Before The Persimmons Became Ripe

 

 

 

I went hiking today to escape you.

 

Down the trail I was greeted by a dog with your name.

 

Made my eyes sting.

 

A sweet scent caught my nose and reminded me to breathe.

 

A boy said “It’s the persimmons!”.

 

I told you I wouldn’t forget you laughing under the persimmon tree.

 

How that early fruit numbed my mouth and made us into children.

 

 

 

Advertisements

Where Hidden Things Go

The black cat and I sit several yards  from one another,  both eye level with October’s Friday the 13th.

 

He sits like a reflection, a parallel thought that I’ve just been permitted to see.

 

His eyes are summer’s

last green hiding place; I envy the way the emeralds translate his intention.

 

He turns his gaze away toward a sound I cannot hear. Is he weary of being a martyr for superstition?

 

Then, black as hidden light and silent, he ushers summer backwards around a lost corner so that he doesn’t cross my path.

 

In his place I see the shape of a voice I know but cannot name,  a memory that has no memory and will later carry itself around lost corners unnoticed yet missed.

 

 

 

to ye poets that keep the light

he will keep writing the moon

to its fullest paragraph;

 

with emapthy he traces the round light of loving in dark space.

 

i am sure i feel a caress of moonbeam writing his mantras down my spine

 

while shadows stretch out over the night like cats in an alley that no one walks through after dark.

the bears i always dream about

You were the only person I told about the bears.

 

My ear on your chest heard someone waiting to listen about the dreams.

 

Your arms were the strongest arms I’ve wanted to hold me and the stronger to push me away.

 

I told you about the bears hoping you weren’t one of them.

the cars going by

the june stars are suffocating while

i lie supine in an almost dark room listening to the street refuse to sleep

 

the mountains are far from here sheltering everyone or everything that i left behind

 

And i lie so still trying to hear a whippoorwill beyond these streets

 

I raise my arms toward the ceiling and the artificial light that seems infinite spreads across my forearms in a way that makes me cry

 

If i imagine hard enough,  my skin is Carter’s Lake on a summer night spreading across the darkness to reflect the moon

 

by a sea

some are sun people gold,  skin of mamma’s pearl and coconut; they diggin up sand for a castle.

 

seaweed people washed up on a beach too, skin of fishin hooks and broken shells; they ain’t gettin no castle.

 

we are all fools of the tides, always  afraid of what time it is or what is comin for the lives we’ve made; our nude skin shivers at the things that could wash us away

 

but off in the distance, the white waves roll and never stop.

 

 

our balconies when we are still

we do what we can with our little  space, our little time

 

we grow plants in the corner of our little balconies

 

we place windchimes where we can hear them from our beds when the storms come

 

we place the birdfeeders close to the window to bring our unspace closer

 

we notice from our little balconies that the women walking by are pretty and the men are distinguished

 

we smell the bread baking,  the coffee brewing; we partake of this sacrifice of someone’s hands to feed us

 

it forms our little space,  our little  time, to notice the hands,  to drink what is offered; it grants us more

Ain’t is a word

He told me i might should get a liddle learned roun the ol edges may be learn where a few periods go between them sentences maybe let em wring the person i am dry and give all who i am to the rule makers makin the purty poetry rules but i just wanna drank my sweet tea and swang before i die or may be make a few rules of my own; maybe I will learn the proper way to write a poem that doesn’t mean a thing.