Ladies and Gentleman, I give you an older work of mine for this week, refurbished and reworked. The process of poetry is one of constant motion. If you’re bored (as my children often claim they are in the hot months of summer) I encourage you to find an old work of your own and give it a refresh.
I will only be accepting submissions for a couple more months for The Beautiful Stuff’s 2021 Poetry Anthology. Send me your stuff and we’ll have an awesome little email chat.
Enjoy this little trip up a trail with a broken heart.
This sickening depth of damage you’d leave?
(blow it out slow)
The hole so deep and wide
an ache so subtly gnawing
(don’t forget to breathe again…)
Good riddance, I’d said
(force air in)
Don’t let the fucking door hit you
(fake bravado exhale)
I’m better off.
I don’t need you…
Air bounces around
frantically looks for an exit,
erupts from the empty cavern of my chest
bursting its way out of my lungs.
I don’t need…you
Hold still now.
To the sound of hollowness inside,
Was it like this before?
Was my heart always a black hole?
it beats with the scrape of metal on glass,
leaves dry water rings in the bottom of a heat-baked pot.
Where is the air?
The rumble of thunder but no relief of rain
The one shoe drop.
Your end of the phone
dead, weighted silence.
Finally, you’re gone!
(breathe, damn it)
Tears trace down dusty length of my neck
(Gasp, Gulp, Cough)
Darkness drops and nothing but space grows
in the garden of a heart once so carefully tended.
I don’t need you.
Here, in the middle of your busy holiday season, with the obligations and expectations closing in, take pause and have a little poetry break.
I am missing
Cried the mountain,
from your blood and from your breath
You are sticky in the pavements and
Choked in traffic
You are gut sick with expectation
And I am missing from your blood.
You are broken backed
And over ran,
Jazzercised and dieted
Into the pale haunting gaunt
That smiles back from checkout line shelves
And I am missing from your blood
You are sleepless and achy,
Eyes dry from small ideas
And false images, voices raised
Praising the ego unfaltering
And I am missing from your blood.
Come back and breathe me.
Come back to my silent path,
The truth of dirt.
Of pine needle crunch,
Rock fall tumbles,
beneath your feet which empty out the filth
and transfuse me back into your veins
I am missing
Cried the mountain.
Come and find yourself again
Here’s a little wanderlust inspired snippet to remind you to get outside and notice. There are no small things.
How the acrid hamlets of beneath-log worlds beckon
To faerie hordes seeking cheap rent.
While the construction noise of flicker-rattle interrupts the raven’s sky rage rant,
And fae folk scowl with tinker noses scrunched.
Micha’s golden fish scales, peppering paths,
like midas scattered his trailing tears.
And though foolish told to low-lying men in suits,
Lie they glittering, priceless to me
and the passing of my staggered step.
I would wedge my heart beneath the logs, and gladly sublet.
Mornin’ kids. I hope your Thursday is starting off sweet and slow.
No matter what your plans are or how many ‘to-do’s’ you’ve packed into this day, carve out some time to get outside and find your quiet.
Gray cascades of fogged memory
Blanket the distance
And everything seems so much closer now
Kinetic in wait.
The world was never so quiet
Nor so still.
Even as rain needles pierce my neck
And trace frozen rivulets down the valley of my shoulder blades.
More pleasant a day I have not lived.
Here in the stillness.
The quiet and uncomfortable
The shivering slip of feet and
Scuffed against granite and lichen
In search for hold.
How we’ve come to fear being alone.
How we shy from homegrown reflections,
And shudder at the thought
Of being solitary amid the rain and rock.
We don’t even know to mourn
The tremendous loss
of keeping our own company.
Perhaps the gray residing in our hearts would be lessened,
The stormy mind;
Hurricane of worry and doubt, would dissipate
If we more often paroled our bodies to the rough beauty of nature
The purity of what is real might bring us back ’round.
Clarity borne from the muddled haze.
Despite the urge to limerick you with inappropriate words that rhyme with Enis, I’ll attempt to reach for something more high brow… Enjoy!
I spring up from the heart of a wooded path.
The smell of pine needles breaking down, and the crackle of acrid leaves
Feed my roots
The heat rising from Earth, through dirt and granite.
The brush of seeded grasses,
Passing along their generations to my body as I stride on.
The scratch of bark,
The quiet bending of grass
The warning cry of finch and chickadee,
Telling me in no uncertain terms
That I don’t belong.