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All posts for the month August, 2012

The Wounding

Published August 31, 2012 by rlmcdermott

waiting for something
that’s finally come
there’s an art to that
that wanting
the hard wood of it
no sound except
my own breathing

not sure if the
sound of it is mine
cell rubbing against cell
transfer paper against stone
names dates relationships
the artifacts of a life
my life dreaming itself

It’s all about death

Hieroglyphics on my skin
numbers letters signs
signs and wonders
all against my skin
burning into my flesh
words everywhere
none making sense
lost love
lost life
what mattered most was the dream

did I dream it all
family friends art life
was it worth standing still

is this what Eurydice knew
when she hoped he would turn around
not to go back
not to have to live again
the constant feeling of failure
the waiting
the questions
is it here
is it today
will it be tomorrow
how long
how much longer

and then it’s here
and you’re not afraid
just sad
waiting does that to you
and then the god touches
you on your shoulder
and says he has turned around

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Late Bloomers

Published August 22, 2012 by rlmcdermott

if I told you I’d be there

would you find
the wooden bench
the white camellias
the cherry tree
would you ask my name again
and lift your face into the sun–
exactly as you did that day

would we walk along the garden path
beneath the overarching trees
and listen to the insect’s song
the thrum of things so small
that only lovers hear their
extracorporeal hum

we are too late for love
too late for all the silly things
the longing
the sweet regret
the silences
the sudden rush of words
and yet we’re here
too old to hold each other’s hand
too young to walk apart

if I told you I’d be there

would I wait alone
beneath an autumn sun
would I look up and see you there
beside me on the wooden bench
a white camellia in your hand

The Lovers

Published August 21, 2012 by rlmcdermott

Only the moon
could love a tree
that has no leaves.

She lost them all
last autumn’s day
and when they fell
the fickle world
turned it’s face away–
not him, he stayed.

The birds despised
her–they could not nest.
The flowers turned their
sunny heads and all
the weeping willows wept,

But he stood still
and bathed her
in his yellow light
and kept her warm
despite the night.

The Answer

Published August 20, 2012 by rlmcdermott

I’ve found you.
I have you
in my hand.
I hold you
to my heart
a thousand
times a day.
I keep my
hand open
so you won’t
fly away.

You are my
skylark, a bird
who cannot stay
and so I’ll love
you selflessly
like the moonlight
loves the day.