This week's poems range widely over the landscape of my poet's brain, from simple appreciation of the natural world to a world where human beings mess it up. There is no accounting for where my head goes when I sit down to write. I just sit and consider the prompt each day, waiting and watching for the ink to begin. Hope you find something here to inspire you or to make you think.
Day 8
In the Offing (Monhegan #15)
See how heat rises
out of the ocean, proof
the sky loves what’s hidden
under moving glass. Origami
birds and fishes do the birdy-fishy
things they do, swept
by currents above, below.
Fire kites, death lanterns
to celebrate lives extinguished
by loneliness. Every ocean’s a magnet,
every river pulled along by the moon
with no particular harbor in mind.
Day 9
Morning
The heron, arriving
at a canvas of pure titanium,
lights — an elegant pose,
not unlike you stepping
from the bath, gleaming.
Beads of perfume
fill the steamy air
as you move into morning.
If a bird or a girl lights
with grace upon white,
then blue begins to burn
away, the peach sun rises
like a smile. The world begins
again, freshened and pure.
Day 10
Swim
The ocean she swims is not blue
or green, is the grey
most people think of as winter.
Its surface bulges over her back, legs
as she pushes out beyond
every frantic person on shore.
No longer a we, she is braver
than moments ago. She fears
nothing where yesterday every sky
felt like wool pressing against her face.
She is free of every part of herself
that was made of lead, of glass.
No moon rising over the lips of sea
will again cast a sad glance
at her empty eyes, or spread its cold hand
on the water, palm up to beckon
her drowning. Safe now, she will swim miles
without fatigue, limbs light as sea smoke.
Rolling like tide, she becomes new, the kiss,
the embrace, the old problems bell buoys,
ringing warnings. She ticks off the markers,
swims without looking back,
not hearing his voice faint from shore
telling her he is sorry, he’ll give it another try.
Day 11
Favors
There are always people here
asking for favors: cups of sugar
not the thing asked these days.
The favors are greater
than sugar or quarts of milk,
require parts of me be given: a lock
of hair, a promise of time I’d saved
for you. I’ve been asked to jump
from a waterfall into shallow water,
unsure of my own survival, asked
to write lies, to ride someone else’s dragon.
When I’ve refused, I’ve been asked
to capture fireflies in jars, butterflies in nets,
though I believe in freedom.
I have been caught in jars and nets, have struck
against the glass until my wings broke.
Poets should never spin nets of sugar,
but serve their favors plain,
or with cups and cups of rain.
Day 12
Sky
The sky is not a ceiling over my head,
not an umbrella opening or closing with weather.
It is a place where battles rage, where God
wins or loses depending on rough seas
and wind he invented to broom the atmosphere
of debris and mistakes. I heard from an expert
that you could get clobbered by angels
if you presume to fly, if you go
to the realm they were given as a token
of appreciation for all they do for the world.
No wonder then, that sometimes planes
drop out of the sky, just like that. No bird strike
to the engines, it’s cherubim, seraphim playing tag,
and you’re it. No allee allee in free for you
who dare to go where you are not invited.
The sky is not ceiling, not umbrella
but a place filled with citizens
who have a right to their own place.
Day 13
Gravity
The mask is the center of gravity
a heavy thing that’s grown
as you have. Mask on a mask,
your clown face is peeling, red
painted mouth turning upside down
when you relax or sleep. Under
porcelain cheeks, wet tears
corrode your skin to a kind of rust,
itch and sting. No wonder
you stay in motion, smiling
then going a bit crazy when it’s hot
or cold or someone thinks
you’re who you’re not. Come
from underneath this thing,
this grave thing you’re wearing
and see how breezes can turn tears
to lickable salt. Taste your real life,
discover the sun in your eyes
does not blind you. Try on your face,
find out who recognizes you.
Day 14
With Liberty and Justice for ...
The liberty bell stopped ringing
when it cracked, thudded to a dull
note, louder than a headache.
It’s more about the crack
than liberty when anyone’s freedom
gets mixed with crazy & out of control.
You can defend liberty to the death
until death comes along
your street in the dark, until
your child becomes death.
It’s all about the crack
when we sink back into the oozing fear
that once split us. Call that fear liberty,
see the split in the bell widen, one
lie at a time. Legislated away
one right at a time, see liberty
(and justice for all) dull and go.
We have liberty of course, you say:
ringing like bells, waving like flags,
marching like parades.
We sing it, wear it on tee-shirts,
fly it from porches, visit it at shrines to itself,
touch its cold metal. But in the crack,
deep in the crack, it’s still dark,
growing something
that looks like a monster.
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