Sunday, January 6, 2013

#365Poems Weekly Archive January 1-6

On Losing Small Things

Small things are
problems:  The minutiae escape me.
Cloud-sighting eyes, mind
faraway in myths and leaves
of paper or burning in trees.
Grand castles in
sand
glass
ice
pull me from my
little nest littered
with paper scraps.
Those are my small things: in them, keys
to big worlds. Keys to flight and dream
and memory. And now
I find I’ve lost
the sweet magic of small things.


How To Believe Everything and Nothing At All

In the dark, light a candle and feel that magic is a small, personal thing the size of the halo around a dancing flame.  

Say a prayer and feel the age on your tongue and imagine the mouths
that have whispered the same prayer. Know the power comes from that flesh, those teeth and lips,

and that God is the art of those lips. Forged by shared will,
we made them, Words and the Gods the same.


Courting the Dark

I want to say it’s hard in the dark;
No, it’s easier to draw it around me, to hide in creature comforts,
in soft things. I pull warm and soothing things into me: 
Bed clothes. Warm food. Whiskey.

It’s much worse, the harsh light,
every blemish & sin in stark true contrast.
Every lost chance written in the skin in deepening lines.
It’s painful courage to say
I’ve been courting the dark
because it is easier.


Solace

The black lacework
of bare tree limbs, back-lit
with barren sky
is my cold, beautiful solace
in the stark, bitter winter.


On Dangerous Wings

The flight isn’t to be;
The wings artificial and frail.

I want to be dared
to challenge the world-
the small, nested world,
and to fly instead
in dreams and strange magic.

I made wings from reveries
and molten wax, delicate feathers
that are pages from stolen books.

The nest seems far below,
a tangle of life:
The small, mundane world.

I was meant to rise,
I cry, wings catching a dashing wind.
I’m not for the small nest
and solid simple things. 

I think I want to burn
and feel until I hurt and
the sun blinds me. 
I want the sun to be a god.
In these wings I’m wide
and wild as the sky and rising.

And then my patchworked wings,
a construction of myth and story
melt and boil. I’m falling
wax bleeding out and down.

The nest below catches
dropped feathers,
softened wax, and lost dreams.

The nest below me opens,
holds me tight and whispers:
“Tell me of your dangerous flight,
of blinding light & burning.
Line the nest with fallen feathers
and fall quiet into this.
You are always safe
and you can always fly and fall.

I will hold you always.
Be small and safe and still.
And tomorrow again
you will craft new wings.”


Six, at Night

What did I dream? A sudden crash
startled me awake, and then your
small body shook against me and 
I cradled you. Your little hand
clenching mine, we explored
the dark house and laughed at
the fallen basket that had clapped
like thunder on the wooden floor.

It took long to settle you,
your bird heart beating 
fast and tiny warm arms 
clinging to me. You talked 
stream of consciousness
until exhaustion, 
and I listened with such fascination. 

Your young mind holds 
such large ideas,
your words are so well made.
I held you tightly until
your eyelids fluttered in
dream sleep and I wondered
What did you dream?