flowers

as the poet reads,

all i can think of is flowers.

she reads like she is singing –

her voice drops and then lifts,

she gestures wide with her arms,

hands aflutter.

she obviously loves words.

she must enjoy rolling them around in her mouth,

trying them on for size,

utility, impact.

allusiveness.

i once dated a poet…

it did not go well.

i fell in love with how she put words together,

and misread their sharpness

(recognized myself in her

poetry twenty years later).

that’s why i do not trust poets.

they always expect words to do more than their fair share,

they use them to wear down your will,

to encircle you and

mount your defenses.

they are sorcerers

conjuring fantasies and promises,

cajoling us to see more than the words

and yet the words elusive;

they place us in chains

and chained to possible meanings,

all our hopes and dreams

held in their busy little hands,

offering us these bouquets.

gently, now

it’s all about the smaller gesture

whether dancing, or giving, or sex.

the intimate expressions of intention

and the hope of surrender

(or something like it).

i don’t trust anyone that tries that hard –

there’s something somehow desperate

and self-serving about extravagance.

better still to treat things as if they are delicate,

as if they are rare and beautiful and fragile,

like Fabergé eggs.

may these words be a gift to you,

from one royal to another royal;

let me be humble and you gracious.

let there be peace in the city

as you open them up;

let there be surprises

that bring a smile to your lips.

it can be a small smile –

perhaps even a sly smile.

we know what secrets we share.

we know these words

are larger on the inside,

there is always room for more.

triumphs

watching the boston marathon

i am astounded by these runners

surrounded by the shouts of crowds,

shrouded by legacy, lined up

like a procession -- with flags

instead of guns, or candles.

how long have they been running?

only a few short hours;

it is already almost the end.

as they near the finish,

their pace never slackens –

steps tick off the distance.

they are superhuman -

all of them pushing a boundary:

the body, the mind, the moment,

history.

some of them don’t even wear shoes.

i remember there were bombings there

only a few years ago.

the finish line filled with smoke and bodies

and parts of bodies.

for almost ten minutes after,

runners continued to cross

the finish line, unnoticed.

i have seen the resilience of people,

the way a city can dust itself off and rise again.

we can learn to wave our flags once more,

we can rediscover how to rejoice,

we can celebrate each other

and not live in fear.

let us not forget –

we’re still running.

choose the direction.

starting verses (haiku)

today is international haiku day - there's even a NaHaiWriMo every february.

some of these are brand new haikus, and some are reconfigurations of some previous lines of poetry. anyway...enjoy.

*

my poems are getting
shorter. everything
is more measured now.

*

this is the moment
promises are made lightly
and i hide from view.

*

some words were exchanged
and emotions hard bartered
for scraps of meaning.

*

please come home and spend
whatever time is required
to make your way clear.

*

lay down your burden
at your enemy’s feet
and find yourself alight.

*

you are mostly empty
space and light traversing
the gap between hearts.

*

then come take my hand
and eat the words i lift to
your lips with longing.

*

the only thing known
to shift story from whispers
to a memory.

*

this and this and this
longing and desire for joy –
a settled embrace.

*

walking the slow path,
i stop to smell a flower –
a reminder of you.

*

the way to carve space
is to assign it new names
and set it loosely.

*

i only wanted this –
this thing i now desire –
this unending joy.

*

your mouth, delicate,
dances lightly across skin
all electrical.

*

the way a shell breaks
and light enters like a thief;
each desperate thought.

*

and then the flag raised
and trumpets sounding the depths
as we brace ourselves.

*

the earth will own me,
will claim my songs as ransom,
a verse to all change.

*

my face set like flint
against or towards mountains
and valleys and seas.

*

until our bodies press
next to time and flesh weakens,
spirit and blood rise.

*

again, the promise
to have and to hold and to
never walk away.

*

again the path, again
the light and sound of drumming,
echoing the bones.

*

and thus I am known,
and perhaps rejected, and
perhaps too, embraced.

seeds

it’s an honour to see you

during these beautiful moments

of frustration.

                      you’d like to pretend

that doesn’t ever happen,

you’d like to

                    take those moments back –

recognize they are seeds

sown into the future.

make sure it is good soil

in which they find purchase.

make sure

                  you know to whom

the field belongs,

that the object of your longing

is worth your regret.