December

When the nine that’s eleven
becomes a twelve and not ten
browns will wander toward white
and hard swallow still soft light

For Jill

The wonder filled words for the wonders we feel aren’t words at all They’re not the words in this poem to be bunched up or rhymed They’re not the sing-sung words of other poems and tales we read aloud at wee hours They’re not even the words from the oddly but sweetly breathed lyric we rediscover to each other over and over They’re found in the whorl of a whispering wind helping orange and amber hands to shimmy and sway as they reach up from the cold cement to touch our warmth They’re bound up in the low hum and hard pull of a half moon as it sits in its still-lit blue and nods down to bless our walk They’re the sound of everything we’ve ever wondered at They echo nothing but the beauty we’d only squander if we could never share it And though we can’t rhyme them or read them or sing them we can always hear them together.

Borrowed rooms

This borrowed room
won’t borrow its light from a moon
hidden from sight
behind a plain, black rectangle, but a slight
glow sneaks in at the fringe.

I like to look at that fringe.

My neighbor is
scratching. He is

scraping the wall
with a chalk
piece’s quick jumps, and

its languid swirls. I can

merely guess at
the alibis he writes on its flat
backside.

When will the scraping die
down?

It dies down.

The solipsistic scientist defines

1.

[My] theory [is]
the self is
the only thing

[It] can be
(it is)
known and
(in knowing, it is)
verified.

2.

[My] theory (is)
or (it is my) view that
the self is
the only
(known and knowing)
reality.

3.

(My theory is)
self-absorption.

(It is)
an unawareness
(yes, blissfully so)
of the (unknown
and unknowable)
views or needs
of others.

(Are there others?)

My hollow has a metal sound (the poem)

[Well, I'm posting one more poem before I take my pause from regular blogging to focus on a longer-term project (and I may break the silence again if the muse takes me unexpectedly, as she often does).]

My hollow has a metal sound.

My hollow is sounding this way:
A hinged flap clangs,

tapping against its empty cylinder.
There are cinders in the tender

trap I laid yesterday

to catch a glimpse of a gleam.
The gleam leaped from a small crinkle

in the steel, and got free
before I could show it how much

I loved it.

Then, I closed my eyes.
When I close my eyes, I can see

flares of color.
Monday, it isn’t blue, it’s red,

a ruby splatter creeping

its stain of warmth to the very edge.
Tuesday, it’s blue. Tuesday is

a sapphire pool slowly spreading its wet
to cool off Monday’s hot.

Today is Wednesday. That gleam was

supposed to be my yellow.
Without it, what I see slips back into a black

velvet landscape they’ve re-placed inside
a cheap aluminum frame.

What I see in it is

what I saw on it, when the black was more
sheet-metal gray, and it was and is

a wounded robot hand-painted white
to wander

across the wastes where my human mind

once played with colors.
It’s collecting glints off smooth-faced

granite with its sensitive sensors for eyes.
They’ll help fill its hollow,

a hollow suddenly sounding less metal.

I need to take a break for a little while

Please don't forget me while I'm gone...

Blown

Fall storm winds rattle
loose windows. These leaves can't choose
when they'll flutter down.

Dona Nobis Pacem

"Dona Nobis Pacem" is Latin for "Grant Us Peace" and it's a sentiment being echoed by bloggers from around the world today as part of the 2011 Blog Blast for Peace. You don't need a blog to participate, just a Facebook account. If you'd like to find out more, please click here.

My hollow has a metal sound

Stabbed through with her smile, I thrive

The eight’s double curve’s shaking.
It grows to nine,
and reading, I read a word
at the same time
she’s speaking it to me. I’ve
looked to the sky
and wondered, can a pure blue
flutter? Can it dive?
Can it drive its peeks of white
deep into me?
It can, and does, and it is
no less, her smile.