Friday, April 30, 2021

cento for april 2021

it’s late, and it’s time
for being threatened with death.
beneath the skin,
i practise all the reminders.
i am looking for fresh words,
small promises.
i’m not convinced
and head to the kitchen.
i say too much, and
it empties us more—
the weakness trying
to explore and mark
our stores
before we forget them.
what is there beyond heat?
birds,
the weight of words;
have we forgotten
you, love, and all the ones you hate?
it was sunny and
i found a secret door
for beauty.
the grass will be green,
even now.
you asked me to dance,
or someone did.
maybe there is still more to say:
old things can be renewed.
i’m not yet dried out.
let’s try this again.

Thursday, April 29, 2021

on resilience

these days
one often speaks
of resilience
 
but all this weeping
has dried me out,
made me brittle
 
i no longer have the energy
required for all this—
elasticity is a finite thing
 
we are not without measure
our hands cannot always be extended
across all this distance
 
we move against each other
in so many different ways;
like a river redounding
 
we keep looking for space
some center of stillness—
the borders keep shifting
 
we grow tired of the same arguments;
look for ways to withdraw from the world,
this wild whirling gasp
 
find someone whose hand fits in yours,
or yours in theirs—
dare to speak the words

Wednesday, April 28, 2021

Standards and Guidelines

They took it apart
slowly, piece by piece.
One piece at a time—
labeling them clearly,
piling them neatly,
placing them gently.
They drew up the plans
and captured each step
of the deconstruction
for the reconstruction.
 
There’s a lot of trust
required of you
for tearing down
anything one loves.
History is a weight
not so easily displaced.
Losing even a small thing
can impact integrity
regardless of foundations.
 
You must make sure
to place each element
where it belongs.
Clear away the dust.
Refresh all the surfaces.
Clean all the edges.
Old things can be renewed.
They need not fall apart.

Tuesday, April 27, 2021

Failures

Sometimes people are exhausting.
 
Expectation is a trap.
 
That time we stopped talking.
 
I have always walked with a limp.
 
I’ve always been an internal processor.
 
Please see your dentist on the regular.
 
There are some things from which you don’t recover.
 
That night you never came to bed.
 
We spend too much time rehearsing arguments.
 
We have all played the waiting game.
 
I bear the weight of too many transgressions.
 
How many times have you said the wrong name?
 
Maybe there is still more to say.
 
Maybe we should both walk away.

Monday, April 26, 2021

failing

sometimes
you just need
someone
to say it:
you are good.
 
not just good—
really good.
 
i mean really,
really good.
 
so good
it hurts.
 
especially when
you fail, or
feel you’re failing
 
or keep failing, or
flailing
 
in the fields,
filled
 
with promises,
or regrets,
 
or maybe
both
 
and.

Sunday, April 25, 2021

Testing

You asked me to dance
and I wanted to dance.
 
You asked me to sing
but I didn’t know the words.
 
You asked me to love you
and I didn’t know how.
 
You spoke of friendship
but we never really spoke.
 
About the heart—
is it desperately wicked?
 
Or merely deceitful?
It is full of grasping.
 
I constantly fool myself.
Hold onto the wrong thing.
 
I have played the fool
too many times to count.
 
I am so full of foolishness—
Incandescent.
 
Bones burning within me
in the depths of silence.
 
Lay me on the anvil.
Fashion me a sword
 
or leave me a ploughshare.
Just break the skin.

Saturday, April 24, 2021

My first poem

I don’t remember
when I first fell in love
with poetry.
Every grade had poetry;
every year we wrote
a poem. 
              Or two.
But there was never a moment
when poetry stood up and
announced itself to me.
                                      Or two.
 
I do remember,
however, discovering
e. e. cummings—
for the first time
poetry seemed playful,
or that t(here was a mystery)
to be discovered;
that language was
a puzzle
to be put together
and taken apart
to be put together.
Even now,
he and Donne remain
my favourite sonneteers.
Sonneticists? Sonneticians?
(O! no disrespect
  to Shakespeare
                           intended)
 
Remember:
to fall in love with poetry
requires you to keep reading
poetry, to remember words,
ways to shape them—
to sow poems like seeds,
to perhaps hand them
to a loved one,
or a stranger.

Friday, April 23, 2021

spring

i don’t prefer it
when it is sunny and cold;
it confuses me.
in the morning
there is a dusting of snow
and frost on the windows,
and by noon it is gone.
that’s spring! they say,
but i don’t prefer it.
it’s probably not
climate change
but maybe
i need more data.
there’s always been snow
in April – it’s spring!
what we need is rain;
moisture in any form
is still useful
and necessary.
i need to know
there will be flowers,
the trees will bud,
the grass will green,
ladybugs and bees
will do their work.
it will still be cold
in the morning
and warm by noon.
we will wear our layers
until it is summer again.
maybe we will meet outside
at the picnic tables,
go for walks again,
talk about the weather—
how short summer is;
how long the winter.

Thursday, April 22, 2021

endings

i’m forgetting
all the words of
my favourite songs.
i pray in silence
as i walk. i’m not
in any hurry.
there are fewer
conversations
between us now.
sometimes silence
makes it simpler;
though not easier.
everything requires
more effort from me.
i’m prepared to give.
i haven’t read
a good book
in a long time.
lately, there is
only poetry. and
not enough of it.
i want for beauty.
language that lifts
off the page.--
burnt offerings
that fill my belly,
turn me to ashes.
o, that i could
remember each word
that moves me.
but there’s no point.
i’d only remember
the arguments.
so here’s a flower.
i have nothing else left.
let that be the end of it.

Wednesday, April 21, 2021

perhaps

today i found a secret door
i did not open it
 
some things should remain hidden
but not all things
 
i wanted to whisper all my secrets
Into your ear
 
you kept turning your head
turning my secrets into kisses
 
or perhaps i turned our kisses
into secrets
 
or (perhaps) the door should remain closed
or (perhaps) i still want to open it
 
or (perhaps) i’m tired of secrets
or (perhaps) i’ve grown hard of hearing
 
i keep running into doors
and never through them
 
i have the bruises as witnesses
they speak to me at night
 
until all i can think of is your mouth
the way you say my name

Tuesday, April 20, 2021

river

that it was sunny
meant only that
it was sunny and
we went for a walk
 
we went walking
along the river
among the trees
in the coolness
 
covered in shade
beside the river
we stood in silence
 
touching hands
standing silent
as the sun sets
 
the river sounds
like rubbing hands
 
trying to warm

Monday, April 19, 2021

waiting is the hardest part

what does it mean to be
doing poets’ work?
and how do you know
when the work is done?
 
are there fan clubs?
will there be letters
with dried flowers,
perfumes, gift cards?
 
assuming only those moved
will put in the effort
to reach out, how safe
are these communications?
 
i want to tell you each poem
is the result of you listening
to the voice beneath the voice
nestling in your ear.
 
go ahead and buy the book.
you can tear out all the poems
you love, and all the one you hate.
fold them up and put them in your pockets.
 
then forget you put them there.
let them surprise you some morning
making new shapes, unbidden,
binding us together with secrets.
 
become so full of words
they spill onto the floor
until you are emptied of words
and able to be still.