Category: Poems

Broken Belongings

Those things that send you into a downward spiral.

Those things you despise.

Those things you hide deep inside.

Those things that tear at you.

Those things that bite at your soul.

Those things that crush you.

Those things that you wish to kill.

Those things will age into something else.

 

Those deceiving weaknesses will not bow your head forever.

Those things will turn, will blossom, will mellow,

You will not become those things.

That lump of unforgiven angst will not weigh you down forever.

That pain will form into something.

Something unbreakable,

Something flexible,

Something strong,

Something resolute,

Something beautiful and brave.

The Wedding Ring

Drawing a line in the sand

Shall I build a wall or a bridge?

Your walls are ancient and thick,

They cannot be crushed by strategy,

But time will turn them to dust.

 

Shall I rescue you then?

Should I build a wall that encloses us?

A new wall, a wall built with love that can hold all.

A wall built not to hold out, but to hold in.

 

A wall long enough and large enough

To surround the Earth.

A wall so large and so strong

That it doesn’t need to built at all.

 

There was a time when your wall was needed

To hold the Earth at bay.

Instead join me on the seashore.

We will draw a wall in the sand.

 

We will press into the shoreline a groove

That covers the Earth

And encloses us all until the tide and wind

Sweep our fortifications away.

In Another Country

The emptiness of the Hawk’s heart

Must allow it to soar higher.

A silhouette cut from grey sky

Glides above a

Murky parking lot

This cold morn.

 

A flock of gulls,

Weighed down by

The multitude,

Flail and squawk without grace.

The hawk floats above the noise.

Alone.

 

In the distance black trees reach,

Strain their roots, and

Bend away from this cold earth.

Branches raised

In a vain optimism

That life will change.

 

The world of life has been

Left behind.

The hawk has had enough.

He lifts, beats the damp air,

And rises.

Alone.

Pieces of Me

Michelangelo chipped away

Flecks of stone

Like so many toenails discarded

by a small choice.

Razor thin or chunks.

Each day his work was swept away,

left in the street and covered by dust.

The forgotten pieces of his work

mauled and crushed by the everyday.

He could not breathe life into stone,

but left eternal alabaster forms.

Like stone, I have been chipped and polished,

But cannot escape the rot of death.

The pieces of me left behind

will have to suffice.

A writing challenge: 9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9

Mount Olympus

Not Today

The Olympic Mountains are blanketed with grey this morning.

Swirling clouds cling to treetops like dull cotton.

Fridays should not be grey and gloomy.

Sunshine should stream through the windows.

Birds should be singing songs.

Windows should be opened.

Hope should bloom.

Not today.

Today is grey.

Grey like milked tea

Grey promises a green Spring.

A Spring filled with budding trees.

Future colors to fill my early mornings.

Not today though, today is grey and cold.

The roads glisten with rain and summer still waits.

Chetzmoka Park

English: Playground swing set Deutsch: Spielpl...

Image via Wikipedia

Taxing the limits of gravity,

swinging ever higher, thrusting tiny

shoes toward a misty ceiling.

 

Restrained only by thin

links to an arc:

Restrained from flight.

 

Brushing low, then elevating heavenward,

propelled into weightlessness.

A Dove flutters in them.

 

Working to flee from exalted mouths,

This spirit flies aloft as the links slacken

Bringing an uncomfortable silliness to tiny chests.

 

Again and again they kick.

Searching for the ecstatic

high of weightlessness.

 

Circling above, an Eagle, unrestrained.

Aloft it flutters on a gust,

Dipping and dropping.

 

Hovering above the park

the Eagle waits for a Dove

to exodus from a child’s throat.

 

Suspended above the playground,

waiting for the moment to snatch that joy

and tear it with its talons.

The Ambassador

Sea spary.

Image via Wikipedia

A faded copy of Wallace Stevens’

Collected works sits on a windowsill

Looking west across a churning ocean.

 

A murky, gray horizontal smudge meets

Beyond vision and fades both north and south:

The archaic world of the Pelican.

 

This ancient bird dives along the shoreline

Blending sky and sea till it’s nearly

Indiscernible through the mottled glass.

 

Searching the braking waves the Pelican

Plunges its great wings into the salt spray

And rushes over the cutting water’s edge.

 

Numerous other shore birds have washed up

And been buried by rolling winter sands,

Selected by fate to soar no longer,

 

Yet the lice infested feathers of this

Primordial bird keep it aloft to

Behold an ever-changing empire.

 

Beyond the shoreline’s crashing saltwater,

Beyond the horizontal dreary smudge,

The eternal world of the Pelican

 

Will welcome this antiquated bird home

Tonight, and the Titans will hear its

Wondrous tales of imaginary lands.

Easter in Palestine

The boys searched the scorched ground
For bits of a new martyr.
Fresh scraps mixed with ancient dirt
Shrouding their task.
Shouting to friends,
Gathering to examine their found treasures.

Easter this year was cold.
The northern wind blew sand and rain.
The children were not deterred.
They hunted the dunes finding bright plastic eggs.
Returning with red faces and runny noses
They declared their bounty.

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