He’s gonna rattle that cup rattle rattle
till I turn around.
His bones will fill that cup rattle rattle
before my change will.
Rattle rattle, rattle rattle rattle
Tag Archives: poetry
A room’s never too small
It was the Pope, I believe, who said
we shouldn’t close our eyes when praying,
that we could get stuck in there.
I had my eyes open when I read this,
and often do, but he’s right about
delicious doors closed against the world.
You can back up forever closing door after door.
A room’s never too small to hold another door.
Solstice dialogue
Two more days and the days will get longer.
Voice of someone else and the wilding of the mind.
Just a bit more light. I promise I’ll get stronger.
Voice of someone else and the wilding of the mind.
Butter for later
Wake up and crush the world your apple
with a mighty hand
!
I went on shaving.
Many is the mickle, many the much.
?
Better than this I’d like to have done.
But better is butter for later.
Once a girl came knocking
Once a girl came knocking wanting
a priest but got me:
Would there be, were I to,
hell for my plate?
Who are you, why would you
ask me this thing?
I’m forlorn, twice gone, thrice ripped and stillborn –
and I would go.
Go not, promise please,
to this place that’s not there.
But go, she went, brief girl to the fair.
The Dutchman and his bike and what he will carry
His chair, his bed
four children and a tree
OES
This is not about what happened,
of which I have no right to speak.
It’s of reading of it in the Green Hall
psychology library, where I
checked out books – and of seeing them
in-between, the theater students in gym shoes and
flip-flops, walking up that mountain in May,
tired from the night before.
It’s about knowing first-hand how weather changes
and how big a mountain is – bigger still
when you need to get off. And not knowing,
but yes, knowing even that, how it is to be a
teacher unraveling after rational plans,
jumping up and down in the snow.
I still see at night the two lying talking
in the cave, that world of ice that keeps us warm.
The light at four
She’s left the inner garden.
Here, though, she slows, her smile
recalling old reversals and raising briefly the prospect of shade’s
shedding its clothes, and being morning again,
naked in the flowers.
Little bird, beating heart
Door ajar, near
is love’s fear
in safety’s cage
I look at people and like what I see
They are chatting. He pats him
on the shoulder. He is cold.
They walk away.
She is sitting scrolling. No
one bothers her and she does not
bother them. She has many,
family and friends, who love her.
And she loves them.
People are shopping, not stealing.
They want to look good and want
something nice for their children.
They are not blowing up buildings
or running cars into people.
They are just trying their best
as almost everyone always does,
as here the frost melts
and sheep eat grass
in a place where it already has.
Utrecht Journal 