A Dream Dislodged

 [Poetry], The Sword Inside  Comments Off on A Dream Dislodged
Aug 292011
 

Disorderly love falls on our lives
Like a dream in which we die
And cannot awake or dream otherwise
And only this dream is before our eyes

Ritual and rote and stigmatized
Inescapable and inordinately stylized
A sleepwalker's temptless step's imposed
And we see only the dream and are blind

Snowbound

 [Poetry], The Sword Inside  Comments Off on Snowbound
Aug 292011
 

A silent fibbing moonlight washes
Distorted shadows of the dissenting sun
Over each snow-molested branch and bush
Arranged outside with a congregation's grace
For the terminal minutes of our love-embrace
Happening behind an unrolled windowsash.
You had wanted to hurt me, and did.
Truth was my only tribulation.

Your hands hung, inert and underfed,
Along the sofa's arms, overstuffed and wan,
Resisting the reconciliation of my touch
- And you pulled away, besides, your face,
Quick and moonlike, from my near face
Hurrying forward in a rudimentary rush
That had so often sought the complexity of bed.
Truth was my only tribulation.

It was then, snowbound and alone, you had said
Words that made all things one
And useless, in the gelid December hush
Whose winds diminished to a sparse trace
In the outer emptiness I could not face,
Too full of the moon's pale refracted crush.
I don't know how all this roomy dark occurred.
Truth is my only tribulation.


Dead

 [Poetry], Unimagined Things  Comments Off on Dead
Aug 272011
 

What has life's bitter disappointment brought
Laid in a narrow, breathless bed?
Shall we curse all our drunken, muddy lot
Lain with long bones of the dead?

At the end of a rifle or parting stream
Pursued by a pursuing dream
Man wakes up to find his enemies again,
The end of dreams, and all friends dead.

What stays hid in the marrow there,
Thrust deep underground?
Things purposed in the unpurposed air
Die when those men are dead.

Whether father or brother still pursue
Their work, or others' work, I do not know;
I read it on a narrow, upright stone
Cast by the long bones of the dead.

Fathers sacrifice long-loving sons
To a nameless, breathless bed;
Stand we under an island sun
Or lie with long bones of the dead?

Dead

 [Poetry], Constellations in December  Comments Off on Dead
Aug 262011
 
 
What has life's bitter disappointment brought 
Laid in a narrow, breathless bed? 
Shall we curse all our drunken, muddy lot 
Lain with long bones of the dead? 
 
At the end of a rifle or parting stream 
Pursued by a pursuing dream 
Man wakes up to find his enemies again, 
The end of dreams, and all friends dead. 
 
What stays hid in the marrow there, 
Thrust deep underground? 
Things purposed in the unpurposed air 
Die when those men are dead. 
 
Whether father or brother still pursue 
Their work, or others' work, I do not know; 
I read it on a narrow, upright stone 
Cast by the long bones of the dead. 
 
Fathers sacrifice long-loving sons 
To a nameless, breathless bed; 
Stand we under an island sun 
Or lie with long bones of the dead?