These were things one happened upon,
senseless crystal bits
fixed for one second
for once and for all
Tag Archives: poetry
Deeper mysteries of a later age
Whys sunk to why at all
decomposed as quickly
as skybound life
rose from the rotting
Blind man’s buff
You come to me but I
wander around.
I touch everything but you
till you
remove the blind
and see for me
you.
On falling asleep to Williams’ Lark Ascending
There’s a measure of peace in all things,
a first warm sky of the season
in every bleating cold rainy dark
and so, though I see
neither through nor branch
in the blue from my couch,
my body’s settled to become
a meadow for the birds
Wally holds his tongue at the table
Your freedom is just a
chomping down on life,
a crunching of the world and self to bits,
a decorous atomization
Of weeds and wheat and smoke and fire
The Gronk has a punctured lung
maybe
the paper says
and you can still see the hit
the one-two
and still feel how
you were glad for it
after what he did to us
two years ago
catching that pass.
What Christ thinks of football I don’t want to know,
but I can see his eye
and hear his breath,
and I’d best be off
before I think some more.
I join my son at his video game –
At the rat-a-tat. I don’t like it.
The kills, I don’t like it.
Care packages,
tumbling, hulking soldiers
dropping – I don’t like it. No,
I don’t like it.
But I like him.
Last day
She held him, not trusting him to find the chair.
“We’re family,” she said. “Like family.
You don’t remember?”
He shook his head.
“You’ve come to our house for thirty years.”
He shrugged sorry.
“I have to go with him.”
He knew him, but not his name.
And later, after the coffee, he went.
For when he was young he could go where he liked.
But now was time for where he’d rather not go.
R.I.P. Fr. Piet van der Pol S.S.S. (D. 19 February 2017).
When you have children
When you have children your heart
leaves the safety of the rib cage.
The bones open up and the thing is out there
exposed
to torrents of bruises and dyes.
Grief and drugs
Grief and drugs
sit at the table.
I’ve never had a lover
as pretty as you.
Utrecht Journal 