Poems, Prose, Photos & the Art of Being Human
GALLOPING
when I ride give me not a saddle but the force of blood-filled muscles moving against my thighs and salt- wet hair rubbing moist threads from jeans let me not ride to save myself from walking but to fill with wind and thunder as we gallop pressed so close hooves and breath our mine
Thank you to the editor of Something Like Homesickness for first publishing this poem.
DIG
Caught between Kerouac and Marilyn spawned in me the language, fearless pain as my mother, wrapped in mink, walked the edge then past as I watched then ducked smashed shards and men wanting to be sucked, degenerating the innocence of life and saints and promises made;
and where is Christ, the Buddha, ohm mani padme ohm when thousands of children die each year in America alone at the hands of their parents caretakers life-takers, when fathers teach their daughters the art of Kama Sutra, how in all this to distinguish any act as wrong, when killing millions in moments preserves the American way and what of generations born in winds of mushroom clouds,born without limbs or eyes to napalm women,what harm in being sucked by unlined skin—
the brain numb too short a time, too soon the blackout ends, too soon Marilyn raises her skirt, her breasts, her legendary grin, too soon barbiturates and lithium and caffeine caffeine—can’t sleep, won’t sleep, bring in the kid—she won’t remember anyway the feel of heels and calloused palms, slip between her unfledged lips like snow, like angel wings, then retreat to the oblivion of drink. What’s sex in this rhythm of hate and fear, in the mutual acceptability of mutual destruction? The Buddha uncrucified cannot exist.
And I know these people, this violence spawned of invisibility, sexuality hiding fungal lingams of death, sublimating the need to think of consequence when consequences surround us not of our own making—why control ourselves when we ourselves have no control in this atomic-Ku Klux Klan-raping world of sawed-off shotguns in the hands of eight-year-olds who need a fix, a blow, enough to know they are alive, enough to dull the tense despair of being alive
but this is my world too and the bombs of mutual annihilation have not yet dropped and I do remember the jazz-nuanced hipster world that spawned me behind Marilyn’s angel grin concealing desperate dreams turned nightmare horrible, and I
we carry these in symbols of anorexic models and crucifixions to bars and steaming baths and schoolyards filled with meth and smack, bliss only in the mind, the body sharp-edged and clutching.
Yet under these streets flow fresh-water streams—chip away with hammer and nail, dig through phlegm-stained concrete with fingers till whitened bone shows through, dig for water to wash us clean, past wanting more cars, more clothes, more love than we feel, dig for truth beyond lies that tell us drugs and sex, shaved heads and tattoos, fast tech will save us for only we can save ourselves yet if each self is saved we will save the world.
Thank you to the editors of Squaw Valley Review Poetry Anthology 2012 for first publishing this poem and to the community and poets who make Community of Writers such a rich and fulfilling experience.
CONFESSIONS OF A NATURE LOVER
Back then I was going steady with fog, who could dance like nobody’s business, I threw her over for a leaf that one day fluttered first her shadow then her whole life into my hand, that’s a lot of relatives, this leaf and that leaf and all the other leaves hung around, I told her I needed space, which was true, without it I’d only be a soul, and no one’s sure that whisp is real, that’s why we say of real estate, location, location location, and of speech, locution, locution, locution and of love, yes, yes, yes I am on my knees, will you have me, world?
(from The New Yorker, May 14, 2012)
WELL
It starts with the heart's pulse
womb's embrace
nourishment from other as if self
before we're spit into this slip slap of blue
deafening white
indifferent ground that shatters bone
if we fall too long
too hard
yet sometimes hands, like whispers,
rustle through loss's deep well
to retrieve silken strands
rewoven then into something like wings
that expand beyond the contraction of loss
and whisper through the dark
you are not alone.
Thank you to the editors of 5AM for first publishing this poem.
I do not know which to prefer,
the beauty of inflections
or the beauty of innuendoes,
the blackbird whistling
or just after.
from “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” by Wallace Stevens
It is difficult to get the news from poems yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.
From Asphodel, that Greeny Flower by William Carlos Williams and printed by POETRY.
Collies, gold and white fist strikes Running beside me palms slap As I explored foot slams Orchards of oranges and owls, me against the floor Beaver dams hands rip Abandoned in summer. heads off my dolls Polished maple posts legs spread Stretched sheer white lace forced apart Over my head, by arms wider A walk-in closet than my thighs Held handcrafted horses, I can't speak yet Stuffed elephants and bears. can't say no Chestnut horse, nurses jab needles in wrists Flaming in the sun, cold fingers bruise me Neighs soaring in the wind, asthma restrains me Swift as a kite muscles tear To ride away as I lunge On. for air
Thank you to the editors of The Sonoma Mandala: Literary Review for first publishing this poem.
MASKS OF CARDINAL FEATHERS
Drape
Me in
Crimson rOse petals,
garnets,
coral,
Rubies,
and feed me
dragon's Blood,
cherries,
straWberries,
plums,
salmon,
meRlot,
then make me
glow,
flush,
blush,
BlooM
till I'm
Rubeous,
carnLian,
verMilioN,
as ScarLet hummingbirds
SOAR from our
Mad
voRacious
heartS.
Thank you to the editor of Absinthe Revival for first publishing this poem.
BLOOD ROOT
Blood blossoms burst forth in war zones as roots stretch deep. I feel them when we fight and I want to burn your tongue black with hot rock rather than hear words opposing mine; engorged roots strike through limbs - my hand, your face.
Thank you to the editors of Hard Love for first publishing this poem.
THEY HOLD THE SEA
Contagious as your hummingbird smile may be, it is your hands... hands that sculpt ki into a dragon's mouth with arcs of mother-of-pearl framing rainbow flames that smell of warm milk and nutmeg, while your touch draws the breath of muscle to bone, then deeper. Too few lines cross your hands, large, almost too large, they hold the sea.
Thank you to the editor of Something Like Homesickness for first publishing this poem.
Ki–Japanese word meaning energy or life force.
Elizabeth Oakley Weaver 