Friday, June 08, 2007

Dear Poetry

I will break again.
outside locked doors

inside the rain;

I am not enough
to stand,
to touch the shattered drop.

I cannot awake.
Morpheus bound me
in his embrace.

I do break.

shards of glass bled
colourless by rain.

I am not enough
to eat my pain,
chew brittle glass
kiss her anger.

I do not get away.

I will die again;
be reborn in blackness
of my darkest cave.

I may awake
alone, in Gaia’s womb
entombed, unknown.

I will not flay my
flesh in words;
fall through myself
to make amends



who do I imagine I am?

in a place
where ten year old
bulldozers tear down
one hundred year old trees

in this place where
house sized wood chippers
vomit green onto
clear cut ground

bare foot in the grass
the rain will not
baptize me

my finger waits
for the drop that
could forgive me.


The lavender garden is sharp dry sticks. The half withered lilac bush hangs on like a stroke victim, small white flowers facing away from its dead side. In front, an entire clump of golden ground cover, eaten alive. The herbivores moving on to tasty nettle flowers and deep blue hostas.

The thistles are thriving. Feeding birds all winter, has afforded me this reward.

I sit under my willow’s weeping, and look to its stunted branches for emotions appropriate for the dead and dying. Are they waiting under heavy clay soil to emerge with cicadas? Will I recall my love in the arrival of their ravenous droning?


All are dead, or will die from my neglect. If you want to be poetic, will die from my breakdown, my second bottom, my passions' burial, from life and hope too afraid to wake up.

But my today is not for poetry.

Today I stand in thistles. Last summer, I brushed past lavender for the perfumed caress it left on me. I regard the desiccated bed before my re-immersion in barren slumber.

Tuesday, June 05, 2007