Men would scale them with grappling hooks
But light won’t be hooked and men fall back
to the far shores from which they came
Tag Archives: poetry
Dishes, a window
Yes, I know, I said we didn’t need one,
but later I was glad to pack it
with plates and bottles, and know
how hot it got. There was already enough
with a baby in the house.
Still, I was sorry to let go
the excuse to stare out at
clouds and weightless birds. And I missed
how warm my cold hands were.
Once I wasn’t speaking to someone,
two people actually, and as I washed
tears fell right into the suds.
We had no window then,
just a cupboard with cups
and a light above the sink.
3:10 to the Coast
This way goes a different way,
beautiful from above, past
a factory and windows
and now sheep and now mud.
Who am I, geese, wittily concealed?
Who am I, gulls, your salt sea revealed,
after water and grass
and stubble and mud?
Commuter
Amid the vast network of tracks and trains
one puts his body in and
it matters a lot whether he
puts it in or in front of the
train. We who ride know
the difference, but he who
has stalled and rerouted us
is blank, extinguished,
a smoke without a flame
The wind blew my leaves away
I’ve lost all my sparkly bits.
I’ve no wool for the winter.
Look at me, sleek and black,
sexy but cold.
An I.V. and more
I went spiralling down into my friend’s surgery,
into the needle they stuck in his back.
Heard them say, Don’t move.
Felt the hard force of it.
Don’t move.
Went with his eyes to the lights later.
You should see him on the courts,
the balls he hits.
Or did.
In doubles you’d make sure
he was on your side.
A cold snap
My salt dashed has not kept you, bird,
though my mother said it would.
You’ve left the fence, you’re ochre now,
and the boy, bereft, is wonder-whyed
and blue.
The sower’s illustrious labor
Christ is bold growing
amber corn glowing,
fields of silk, knowing
that crushed sugar sun
will keep us at last
God’s ten minutes at two-thirty
The Lord said to my Lord,
“Sit at my right hand and I’ll make your enemies your footstool.”
They shook hands and then He turned to me.
“Glad you could make it. We need to talk.”
Whoo boy, here we go.
He came around and sat on the edge of the desk.
“How are things going?”
Great. Fine, yeah good, no real good.
“The wife?”
Super, yeah. You know, tough as nails!
“The kids?”
Oh sure, ditto. Chuggin’ along. Thanks for asking.
“You got me a little worried.”
Me? Ah Boss, don’t put Yourself out. You know me,
I’m a little slow, but I bring it around.
“I guess.”
Hey, who’re we talkin’ to here? I’m Your guy!
“Yeah, I know, I know. But still.
You got me worried.”
Onetime bats of the belfry
Lace our window
and grace our yard
Here and gone and back again
reminders red
but gone again
Utrecht Journal 