You smell
it first–
musky
dust on
a favorite
chair
flowers wilting
in a blue vase
shadows
You count
the lines
on your face
craqueleur
every bone
has a name
carved into it
nothing is
left unmarked
Then you
remember
bird song
a cone flower
growing on a
country road
cherry blossoms
falling in a
Kyoto garden
In a desert
of mecury
nations of
unkept women
rest like squat
beetles on
all fours–
listening with
ears buttoned
to the ground.
They can
hear voices
echoing in
their heads,
whispering
of immolation,
hearts buring
in the afternoon,
birds soaring
in the sky.
There is no
comfort in
the keening
breeze, what
was blue
has turned
to red, falling
bombs have
gleaned their
husband’s bones
and left their
children dead.
In a month
we will not
remember,
an open guidebook,
a child’s drawing,
a map of Bali–
dreams scattered
in an open field.
The sun will
rise and set,
moonlight will
be moonlight–
indifferent to
the mean ambitions
of men with guns.
Only the
earth will
remember
what we
choose
to forget–
red poppies
falling from
the sky.
Fire comes
on a cold
winter night;
it enters
without
knocking.
What is
burning
here are
sleeping
children–
Is this ash
my child–
the one
I never
held but
dreamed?
Because
I could
not love
I loved
too much–
all things
are dreams
for dreamers.
I love the
grayness
of the tree’s
bare limbs,
cachectic leaves
clinging to the
frozen earth,
green is always
such a fickle thing.
Who’ll sing
my song
when I
am gone?
Who’ll paint
the sky?
I live
for love
who can’t
be loved–it
is my fate.
I am root
and I am
flower–soon
will be my
bitter hour.
A knife,
a rope,
the wind,
the sea,
these are
the things
that call
to me.
You stand up
and I fall down;
I dance for you
who cannot see.
Is love
what I am
all about–
I sell my soul
and I sell out?
A pair of eyes,
a wisp of hair
and I am lost
and I am there.
Wars are wars,
countries fall,
children die and
I am born.
Again and always,
I return to find you gone;
there must be something
more than this–someway
to end this bitter kiss.
my father
opened
his eyes
three years
after his
death–they
were blue
you must
live to
stand apart
from everything
you need
and make
poetry
of your
pain
his last
words
to me
were
rhymes–
a severed leg
a broken heart
a foolish dream
I’ve written
so many
poems
for you
and painted
pictures too
blue and
red and
gold on
paper made
of skin
I am
ashamed
of how
I’ve loved
a lantern
floating
in the sky
could not
have burned
as bright
I will
not stop
until
I reach
the sun
and all
my art
consumed
in flame
gives fiery
birth to your
sweet name
no ticket at the gate
no ferryman to
take you out
or bring you in
a small bird settles
on a leafless branch
it sings–no sound
on earth can bring
him back
the poems were only poems
he never read
the moon
was just
a moon
it came
and went
love was just an empty cup
blue flowers and a graceful stem
It’s never why
it’s only when
the extra letter
fits the pain
a man
a tree
a long-haired girl
remind you of the moon
you once believed
but now you don’t
all courage in an empty cup
you drink to him
gall is made
from wine
gone bitter
in a broken heart
you turn away in shame
Narcissus at the touching pool
enthralled by what he sees–
beauty is the beast
rlmcdermott 