∴
please do not love me
for the things i do;
for though i do much
i change what i do
just as much,
and oftener.
but the i that does
the things that are done
does not change.
and if you could
love that
me
that is undone,
i would know,
and would be free
to do
all that i do
for you.
∴
∴
i went looking for the moon tonight
because the quiet hours
had gotten too dark.
i’m not sure if it was the light
i couldn’t find
or if the light was not there
to be found,
but when i went searching the skies
i espied a sliver of honey white,
hung over head
like a sly smile,
slightly askew
and teasing.
i laughed a little
and thought:
we must be playing hide-and-seek
the moon and me –
though rarely can i tell who’s pursuing –
and when we finally find each other
in the long winter nights,
i giggle and warm
like a child,
discovered,
and know
that the game is still on.
∴
∴
what deception a road can be.
i had conscientiously packed
and carefully laced.
i had, upon my map,
an outline traced.
but my destination
never mounted
the horizon.
it oasis-eluded.
it mirage-deluded.
though i had shed so much
and amassed a score of miles,
every step bore greater the weight of age,
and with heavier gait
i contemplate,
now,
the course.
i’ve seen this stone before.
i reminiscent tred.
was my path,
by hope, misled?
perhaps
i have read roads wrong
all along,
and they were never meant
to guide.
perhaps,
through endless circles,
they only lead
to what’s inside.
∴
∴
in whose custody
i sleep, sweetly
and sound,
let me rest longer
with wakeful eyes,
darkened and round,
that i may see
and give thanks
for the wealth
you lay before me
again,
and again,
and again.
poise guards at my door
and keep watch,
plant lavender at my gate
and welcome,
part danger to lose itself
deep in the wood,
and play me a lullaby at twilight.
and in these small, quiet hours
before my eyes close,
illuminate the skies
with diamonds and fireflies,
and mask me
in sanctified slumber.
∴
∴
isn’t it funny how contentment comes?
by the simplest of recipes,
i am fed
and fully satisfied:
stiff flour,
like dried mud,
on the wrist,
remnants of my kneading.
the aroma of bread as it completes it’s bake
and the crackle of crust as it rests.
the weight of yarn,
knotted together,
and laid –
with the history of the hands that made it –
upon my lap.
the last Russian Tea Cake my mother made,
and licking my fingers clean.
the smell of amber and smoke.
one note, played purely.
a full pantry.
a new spice.
thick socks that i only wear
when no one’s looking.
catching waterfalls of popcorn
and holding in a bowl
as my little one
nestles on my thighs
and smiles back, unperturbed –
as if popcorn always does that.
a prayer that keeps repeating
without me having to say it.
Lord,
Lord,
Lord…
please.
and
thank
You.
how simple and pompless
the greatest comforts come.
so i ask myself,
for what do you strive?
what proof of worth is kinder?
what achievement could be richer than this?
what life is more gentle and happy
than the one that is lived
by delighting in the mundane?
∴
∴
i wrote you a song today.
it poured out
like cries
and laughter
with long, drawn out bows
that were just enough in tune
to be beautiful
and just enough out
to remember
how bent up
love
is.
·
the beats went
from soft
and subtle
that’d surprise out little smiles,
to sharp and snapping claps
that hurt –
but even though they hurt,
they were in perfect rhythm with the tune.
the only thing that was missing
in all the sound i made
were the words
and the harder i played,
the louder i wondered,
do you sing?
would you sing?
and God,
i’m sorry it’s so quiet,
here.
∴
∴
as i traveled on my course
and had many miles made,
i came upon an oddity
that in my mem’ry stayed.
i saw a tree that solemn stood
apart from dense and thicker wood,
in plaine and open field
where nothing was concealed,
that by lightning or by gale
with force, had been impaled,
and had spilt
like the reaping of a seam.
with equal parts,
torn clean apart,
but only half did lean.
half stretched toward the heavens
in endless, blooming reach,
the other half laid ‘long the earth,
it’s nature broke and breached.
but there i lingered long
and saw notes within the split
that made an augur’s song
though few could read
what had been writ
when i sang it
my melody rang
with resonance on the bark
and together, we intoned:
·
my root,
my root is living,
and even through my splintered limbs
my leaf
and seed are giving
and water, through me, swims
and look
beneath the grasses
where i lay upon the earth,
see suckling, happy saplings
that under me are birthed.
we grow,
we grow,
back up again,
we resolutely heaven send.
look not on gnarled, twisted arms
in every crinkled form,
though stripped are we of all our charms,
we climb, despite the storm.
∴
∴
you can’t untake a drug.
you can’t unshatter glass.
you can’t unspend the time
and wait for past to pass.
and you scare me with that hammer in your hand.
how many minutes should i frozen stand?
when i see what you were made for:
the building
the creation,
i’m destroyed by
your appetite
for proud retaliation
against all things you surely think
are stacked in spades against you
when really you were surely formed
to grow by what life’s lent you.
for if the sick you fight against
makes ill the hand you wield
then only sick will issue hence
and stay the wound, unhealed.
do you not know?
we do not change by threat?
and any ground you gain thereon
is weighted, moral debt.
please, my love, please.
i plead as one in chains,
set down the fisted strategy
and raise what hope remains.
∴
∴
there was a sweet island
whereon i took my rest
while the waters raged around me.
i caught my breath there.
i grew land-legs
and drank from vines
and adorned my hair
with jasmine
and sun
until it dipped low, beneath the horizon
and dusk,
that was resplendent
and forever,
suddenly gave no more light.
·
and now?
do i swim again?
to bathe where dangers in dark waters lie?
to tread where maelstroms stir?
to dive where there is no end to the deep?
what does one do
when the haven’s shore has been so coursed
and coursed
and coursed
to make a moat about it
and comfort begins to corrode
the very child that it bore?
is it not time then
to seek the estranged lands
and with bounty
return
to plant anew on arid sands?
∴
∴
when i give too much thought
to the happenings inside of me –
spinning in that shallow eddy –
and i ponder too much
what people see
when they see
the
out
sides
of me –
it all goes away,
i forget myself completely,
when i look after something
outside of myself
and tend to it,
with delicate sight.
like a gardner to a broken stem –
each bud a precious promise,
each leaf a collector of light –
i nurturing touch
transparent skin
and seep out
the troubles in.
and there is no shortage
of orchids that did not weather the storm.
and there is no scarcity
of the weeds
that wish to grow inside us.
and so i shall cultivate
accordingly.
∴
