For B. Dawson, who gave me the "assignment" of writing a Shakespearean sonnet addressing the uncomfortable fact that the word "Google" could be broken down into "Go ogle." As many folks do...including our dear Bard, it seems. ;-)
Whilst pond’ring rhymes to use as subtle seductions,
a loutish lad with clothes and accent strange
produced a “tool” he said would speed eduction.
His malevolous mallecho has left me quite deranged.
What ho! In light revealed to wand’ring eyes
but wench upon wench in shocking ruttish pose
with lily stomachs, buttocks, necks, and thighs
all lacy-draped – they left me uncomposed!
Forsooth, Victoria’s secrets there laid bare
and rendered me a fustilarian thrill’d.
Their ivory breasts! Their shameless curves! So fair
I soon forgot what I’d set out to quill.
E’er after do they haunt my roguish dreams,
since now I know what this “Go ogle it” means.
_________________
Ash
Every so often, I set fire to my life
believing I'm practicing alchemy.
I touch a match to it, and my world
explodes into red roar roaring flames of anger
or slowly boils dry on blue licks of lust.
It combusts with the bright yellow heat of ambition
or disintegrates into white-hot flashes of self-loathing,
singeing me with its howling ferocity.
Sometimes it ignites in a green burst of envy,
choking the air with the acrid scent of regret,
or blooms with the slow, torturous orange glow of despair.
Each time, afterwards,
I poke through the remains looking for something precious enough
to pay the cost of all the wreckage I've left.
I stir the ruins of each separate immolation with a stick --
as though they were tea leaves to be read for meaning --
before sweeping the mess into the dustbin
and starting again.
It's only recently I've realized that the answer was always there,
that all I had to do was listen to the wind
lifting the edges of the swirling debris:
"Put away the matches. Stop this madness.
You solve nothing with all of this beautiful destruction.
No matter what brilliant color the flame
all ash is grey."
For THS, in case you ever wonderI touch a match to it, and my world
explodes into red roar roaring flames of anger
or slowly boils dry on blue licks of lust.
It combusts with the bright yellow heat of ambition
or disintegrates into white-hot flashes of self-loathing,
singeing me with its howling ferocity.
Sometimes it ignites in a green burst of envy,
choking the air with the acrid scent of regret,
or blooms with the slow, torturous orange glow of despair.
Each time, afterwards,
I poke through the remains looking for something precious enough
to pay the cost of all the wreckage I've left.
I stir the ruins of each separate immolation with a stick --
as though they were tea leaves to be read for meaning --
before sweeping the mess into the dustbin
and starting again.
It's only recently I've realized that the answer was always there,
that all I had to do was listen to the wind
lifting the edges of the swirling debris:
"Put away the matches. Stop this madness.
You solve nothing with all of this beautiful destruction.
No matter what brilliant color the flame
all ash is grey."
_________________
Weight
I can't find my way back
the only trail is a broken path
of things half-said or unsaid
with outcroppings of silence
hanging darkly over it
for a while,
I saw you in the distance --
a glimpse of your shirt
a flash of your hair in the sun --
as you receded
don't judge me too harshly
I never knew what to do
with a love like that
how was I supposed to carry it?
where did it fit?
where do you put something that big
and frightening and heavy?
so I shrugged it off and set out
feeling lighter for a while
but that's not the way it works
you don't just set those things down
wipe your hands on your jeans
and stride off, the road suddenly clearer
eventually, the weight of its absence hits you
and you realize it contained essentials:
sustenance
warmth
shelter
a map
a compass
the other half of your soul
and now I'm wandering
my direction muddled
my feet stumbling
no stars for steering
and no Home in sight
_________________
Dancing with Fibonacci
For Jerry Velasco, my partner-in-imagining
start
here
one word
elegant
mathematical
orderly syllables building
nautilus shells, whorls of petals, whole universes
all dancing with Fibonacci
until we lose count
relinquish
extrude
end
here
_________________
There are holes in my ceiling,
missing timbers,
whole pillars carved out of my yard,
opening gaps that once
were shingled with branches,
curtained with leaves.
Because we know it's for the best
we are all trying to get used to the holes.
Still, the birds do flutter a bit,
arriving at a blank space
that yesterday was a perch.
The squirrels re-route
their high-speed chases --
sometimes in daring acrobatic
mid-flight leaps --
chittering at the truncated limbs.
The ferns twist and recoil
away from sudden arrows of sunlight
shooting at them from an unexpected sky.
And now I can see my neighbors' houses --
and they, mine.
We are all a bit embarrassed
by the shockingly naked views.
But we are learning to avert our eyes,
remembering not to comment on the lives
we see laid bare,
unveiled by the holes in my ceiling.
_________________
For Mary Wrobel
A Gift of Mary Oliver
In my hand_________________
the book of poetry you sent:
a bouquet of words
fragrant syllables
delicious, full,
ripe verse.
May some drifting breeze
blow a seed of gratitude
across the miles
and plant itself
neatly, quietly
in your garden.
Weekends
We have such big ideas
for such a little space of hours.
We plan and scheme
and debate how best
to spend this cache of a day
in industrious (virtuous!)
activity.
We make lists
and organize and map
and architect.
We get lost in our own
deliberative webs.
And the day unravels...
...until we are holding
only the tail end of it
in our idle fingers,
wondering how to knit it up again
into something to show
for all we haven't done.
