All these
moons I’ve
painted that
bring no light–
the sun,
the stars,
the sky,
they can
not see
that I am
standing still.
These things
I dream are
dreamed for
someone else–
the bitter fruit,
the barren tree,
the songless bird
are all for me.
I wear them well
around my neck
until I cannot breathe–
I will not stay to
see them leave.
Who reads this
poem cannot
know me–
I didn’t bury
birds they
buried me.
the place was set
but no one came
she waited for an hour
and then she ate
pistachio and pumpkin
chestnuts and white truffles
outside the rain
the waitress was kind
and left her to her pain
the other diners
pretended she
was not alone
and smiled at
the lonely woman
sitting by herself
French restaurants in fall
the opera crowd
with season tickets
the sommelier
the taste of taro on her tongue
the bitter root of love denied
coffee and a sweet dessert
she paid the price
outside the rain
this is the
moment that
has been
hunting you
you are left
with only
a pen and
a blank book
to rewrite
your life
remember
the day that
you took two
hundred pills
and laid down to die
where’s the difference
between a soldier with a gun
and you with a vial of pills
you both alter flight
you hear your future
a dangerous cat
padding down the
corridors of it’s
accidental habitat
the rattle of pills
still in your brain
their coated surfaces
dissolving as memory
spills into your periphery
yet you go on
a predator of your
own life sleeping
in the shade of forgiving
trees until sunset when
the wild bird sings and
moonlight enters your dreams
all blue is blue
in this sad place
loving you has
not been easy
you were born
to sing and I
was born to listen
to that singing
where’s your voice
now here in this
place of small sounds
and of secrets
what is it that I love
your eyes hidden
your voice unheard
your pale skin yet
to be caressed
it must be the
sadness in your
wild heart the
fearless spirit
in one so afraid
to live apart from
his own story
why did the gods
whisper to me come
into the dark woods
and find his heart
Sweet Narcissus
some of us are never loved
we never know the flower
the moon’s reflection in a still lake
the smell of juniper and jasmine
it moves from left to right
and calls your name
it preys and prays
and calls you to its side
to dress you dead
the sweet deliverance
of pills that know your name
the sound of your own voice
the hidden mystery of it all
to watch death is to die
codeine has the properties of gangrene
your nerves dance like hobbled ballerinas
on toes that look like blackened twigs
your spring has been a bitter season
grown sweet before its final blossoming
roots dipped in the alkali of too much love
andante-sweet dementia-praecox
is simply another word for prayer
this is the epic of your life
to die without birth
a requiem of pain
unannounced and unashamed
I couldn’t find
my way among
the trees so
I turned back–
the darkness,
an old friend,
welcomed me.
It took my hand
and lead me down
the garden path
and I was patient
in the moonlight,
for the first time,
I was patient.
I’ve loved so
many things
the singing birds,
the summer sky,
the coneflowers
but most of all
the weeping
cherry blossom tree
that sheltered
everything but me.
I’ve lost you
but most of all
I’ve lost myself
because we shared
so many things–
the falling leaf,
the polished stone,
the tall grasses.
I’ll look for you
again, someday,
but not today–
today I’ll write
a poem and paint
a picture of the moon
and dream of gardens
where flowers never bloom.
It did not belong to her,
it was not her memory;
yet, she remembers the
day–the white church with
the green roof, the sun hot
on her face, her mother and sister
lingering on the church steps,
the priest surrounded by young girls
and then the sound.
They all turned their heads,
one head on one neck,
twisting muscle, grinding bone,
turning, turning toward the sound.
It was before air bags,
before seat belts,
before soft metals
and rubber bumpers–
everything was hard.
It did not belong to her;
it was not her memory;
but she remembers–
the doors snapping open,
three white birds falling
to the ground, the open
mouth of her mother,
the blue eyes of the priest,
the smell of jasmine and incense,
a young girl screaming
and, then, silence.
rlmcdermott 