In the morning,
her voice is different
a mix of raging winds
and simple rain-
rain wetting
but not nourishing.

So, seeds don’t grow
plenty of weeds –
noxious and dangerous
yes, they grow in volumes.

In the evening,
the voice is changed.
Now weakness, sorrow, regret
filtering every rain and idea
till it fills all the voids-
we go to bed with it.

Dave

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Yes, it’s late,
even the winds have died down
and ceased their sighing.

But here I am tapping and thinking
on these senseless keys
that never talk back, never
return needed coaxing,
I’m here and not –

That is,
my body is here
but my heart is missing
as if some spirit cast it away-

after so long,
why would I expect elseways?

It’s only so long
that it could live
seeking some nourishment
and finding none before it
departs like the fall leaves
blown away to fragments.

And that is where it is-
fragments, flakes, forgotten
into the spaces
until spring
brings some bloom
causing you to say,
ah, yes,

I remember that small
piece of saying
that sprung here,
I recall that certain curious
count of words cast in
winter’s stomach,
deposited in spring’s loins.

You’ll see alright.
But by then,
it’s late
and any healing is hosted
else where –
or entirely forgotten too.

See, even pushed through
the cold earth,
doesn’t bring newness to
everything.

I should know better,
than to play at the piranha pool-
placing my hand in,
offering kindness
only to find the teeth
are still there.

How stupid I am,
why would I expect different?

Why would I expect age
to bring kindness or concern-
any break from norm.

I’d hoped that age would filter
(I really did!)
anger, malice would sink
to clear waters.

How stupid I am.
to expect that turbulence
wouldn’t keep it mixed.

4 Jan 09

We aren’t living
we survive one day
you take my heart
my key,
my dry river bed
waiting for rain,
that doesn’t come,
it doesn’t come!
Goodbye.

Dusty boxes

and letters-

she kept them,

when she was eight.

 

God,

ten years dissappear

into obscure, overlapping

memories

then suddenly cleave

with one letter!

 

 

Dave

In between bursts,

that middle

who knows how long?

 

I’m falling,

my soul sleeping

between seconds

blending in shadows

to a nest

prepared,

maintained

ready.

 

When the tree promised

I’m here,

if not the tree,

then emptiness

if not the bite,

then simply scattered earth.

 

In any case,

What the serpent saw

what the soul was seeking,

was forever and cursed it.

 

Dave

I’m the clothes not put away
the camera unused
hanging on the door
waiting for focus
on some object-
if only color.

Dave