Rankled.
Can’t sugar-coat it,
just annoyed at everything,
mostly myself.
It’s chemistry.
I should be upbeat.
I should feel free:
the monkey is gone.
I allow the city
to choke my peace.
I have an idea and
pretend it is true.
It may or may not be true.
I’m not sure it matters.
I may not be who I want to be.
I may only be who I am.
I’m happy to reblog this from Interesting Literature:
The ice lets me know it’s not ready
with a peculiar noise:
half crack, half echo.
My heart freezes and climbs
through my throat into my head,
where it tries to look out from my nostrils.
My gut stays calm;
my skate blades adjust;
my path assumes a line to the edge.
The middle is not ready
to bear me on a journey
to the other side.
I have only to wait
for the season to deepen
and the ice to call.
(top: shambhalatimes.org; bottom: americablog.com)
The dog watches my
jumble of knots creak and fray;
he worries I’ll snap.
(top: lillstreet.com; dog: cherylpitt.com)
Sleep is an illusion tonight I cannot afford.
I pay endless bills
to the dark disquiet I have accepted.
Mortality closing in
sometimes gets my best,
until the dog comes and
loves me, wondering why I’m still awake.
My gratitude erupts and peace
steals back up the dark hall
to quiet the litany of blame.
Good boy. Thank you.
(Toulouse, the absolute best.)
The gyre of chance: swirls in swirls;
the cards are so cold,
colder than the click of a door
locking out hope.
I push my chips to
another stack, no regrets,
no goodbyes offered,
not even “see ya later.”
My lips pout.
Is that a tell?
She is a feast of soft lines and deft nooks,
a heaviness of promise and allure.
Our silent promises cannot be kept.
A sharp look of agreement
would cut through the hearts of all.
Promises we have already made
keep us honest and bereft.
(top: reading-body-language.co.uk; bottom: mamashealth.com)
The head winds in these times:
a gale blown in from the south
drives the sea to a craggy appointment.
It makes a shuttered room clean,
just enough light to warm
pen and paper bound with years
and a hum of words seldom spoken;
music always finds air to move,
wind deciphered by water and rock,
passed along from stone to ear,
to imagination on its hind legs,
to hand and pen, to warm paper.
(top: markjohnson.photoshelter.com; bottom: oregonstate.edu)
I write for people awake.
I don’t have to yell.
Some of our herd:
I see their eyes flash;
they know they don’t know,
but are not afraid.
More is heard than said.
The thread glows and goes and grows,
enough to hold and not let go.
Contact passes, but stays alive.
(glowing plankton: endthread.com)
The audiobook is live!
Narble Furt Lives 