Category: poem
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Fly
mountains, the placid water, sluggish atriver’s bend, the fly placed just right, quick flickof the wrist and timing is everything,the trout strike in the dying day . . . I watchedthe old man tie this lure, enchanted byhis fervor and curious how a twistof thread and wire becomes siren to theseriver dwellers. He’s gone now,…
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Edward and Lisel
today I’m stealing poems from LiselMueller’s Alive Together. my copyriddled with small book marks: six neon greensticky flags and one hunter orange, onereceipt dated 2004 from Barnes& Noble, and two rogue Yahtzee score sheets,completed without dates. Thirteen pagesare dog-eared. Rare as it is, I have scrawledmarginalia alongside several poems.I recall now that it was Lisel…
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Of Death She Stays Aloof
she always was an odd child, fascinatedwith death and dying despite her shelteredlife early on and into adulthood;never lost a friend or close familymember to it, not even so much, orlittle, as a pet goldfish; she had nouse for dead things, things she said were merelydiscarded clothes, the truth of life beingsomething merely disguised by…
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Satori Zhatahz
got this livin-in-the-now thing goingon now, he says, though the haunt in his eyesbelies the now; somewhere on the road tosatori we met at a bright crossroadsof seeking, which is really something forparallel paths. we sat to center andfollow our breath — he his way, and me mine. my breath moving outward, I trail behindto…
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Aubade
We all want to be beautiful, Liza beneath some argent moon in her fullness, at daybreak with its pink-lined clouds and sky pure as mountain springs, bright as topaz and us waking from dreams of golden streets . . . Liza, paradise is deep within, resides here within the placid soul, the restful mind. Each…
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Breakdown
you’ve lost all hope of reason, she says. her hypodermic is that for which I came. what the fuck ever happened to refuges, to the sanitaria of yesteryear? I need a peaceful stroll upon a lawn unwired and without the green threat of work, the soft voice of a sympathetic soul. my dreams are meaningless…
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Poems are Like This
he was something special “back in the day”;she still writes sonnets of/to him, though he’s deadto her these three years; one has to wonderif it’s dedication, obsession, orperhaps merely her addiction aspoetess; in the end – does it reallymatter if the poem is to or foror about anyone in particular? some say one way, some…
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The Poetess
younger, she wrote of transcendence beyondthe body, of ecstasies grander thanwhat the flesh can offer; she wrote ofexperiences so wholly spiritualnothing might compare. such were her metaphorsmany considered sublime . . . with age and lifeexperience, her poetry turned moretoward the body, the thrill of nerves touched byhands of her true love; later, the bodilylonging…
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For All Our Erudition
she and me and a bottle of red wine,questions of cosmic significance tossingback and forth in a hotel room afterthe symposium, philosophies ofstruggle and economics, of art andpsychology, of class and caste—we tossedaround expressions like disenfranchisedand plebeian and bourgeoisie; concepts:opportunity and entitlement,under-privileged and . . . and in the end,it was all words to open…
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Night After Night
night after night in the twilight of dreamsyou stand beside a brightness blindingits jeweled hues string my heart intobright realms and I wonder at the truthof love glowing from your presence likepromises of succor and rescue from deepdepths of evil times when the world seemsfull of dark enemies and hateful, mercilessfoes who trample thoughtless what…
Fringemonkey Scribbles 