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Tidal Beats (#324)

I want to write a poem
to the beat
of the
ocean
the BOOM
swishhhhh
whisper
of the waves dying on sand
and somehow
tie it to birth
and death
and maybe God’s breath
and,
man,
waves are so consistent
insistent
that the world
keeps moving
no matter how many times
I tell it to STOP

and here’s another wave
BOOM
swishhhhh
whisper

my voice reading this is too loud
endowed with my human pride
but the tide will keep pulling me down
pulling the sand from around my feet
back into the ocean
so any notion I have
of my superior humanness
is lost in a whitewater wash
of those whispers

BOOM
swishhhhh
whisper

and, yes,
maybe this is about birth
and death
and even God’s breath
and life moving beyond
my yells of help
and how the cycle continues
and I’m less than that whisper

I know I need to stop writing this
speaking this
needing this to give me
a sense of who I am
or how I fit
it’s time for me to quit
this self-pitying
self-aggrandizing
philosophizing on what the
ocean
means to me and everybody else
and just
jump
into
the waves

BOOM
swishhhhh
whisper

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Posted by on February 15, 2018 in new poetry

 

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6th Anniversary (#323)

I graduated summa cum laude
With a major in Sorry
And a minor in Whatever You Say

You’ve asked me to go back to night school
Because,
Apparently,
I didn’t learn the material
Well enough

 
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Posted by on February 13, 2018 in new poetry

 

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Feathers (#322)

A storm of yesterday
Eyes closed because it is dark
Feeling safest in the corners

Outside
Feathers rip the sky
Leftover wishes
That turned into pain

The screaming is internal

Sunlight?
Where’s the sunlight?
When will dawn come
And the day forgive?

Eyes still closed

The feathers pound on the windows
Yesterday’s rain

Probably tomorrow’s rain

The corners aren’t safe anymore

Open eyes
Open windows

Let storm in

Feathers on skin

The screaming is internal

 
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Posted by on February 7, 2018 in new poetry

 

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Intelligent Kids (#321)

He turned to her
on that Friday
right before the end of lunch.

“You’re the Mary of our group.”

She paused.

“Virginal?
Essence of patience and peace?”

No response.

“Magdalene?
Sign of redemption?
Showing us how we are all good inside
and we can overcome our mistakes?”

He closed his backpack.

“No.
Typhoid.”

And walked to class.

 
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Posted by on February 6, 2018 in new poetry

 

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gargoyle (#320)

I will wait here for you
a statue
a gargoyle
cast in iron or stone
part of any architecture I can find.
This is how I will survive
all of the storms
I know
have destroyed your other loves.
I will watch
carefully
unblinking
as days and nights chase each other
as water of unwanted devotion
falls away from your turned-away body.

I will be patient.
I will be iron or stone.
You will always know where I am.
I’m the quiet, still thing
in the corner of your life.
Waiting for you.

 
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Posted by on February 1, 2018 in new poetry

 

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Me and God–Torrey Pines edition (#319)

I am sitting on the beach
Watching the waves
Hoping for inspiration and to get in touch
With nature & beauty & God.
Meanwhile
Over a different ocean
A storm has grown so large
It is likely to destroy my mother’s home.

This dichotomy is where philosophy fails me.

I want to think there is something in this
About the dual nature of forms
Or of power
Or of God’s grace.
But none of that works right now.
A hurricane is hitting
And the storm surge will swamp my mother’s home
Soak into all her things,
Important and temporary,
And cause her to rebuild her life at 80.

The waves that inspire me are small
And constant,
Background music to my poetry.

My mother has already accepted
What is likely to come,
Away on vacation, thankfully not able
To even think of going home,
Worried that her neighbors have gotten out
Not about her things.
She has accepted it better than I,
Staring at a different ocean
Out of touch with nature & beauty
& God.

 
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Posted by on February 1, 2018 in new poetry

 

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an itch of you (#318)

my past loves
were palm-tree-bending-winds
glorious-nighttime-desert-hikes-looking-for-water
diving-for-the-fallout-shelter-before-radiation-hits
loves
invigorating and scary
Look-I’m-Alive
types of loves

but I have always had an itch of you
middle of my back
can’t quite reach it
constantly there
itch of you

in the eye of a hurricane
or roaming a desert
or while a bomb was dropping
the itch was still there

I know I could have scratched it
if I really wanted to be rid of you
rubbed against a post
or bought one of those long-handled wooden claws
but part of me understood
your itch was important

and finally, now,
a wiser, surer man
I am ready to revel
in a full blown
body covering
rash of you

 
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Posted by on January 25, 2018 in new poetry

 

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