River-dreams

The river, she dreams of oceans,
of shallow ancient seas,
Paleozoic, of losing herself
before she carved these cliffs
from yearning. Her river-dreams
rise up from the canyons
and hang here in the branches,
pearling the early world
with water, oceans in air.
Muttering in sleep,
she runs the red of an old wound,
returning to the sea.

Synonyms for Anger

The sunlight at noon:
hard, flat, and without mercy.
A bright blade against.

Your Childhood is Imaginary

Nowhere you’ve been can be home.

The paper façades
of last week cannot hold you.

Timekeeping

Your focus is absolute.

Your sticky fingers cup each apricot, giving it a gentle turn

to find the blush of ripeness. You have not seen the thundercloud

that’s slumping overhead, grumbling with the weight of rain.

The bird calls halt into an urgent stillness. In that hush

the pears become pendulums, the flagpole a sundial,

and Time slides by between canal-banks.

I barely keep from leaping in to gather up the water to my body,

to pile it and hoard it, anything  to hold on to your babyhood,

which has left you while I wasn’t looking, swiftly as the apricots

that ripen overnight.     

Already my memory fails me.

 I know that when I’m older it will wash away

and leave me clutching only silt and this:

a photograph of you at nearly four

running through an orchard in the rain. 

Storytellers

We are the dregs of the civilized,

the afterbirth of ego;

loitering professionally in libraries,

alchemists of metaphor,

the most artful of liars.

Is a paper offering worthy?

For the makers of stories
are the keepers of all the world’s brothers.

Embracing Chaos

Today's blog topic (hi everyone! I've been gone awhile because I just had a baby) is inspired by a quote from a friend of mine, Enrique Pina, who told me once, "You need rabid foxes and craziness unicorns in your life in order to make sense." He meant that each of us must find a way to face and even embrace the frightening and the absurd, lest their unacknowledged presences warp us. I do this best through writing poems, although trying new and risky things (like skydiving a few years back) helps me explore what frightens me, and interacting with my small children helps me embrace the absurd.

Readers, do you make a conscious effort to do these things? If so, what are your methods?

I Am Not Your Tender Flower

I am a weed.

I did not ask your permission.

If you withhold the water,

I will wait for rain.

Do not walk barefoot

across my arid earth.