* * *
What kind of
world am I
growing old in?
Contemplative poems
Contemplative poems — a collection of the best works on PoemShip.
* * *
Sitting in front of
my old junior high,
feeling good.
* * *
i could travel the whole world
in search for a home
but i would still be left
searching-
the world is not enough.
* * *
the litter of funerals
on the granite of churchyard steps—
the distant darkening sky—
church spire: blank bone white
rising against the grain gray
horizon of tree and water tower
silent noon
Haiku 2
Chirp of crickets
the last lost sound of this Saturday.
Baby stirs, in sleep, inside.
Haiku 1
Frozen midnight
breath breathes condensation smoke skyward
moon obscured by clouds
Fading Foreordained
To fade, to dematerialize: foreordained
for all, no course but to accept moons
one after another, and their phases
to extinction. Sunrise brings regeneration
deterioration. We rot upright, walking
toward release, alone. Even so, our clouds
of cellular matter made for transient music
recede for joining. Only the way one leaves
preserves. Only love, savory sustenance
of distinction guards inevitable going, even as
hatred may accelerate a prolonged passing.
To write what remains to be written endures
as penultimate charm possessed to postpone
a return to darkness. Dread conceived as ill
by all outside our dim knowing: ethereal
staircase spiraling through sealed floors
Red Shift
when we were five years old
the world we knew was eight blocks wide
wherever i was in the universe
your voice would carry by citizens’ band
in years to come
the grid that held our world expanded
even crossed the state line
you called my house on still evenings
everything changed the day i heard
that the universe was blowing up like a balloon
growing more quickly all the time
destined not to pop but to dissolve
that galaxies were devouring each other whole
sending star systems hurtling
into the dark in slow motion
that from a distance the sun is a mote of dust
Two Weeks’ Notice
in two weeks
i’ll have been gone
for two weeks
Ourselves Alone
we tell our own stones because
no one else will tell them because
they would rather speculate manufacture
or simply ignore us and hope
we go away in time
we tell our own stories so
they will not die
with us
Disintegration of the Self
i was an empty room
with an open window
lived and breathed in
empty stairwells
reading jung and
dreaming foggily
of mute and wind-swept orchards
now my life is
a party on the front porch
raucous laughter and
i am no one in particular but
my family’s so great i can
hardly hear
the whispers of the elms
The Art of Expecting
speak
if the spirit moves you
holler if it possesses you
and won’t let go
cry out
if you are all-consumed
i will understand if you are silent
i have hardly spoken myself
these long months
ever since we stopped scrying
for a second pink line
the sun slips fast
across the sky the nights
pass reluctantly the radiators
hiss our child
restless within stretches and squirms
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