Did you
know that
I am dying
that I am
like a blue
crane flying
riding thermals
without wings
life is such
a fickle thing
it’s so hard
to let you go
yet so easy
to live alone
how could
I have loved
a moon that
never shines for me
am I grieving you
or grieving me
so long this dying
has to be–
a day a night
spent in the sky
who loves me
loves to fly
you pick me up
and put me down
and strike a bow
across my strings–
there is no sound
there is no sound
where sound should
be–the music’s fled
the air outside
has grown too
hot the bombs
have left too
many dead–
black notes across
a littered street
what cannot sing
will never weep
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.
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
Love
ducked
around
the corner
when it saw
her coming
until she
found it
here–
hiding
in a field
full of
wildflowers.
She knows
their names
better than
she knows
her own–
coneflower,
lady-slipper,
brown-eyed susan.
They grab
at straws
to keep
alive. Their
days are
bright and
flat and
they roll
them on
their edges.
Deep in
the tall
grasses,
she can
hear them
sing–
a simple
song that
settles on
the wind.
I wonder why
for some of us
life is like a long
season of waiting.
Does the cone flower
know the brevity
of its dance;
its one brown
eye blasted daily
by the sun–
can it see
anything
but the sky?
I’m a flower too
and my season
has been long.
For me, there
is no fall
in this place
just an endless
summer of grief.
I am unnatural,
a seed lifted
by the breeze
and carried here–
distant from the prairie,
distant from the tall grass,
distant from the meadow lark,
and distant from that softer
season when the earth
puts on its gray hat
and takes its flowers home.
she dresses
you in red
and takes
you to her bed
you think that I don’t know
but flowers
grow beside
my heart
and tell me
all their secrets
the small hotel
the river Seine
the Paris sky
pain is all I know these days
you lied
I was myself
until you came
and sat beside me
on a garden bench
and asked my name
I couldn’t turn away
two years have passed
since that bright day
the moon has danced
across so many skies
all painted blue and
I grow old and cannot
die for love of you
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
a woman’s crying
the redness of it
tears for something torn
a favorite dress
a picture of an old love
a memory
a
shell
casing
tumbling
through
thick air
a dog dead on
her front lawn
behind her
footsteps
scuttling leaves
backs raised
ready to pounce
everything is
dangerous tonight
sound hurts
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.
rlmcdermott 