You're viewing all posts tagged with poetry
“

time is
as time ever was

mutable, seething, elastic, still

the glue which sets
us, together or apart

of one dimension or two
three dimensions or five

the still point
the null distance
at center

***

we talked
through slow looping spirals,
spinning across the fabric of time
the hollowness of space

chatted awhile
amidst the chaos and
froth of nothing

through (mem)branes like smoky glass,
imperfect words
forming indelible imprints,
what might be called emotion
or dream

a conversation
“
It is February. Ice is general. One notices different degrees of ice.
Anne Carson, from “Some Afternoons She Does Not Pick Up the Phone,” a poem in Decreation. (via mcnallyjackson)

moon like a full cup, tilting across the sky —
we follow the sun ‘til morning
‘til dewdrops in the last of summer’s green

“
it was a dream that looked like life
quiet streets
amber lights
the moon speaking of the sun

’s funny how love
lifts a life
blossoms above rock and snow

knowing and unknown, we yet
obfuscate
essence with
symbol, sign, diligence, fact

“

it was a morning of rain and lightning.
approaching the city from the bay
was not unlike crossing the styx
into the grey lands — fogs;
the dark, unrestful water; the slow approach
of an unseen shore, of a city which was
but a solid wall of mist — i
willed life into that blankness, sent love
into what might have been
a fading heart, a heart i love and know,
to the land of stones
you will not go.

the city resolved itself:
the warm glow of small orange lights,
old brick, white-scrolled eaves
a musty but welcoming gray, mist and fog
become some cloud fluff
on the dressing gown
of a grand old ‘dam,
but for the sodium glare
it might have been
another time.

he lived,
and rifts were mended, we hope.
but another died, tho’ it seemed
he had lived much of a full life
and into advanced years
before he decided to go, was
the husband of a lovely woman i know
but haven’t met. prayers
for the grief of parting.

the rain against the night dark glass
shines like snow.

penance

the length and breadth

of bittersweet history

seems adequate for the question

at hand, imminently unuseful

in queries about mundane

love lives and

the pull of time.

history is laid flat

unless one begins to look

beyond kings

and into the hearts

of people, the vagaries

of fate or what might one day be called

recursive probability.  we

swapped god

for the universe

just before the millenium

b.c.

a.d.

time,

the mystery is time

and its mutability,

its shape around small things,

its shape around those

incredibly large things

like a universe;

the way time twists, turns

at the smallest light interface,

magnetically slippery, a conjunction

of similar polarities.

that’s where we’ve got to go

to the smallest of the small.

we don’t draw the chair,

we just draw the air

around it.

and when we peel back the very last layer,

we find ourselves back where we started —

pulled through the tiniest of spaces

into the looking glass

of mirrored wholes

dreams are worth

holding onto

what else have we when it comes down to the all or nothing.

life’s an experiment in lovejoywonder

:cooperation.

even the lies play their part in creating structure —

without the lie, that step closer to the truth

loses threshold, dimension, form.

such subtle games we play

here on planet earth;

games of puzzle,

movements of people

flags

nations —

the euformation of the individual

amidst the chaos of the whole —

the evolution of language and our understanding of time —

place, essence, being —

we perceive these things as

self-evident against the backdrop of tribal memory,

tribal time, the surge of human life across

the surface of a small blue and green world

slowly spiraling through a cosmos of forms,

symphonies in invisible light,

dreamers dreamed by the sun,

a galaxy of stars

and a lonely moon.

and this dreaming seed said,

‘to be asleep inside

the warm earth

cocooned inside my earthship

tight, i am magic

i too was light

in my maker’s imagination

and inside this light

the engines of creation

curl tight in dreams

of hibernation

until the earth should turn

just right and i

receive some ray of light

and drink

of the rain

where am i?

under the rocks

under the earth

what am i?

a seed

“

between the known
and the unknown world
stand unmixed silences

massive worlds
and gravities
at play

bright cold stars
at a distance

warm
in any case

vibrant
light
brilliant
form

we tumbled into the first decade of the millennium with blindfolds on
thrust out into what blinding lights