Anteros

Ebb and  flow throughout my short life!
Why must time be categorized,
organized,
led away
into our minds?
Are you and I not one

in the same day?
Do we not exist,
but for the love and beauty
of all things?

Are there not an finite amount of sunsets
(glories of life)
in the course of a day?
Can we not visualize our purpose unless
it has a deadline?

Closing my eyes,
the clock stops its tick-tocking;
the cars stop their honk-honking; but
my heart continues beat-beating.

In the darkness of my mind,
time is eternal, it is pure and is made
from my blood and tears.
Time does not exist

for every atom in my body
(My body, my soul
does not move back and forth.)
In sleep, all things are peaceful,
eternal,
pure.

In death,
the ebb and
ow will stop,
and all that will remain
is love
(a love for all things beautiful.)

Jared

While balancing an orange on round Tupperware,
its lid blue, stained with red chili,
I think of Jared and how he still sucks his thumb.
He's nearly six

and once his lips pressed
around the knuckle, creating a tight seal,
he lapses into infantile reality.
It happens so easily,

how we can lapse into childhood or childlike states
of mind.  I wonder what he thinks of:
whether he was breast-fed or bottle-fed,
whether he nursed for long?

He's a stubborn, whiny child,
but so are most adults.
Where can you draw a line;
separate cognitions; mark the maturity levels?

As a teacher, I can't make
him stop.  I'm not behavioristic and
he is not a Pavlovian dog.
I wonder if he feels

his mother's breast
pressed up against his cheeks,
her hard nipple squeezed in his gums
providing him comfort, security, milk.

Or maybe he feels the rubber nipple,
soft and elastic, strangled by his gums
providing him comfort, security, grainy, sticky formula.
Maybe he doesn't think at all.

No matter;
for if I push my orange
it will fall and roll onto the floor.

Nyx

Running toward the blackened horizon,
the sky is nice and big tonight.
I see shadowed mountains
wrapped in the space of the night.
I feel warm here;
waiting to envelop the night and hug the sky.
There are plenty of stars
shining on me,
so I extend my arms and reach outward
until the smell of the evening lingers on my
fingertips.

Solemn Aspirations

solemn aspirations
dwell: statues
in thought.
The light is found
preserved
from centuries of
hate
patiently seeking
the meaning.

Theoritical Dream

it's gonna be
another late night:
sore feet,
sore back.
can't sleep:
a theoretical
$58 in my pocket.
6:28 PM:
no one here;
why am I?
10:55 PM:
five minutes before closing;
no one is leaving.
11:55 PM:
still here,
waiting.
12:58 PM:
can't sleep,
Keane stuck in my brain,
with a theoretical
dream in my pocket.

Dancin' a little

Pointin' my finger,
shakin' my hips
side to side.
Movin' to the music,
dancin' a little.
Snappin' my fingers,
feelin' the beat,
closin' my eyes
still shakin' my hips,
movin' a little.
Feelin' the room,
move as I move.
Feet are tappin'
dancin' a little.

Writer's Block

My mind is stuck
for lack of a better term.
The lights are on, but
the music has ended.
Writing is like listening to music
for the first time:
You close your eyes,
visualizing the notes;
You hum the rhythm
inside your heart.
Listening intently
looking for the right words,
for there are only right words
(no left words to listen for).
If you hear your music,
write it down.
If you cannot,
enjoy the silence.

Laurel, MT

I. 

North side (NW end):
Driving into town,
past the tracks,
the smell of sulfur
hangs in the air.
Tall cigars,
stacked next to tall factories,
smoke themselves
into the sky.

II.

South side (SW end):
The train has left
its fingerprints
riding along the ground.
The train has circled
the lake
waiting for salmon to return.
Blue collars stay blue collars
in the Laurel working end.
Grandfathers take their grandsons
fishing in an empty lake.
If we could find one,
Grandma will fry it up
when we get home.

III.

East end:
Homes line the streets
separated by rocky alleys.
Alleys that connect the town
flowing through the homes.
These are the veins
of Laurel.

IV.

West end:
Tractor tires lay in
overgrown weeds.
Indentations mark a
faded diamond
where children still play
(as in 1953).
Saturday nights
we gather together
cheering Laurel's children.
No winners,
no losers,
just baseball.


Laurel sits in the middle,
beating life to its state.
Roads come and go,
but Laurel continues beating.
Early in the morning,
among the quiet trees,
you can hear it
if you close your eyes
and open your heart.

Emerson

Sitting before the fire,
not cold enough outside
to warrant one,
I am torn between two worlds:
Baudelaire's sad Paris,
changed and still changing
as he mopes up and down
Place du Carrousel
looking for signs of youth;
and my bouncing daughter:
pants too long, cuffs slipped over her tiny heels,
holding onto an overhead rail,
practicing her jump
over and over,
cooing and cooing,
laughing,
making happy noises.
Two worlds, a century-and-a-half apart,
a continent apart,
aren't that different.
Charles and I both long for an earlier time
when buildings and babies
were younger;
streets and siblings
were newer;
But what he and I don't realize,
is that if we just look upward,
toward the sun,
our objects of a affection,
and see beauty before us,
we will see
Paris.
Emerson.
Otherwise, we will continue
to walk,
head bowed,
missing life.

Budding Persephone

The budding Persephone
drinks wine
surrounded by cypresses.
The crescent shadows

flowering from her
soft, olive hair,
cling at the earth.

the forest

I am standing in a forest
Silence surrounds me
I am alone
I can see my family,
The ones I love,
But they cannot
See me
A stark realization blankets me:
I must leave them
I must turn around and leave
No good-byes
No last minute love to share
No time at all
I feel the force behind me
Pulling me toward it...
Toward the loneliness
I want to stay, but
Cannot
I want the warmth of life,
But I am cold
i am dead.
the forest becomes gray
the color of a storm
it is raining, but I cannot
feel
the rain on my skin
i am not wet
i am cold
water touches my cheek,
but it is only a tear
one tear:
shed for my life
shed for my love
shed for the warmth
i must go
to a place i do not know
i fear the unknown, but
most of all,
i fear leaving
I fear being alone.

Daydreams

My daydreams
had thorns on them,
and fade to the color of
boiling smoke.
Surrounded by the heavy blue scent
of my imagination,
I lose touch with reality,
become intoxicated.
Drunk with nostalgia,
I stammer to the open door,
ajar, and breathing with fresh air
from the outdoors.
I burst outside,
only to crash into a pile of dead leaves,
the colors of rust and butter. Again,
I am thrust into another childhood memory,
this one happier and healthier.
I cannot escape my memory,
and as this thought warms my face,
against the brisk October wind,
I fall into a deep, chaotic spasm of laughter.

The Somnambulists

The somnambulists
walk slowly,
precisely,
through the stucco promenade
made from figures
in their
minds.
Each brick,
is a fantasy
linking dreams
and gravity
like the soft, pink
umbilical cord.
Their processions,
in the darkest
space
of their minds,
will surely end
with coming of
each day.

Poet Again

I want to be a
poet again.
Perhaps I never was
one, but
I want to bleed
my feelings.
I want my soul to grab
this pen from my hand.
Let me show you how to feel!
I want him to take over:
The Hopeless Romantic that
I used to be.
She love me more then,
or so I think.
She says she will always
love me, that man that I am,
but I could make her cry
once.
She would read, and my
words would blur in
the pools of her tears.
Was that me?
Am I lost?
I want to be a poet
again.
I want to write her,
and pour my feelings
over her.
She would drink them like
sweet water,
because
she is dying of thirst.
She needs the romance.
I need it, too.
I want to be a poet
again.
I never stopped loving
her,
feeling her.
I never stopped.

Under the Apple Tree

Under the apple tree,
the warm sun sets behind a purple horizon.
Patches of green grass
scratch our legs and
the knotted trunk itches my back.
We sit together.
80 years could pass,
all in one day,
and our love will be just as bright
as the sun that sets on
our lives together.
Under the apple tree,
we are at home
in our embrace,
and the apples ripen.

Late One Night

The real dream begins
when I exit the highway.
I pass reality by
and enter the mind
my heart created.
The music begins,
the blackness begins,
the road begins.


It is three a.m. and dark.
My eyes are heavy, but
I drive home.
I tuck half of my heart
into bed, and
begin to drive.


The radio is what keeps
me sane.
Life seems true, but
the road, the tires, the sleep,
all make me feel crazy;
This being the sanest I have
ever felt.
The music.
It is what keeps my reality
real.


The painted lines
appear and disappear.
Forty miles per hour seems slow.
I seem to be
floating through
a dream...my dream?
Am I awake?
Am I still driving?
I know I am driving because
it continues.
Every night it continues.


My car allows me to be
surreal.
My music is the link to
the reality in which I will awake.
Tomorrow will be another day.
Tomorrow will only come
if I make it home.
If I tuck the other half of my heart
into bed, and
begin to sleep,
dream.
Is this a dream?


I swerve and my body clenches.
My eyelids are heavy,
but my eyes are wide.
They stay open as I drive.
The night is black.
The lines are white.
Do I dream in color?
Do I see white lines and
a black night?
I see my marker.
My house will be approaching
soon on the right.
I turn o my engine.
I know I am awake now.
I thank her for gliding
home safely.
I sleep, and I dream.

Something for Someone Else

I cannot decide: a poem
or manifesto to write.
How can I understand and write
poetry if I cannot write
nor understand myself?
Publish a book or journal article.
What do I have to say, really?
Other poems are for other people.
I need my own poems;
my life in ink out before me,
splayed and splashed,
before I craft my words into
something for someone else.

Mother of Hynos

I.

Think sleep, friend, and ask why you truly fall into it.
Do you escape the wake?
Do you visit the familiar?
Do you stay because you are afraid to leave,
or leave because you fear staying behind?

II.

Essential shadows rob some goddesses of their dream.
Some steal your sun,
some comfort the lonely.
Are you the goddess they seek?
If you look too hard, they will disappear.
Dream sweetly, Nyx, and let your shadow listen.

III.

When you dream, do you hear the colors in your mind?
I love in whispers,
languid and delirious,
beneath my dreams.
I shine on your beauty,
and soar through these black moments.
Yet, the wind will blow in my face.
Guide me through.

IV.

I lust behind her music,
her gorgeous power.
I am a frantic ship in a winter storm.
She is a petal, the light I see.
Her skin is smooth and bare:
a wanted picture
that I keep in my mind.
The thousand weakest shadows will not cover me.

Hero

In July, I don the costume I paid too much
for a school fundraiser; forever limiting my Halloween choices.
Dark blue, deep crimson, this Superman is more modern
and all my children know of heroes.
I chase them mercilessly, around and round the house,
until they are hot with laughter, and I am
sweating from my age.  I feel too old to chase;
too old for this call to adventure.
Crossing the guardian's threshold without aid

(I have no mentor) makes facing my own death and rebirth
too much effort for suburbia; I'd rather mow the lawn.

But how can I return to my children a hero
when all I have is a costume and a dream?
How can I transform for them
from imperfect father who yells too much
into Superman?
How can I atone for my sins:
spanking, yelling, making my children feel less than perfect?
How can I return when all I want is some
peach and quiet and tea; to write in my journal,
imagining myself better than I am?

"Dreams save us; dreams lift us up and transform us."

This is what I have: my dream of guiding my young ones
into a world where dignity, honor, and justice
are not slogans to sell toys.

I will never stop fighting; even if it is with myself;
to be better,
to do better.

Ever.

She felt lonely.
So often, we are two ships,
described on two different pages,
in two different books,
passing by each other on two different nights.

I long for a time when
we are one
again.

My Own

I sign their names, as my own
underneath their poems
as if they were my own.

I claim that their words are my own
their memories, emotions, are my own
Because I am too scared to write
my own.

Perhaps this is a poem
a thought in time
that someone else can write down
when writer's block sets in
as their child interrupts because she poked herself
in her eye and needs a hug
while their spouse is upstairs
watching YouTube instead of talking.

Perhaps we all need someone else
to tell us what we are
who we are, and how we feel.
Perhaps we need to live vicariously through other people
because our own lives
are too clumsy, difficult, painful, mundane.

Perhaps.