Wistful

Feeling wistful, said the empty spaces.
And light and leaf shadow sat still and they waited.

I know you want me, but I just can't reach you, so I'm
Feeling wistful, said the light on the walkway.

I am invisible, I said with little breath.
And I'm feeling silent and forlorn, lonely and
Wistful for my burden to be borne.

I could succumb to this restful, this peaceful,
Sedate and serene anticipation... but this will
Never happen while I am waiting. Never can it happen that I

Will step into the light that falls so brashly and so softly.
So I'm feeling wistful, waiting, Feeling wistful, waiting.

Feeling wistful, said the empty spaces.
And I and my shadow comprise these empty spaces.

Make Them Last

But all your pedestals are altars, Earth,

and I didn't expect to die in my glory,

before the wings of my mansions could uppercut the sky.



At least you let me have my dignity and

lacking that, at least one last cigarette and



a few last words and the scraping together of wisdom

to make them last longer than newspaper headlines.



The sun was never the bullet in this rifle under my chin

because you were always my downfall, woman.

And everybody says, ooh, ahh!

Delicious Today

Today I feel deathly ill and delicious.
 Pale as the horses and the clouds and their bone China.
  And this morning I left the bare sheets behind in the creamy light
   Exhausted, frail and gorgeous.
    My feet are free and my hands are loose
     So my head is floating away and my hair
      Deftly brushing the stake in the heat
       And my tongue is barely there and tastes too sweet.

And it is all made possible because I wore pearls today.

Question Mark

Sylphs wrapped my hands and feet in bandages

And this is why I come to you on warped limbs,

With warm smile weakening in the snow,

Trembling inwards to a hard line of pain,

Its last refuge lost in the surfeit of water 

That sways, caressing the curve of the lower eyelid.

Somehow they managed to consume my soul.

With my last strength I can only stretch out on the ground.

Pale gold light traces the streams down my cheekbones.

I can only dream of mercies, never ask.

When I raised my head enough to see your feet,

I knew this was the end of my longest road.

The beginning was in the forest with the spirits.

The Green Man gave me a root to chew,

Which tasted reassuring, like dirt, like pond,

And made my dreams endless and life-like.

The specters kissed me on both cheeks and blessed me,

And the Summer bit my shoulders and rubbed my knees.

In between, I read a thousand books, and laughed.

I watched a thousand birds, and reflected blindly.

Breaking, I cared for nothing but my own thoughts,

And even when my fingers all fell apart

I paid the piper without a bat of an eye,

Although his advice was to surrender and die.

Our Hands

You and I, we like to sit and work, not talking.

Imagistically, what are we saying

When our hands snap green beans into thirds

Or twist yarn around itself, around its own neck,

Strangling its straight and narrow out of it,

Enslaving it to be what it will soon be?

You worked up a silence like a healthy sweat,

The quiet is dripping off you and rising

In two matted-cotton vapors, muffs for my ears.

A smile could start me like a shout or gunshot,

So loud are your expressions once I've grown used

To coasting on butter with the wheels in my head.

I have always worn your never-talking

With the resignation of a harnessed horse,

Blinking at the barn door beyond the stall gate.

I leap a fence like a bronco occasionally,

Just to see if my voice still has steady legs,

But always land on your surprise and reluctance.

I and you, we sit alone together so often,

Islands slightly more quiet in air that is

A doldrum ocean softly too quiet.

Fishing for one more crochet stitch to wring,

More food to prepare for Winter storage,

Sitting on the beach, we have nothing left to discuss.

This poem is dedicated to my sister, whom I wrote it about, 

and to my good friend  Nate, who said he really liked it.

Amen

We were talking it over,
content and smiling.
Nothing of consequence.
Blessed be the Lord.

Symbols and reminders,
Joy and hope and friendship
We can never lose them.
Blessed be the Lord.

Then we all were singing.
Don't know where it came from.
He will build the chapel!
Blessed be the Lord.

A Trace Of A Lifeline

Recaptured sparks of city light would haunt me,
Hurt me, Hand my hands to my eyes and burn the palms,
Drown the palms, return their mermaid memories to
Solid, swollen, swallowed life. Wallowed in pity,

Deep canyon, pity, river slithering down,
Old as the city and older than memory,
Cold as the city and colder than frailty,
Makes its mark in the universe, makes its waves.

Recaptured, restrained, regarded as insane,
I thought it over in a crater in the field.
Exasperated and overrated, clever,
I determined, swore oaths: Never will I yield.

Did your mothers tell you where a demon's dreams
Will take his life when or if they all come true?
The Milky Way is not a road, stretching out in
Magic concrete, sparkle bricks and gingerbread;

Remembered comments, tightrope stretched across Styx,
Scrambled barbs of poison blurbs and ragged fly wings
Gleaming, sickly sweet, cloying drunken angel's bleat,
Solid, foiled, broken. This life would haunt me.

These lights would always haunt me.