The idea wouldn't leave my head...

I am running out of ways to-
                        to forget you
                        to forgive you
I am told
                 I should not do this
             (which?)
I am dreaming in quicksand.
In my own head it is not dark enough
is not cold enough and there
is a falling – Oh God, there is –
you took so much when you left from us
(you? god? I     don’t know which
There is this –.  I –.  I –.)
There is something I don’t have words for
can’t feel the seeing of, inseeing
                                      or out.
Sometimes, rare, I visit your grave.
I don’t know know who I am crying for.
I want to tell them, who offer happy drugs,
how much I hate you, that I forget
your eyes without photos, that
I don’t know what I am crying for.
I can’t forget how selfish you were &
I am here.                (People survive this.)
And you are not.     (People survive this.)
And I cant see how        I am empty
to be so full. I loved you, and you
took your life like I wasn’t enough
and all that is left, my child, is my hate.

For a novel

All you can do is break the world,
That's all you're good for, all you are
Cracks in the world, wholeness in me
Sunlight dancing on a frozen sea
What is it good for, failing so far:
all you can do is break the world.

Stories

Our stories have a limit,
you said, soft, watching skies.
I waited, drawing words from you
with silence.

Follow any story long enough
and it's just a tragedy.
"Like heroes?" I ask, though
I am never sure I speak.

When our stories end, prayers begin.
We plead for exemption, from death.
I would have a story rather
than live forever, you added.

I listened to your voice, felt
the silence fill the emptiness
as if that was all we ever do.

Silent

It was a point of pride, dulled
with life's decay; pockets free of holes,
empty of tools. The deaf man
carried no paper, no pen, no pad
into the world of open-mouthed silence.
He knows their language but so few,
know his, not even the insults.

When he needs them, they appear
at a gesture, another magic of
a foreign world. Shabby but
sometimes a miracle, signs
like small gifts, offerings he takes
as hope for the world, swallowed
with a kind of nameless sadness.

This is Untitled

I project the inward out,
everything I offer you already have.
Our meshing a tangle of needs and wine.

Outside, rain sluices down windows
drops meet, merge, slow, but
they all seem to fall alone.

Inside we are too warm, our words
hot and heavy and I think of the desert:
to move, make such wondrous noises, but
not to change.

In cool sweat and tangled sheets
the rain loud over our breath, we find
smiles, yes, but no words to share,
not one.

Two poems

Just two poems written on break today.

#1

"My god!" he said, and words
I did not know,
face stained with longing,
skin-toned skin blemished
with failed dreams

and we stood out by the ocean
looking for nothing, his tears
adding a few drops -- less
ripples than a pebble

and I said the worn stones must
believe in spite of evidence
they would not erode away

"The tide comes in. Always,"
he said, rough, almost harsh
(so much depends on almost)

I imagine, I said, the stones hope
it won't come tomorrow --
few things are certain
beside sunsets being beautiful

and we waited watching the tide
transform the beach, washing away,
and he almost smiled.

"Maybe tomorrow," to the tide,
the ocean, the stars, me,
and you.


#2.

I held the poem for
an hour, supper
calling, feeling
it die to potatoes
& gravy & a mash of stuff.

The few that remain
(barely a turn of phrase)
surrender to desert
never to be known.

Stomach growls, sated;
heartburn later coming
from sorrow, soothed
by late night snacks.

Untitled Poem

I walked with her in dusk and gloom
Though the will'o'wisps clear light
In darkness and in fears
And a hundred silent nights
Underneath the newest moon.

Every night I walked her home anon
No matter the rain nor wind
Sometimes we shared our quiet fears
And others would remind
Ourselves to all that's been and gone.

We walk together in memory
My lady's footsteps and I
And still I walk even if my tears
Remind me I shall die
And she never thinks the less of me

Short poem that isn't very good

Failings of kindness
in trying to make your feelings
my own;

failings in love
were we both too weak to let go
of us?

Failing to know
whrre knowing reaches wisdom
and peace,

Failure of -- what.
That I see us and no longer
hurt?

just an older poem

It's midnight in the garden
And no one's learned to weep,
But Eve is sitting all alone
And Adam's fast asleep.

Yes, it is late, but grief comes late and early and all..

I believed in you.
I bought into your stories.
How flexible you were.
That you'd be, for me,
during storm or snow,
hail or winter.

I do not believe that,
in these dark times
of dear, or the mail -
but you promised
flexible keys to me,
cleanable keys for me
even mobile mobility!

(In my loss, I can only link
to you, no tears are mine)

And only the old is left,
to be learned again,
because with it I have
spacesandwithyouI
wouldhaveamissing
spacebar (well, half of one).

Fragment

It all depends on upon the things it all depends upon
When the air is full of whispers, and the sky is filled with pain
And no one is there to tell you just what it's supposed to mean

To Show

There's an empty hollow in the corner
where once a rocking chair of wood
some times you come there and you've stood
tears don't come even when they should

It feels like the whole world's quiet, silent
before the grave; feelings only violent
a single harsh breath silenced; there it went

Across the roads, through the woods you used
to walk through and they're all waiting, all confused
everyone knows you were never abused
everyone knows
they're only waiting for the final mourner

morning

The day too-bright summer
hot, the sky empty-clear azure
blue never reaches

Clouded, his thoughts are
owned, not shied from, hands
dark and heavy, light above

Cancerous, a world full of omen
meaning craving for a hunger
hope gnawing inside.

To Love That Never Was

There must have been a reason
Sometime and way back then
For everything you did, and didn't
And the way that things begun.

I'd like to think I understood
Or could have been a friend
But you only lets the cats close
And each died in the end.

From cars and dogs and people
But each you bore with pride
To come home with a new pet
And a secret deep inside.

The day I found the pet food
And the rat poison jar
After you'd bemoaned vet bills
And the last died to your car.

I watched the dogs come next
They came and died so fast
I wondered what they took from you
And how long you could last

I never said I loved you, just
Held for hope in vain
And then I found the dog food
The night of storm and rain

I'd been helping you because of
A wild night of hail and wind
And what I saw I never spoke
And fear I hid behind

When the vet clued in years later
When just one dog got loose
My brother was the one to find you
Holding your makeshift noose

You said it was a leash and laughed
(He still pales to recall)
The dog's eyes filled with broken thing
and he cowered to the wall

I know all this and more beside
I'd followed all the news
And yet when I see your face
I still feel so confused

Untitled

All that is left
is a blackened pot
drying on a rack
cutlery scattered
under it, kindling.

Cold to the touch
as if it were iron
or had burned under
cold fire:

If things were -- different --
the water drying
would be your tears,
something left behind.

Small little poem found in a file

I've been plotting out your thoughts, I have to say:
Following down your neuron pathways
Isn't quite the same when all I'm doing is waiting
For you to think my name
With another word than friend.

I'm making t-shirt slogans from your dreams
Soothing all your unquiet fears
Never wondering what I'm doig, from this task
Never pausing, only waiting
For other than the ending.

The machine keeps making noises, I keep making notes
Funding's cutting, i'm low on choices
I want to turn off the machine, turn it all off and ask ...
(I can't keep loving you by rote)
Can you just once not codescend?

I do what I can

I do what I can and I can what I do
But I fear I'm losing it all for you.

I've traded summer for winter, dreams for memories
All for a door to your home and a set of your keys.

I wish I could be certain of anything but doubt
There's your new trick in bed I didn't know about.

Maybe you learned it on the anonynet
All I'm feeling is almost regret.

I do what I can and I say I still love you
Over and over, as if words make it true.

A Short Poem

Destiny or duty,
the end of one
begetting the other.

We are here to do only
what we can, what we wish
(the difference as slight
as good and evil, as
hate and yearning);

rarer than the gift is one
who can recognize others' gifts.

Talk

talk to the person whose
job is to make it clear, whose
way is the sun's Way
hiding from the moon billowing

and we cling to each other
to
the time before dreams ifwhen
the forgetting passes us

by the river clothing hangs to dry
we fish & catch nothing, bait
resting in water's edge

(This is not not-zen zen, just
being lazy)

He says the fish
belongs to the moon, blind as.

Even

Even lust can be subtle

The wind    only a breeze
a scent of poplars long ago

I remembered a memory
too vivid it could not be real
      in it you sill bit your fingers
      to the quick

Each time I whisper your name
I pretend you listen   hear   know
love

I wish a little thing so small
hoping it small enough to come true
that you were not so far below
      the bare earth between us
      not so very hard