Tag Archives: metaphor

Memories Forgot


Piled under blankets,
pigment greased thick
under fingernails – scrubbed once
or twice – her breath falls soft.

Fast as Nike, she slept.
Night crept darker still;
under what pretense
would light appear but dawn?

An hour forgotten, a day forgotten.
The memories fade and no witness
to bear this breath in or out.
Snow drifts. One hurricane
follows another, falls dark.



the un-decibel.
so silent it hums.
what isn’t.
right before the storm.
that falling, grasping, shhh.
when the mind has slowed.
the breath has caught.
a glacier melting not groaning yet.
not fracturing or breaking.
or crashing.
not sighing or even exhaling.
what lands between two beats.
goes undetected.
disappears when the foot falls.

Yesterday’s Rain


Tapping cold rain falls
light on the tin roof
tapping and scattering.

Glass beads in a glass bowl.

Fat drops hurl through
sink heavily into
children hurl bodies into
sink heavily through

Rain stings
ricochets sharp enough
to remind of scarring
maybe on another day.

Yesterday, I thought of rain.



into the cave.

beyond where you imagined stopping
grab the wisp of wind ahead, drawn through the air
as if someone has illustrated
this life

hold tight to the windy wisp
and stand tall
or know it will drag you

drink in the mystic chant
in the distance
see the glow of a fire
on the horizon

smell smoke

and run through it
after it
into it

somewhere the burning will be hottest
and later it will cool
the steam will rise from the coals

gather the flickering steam in your hands
likely drawn with chalk
hide it away

A satisfying end.

Muse Memory Writing Prayer


Memories are dim –
white clouds on the outside.
I’m waiting for dark,
for gray or black or that sheet of sky where stars wink through holes
in cut fabric.

The Sullen One, the Dreamer, the Spectacle, the Net-Caster –
Oh, Weaver
I am alone in myself without drift or muse
Words on the horizon.

Is there a miracle invocation to be made?
Inspiration could be
a ghost from my past, or a spirit to prompt dreams
of lampposts in winter,
of burning oils and incense and
a poem without rhythm or reason
or rhyme
that flows like the ocean and whispers like the salt.
Simple rhythm.
A misguided drum.

And so, into the abyss, slowly,
I go descending

With my dreams scattered among nightmares,
the cutting edge of joy on my wrist;
hungry for life and death and the deepness of feeling.

So we are the painters, the artists, the diplomatic chief designers for our own lives, deaths and in betweens.

Snow falls and everything is soft and clean again.