopes,

how we build a home out of pain.

changes

this is my membership

it entitles me to nothing

it is only a membership

a way to prove i belong

to a profession

it required only my name

and a job description

(and a small annual fee)

every year they remind me

you belong to a profession

they mention me by name

i reintroduce myself

describe what i do

where and for whom

very little usually changes

not even the annual fee

the sticker with the year

the only thing that changes

my name stays the same

the proof they require

they believe everything i say