On a day like today I try to imagine that if I write a poem

the madness will end. If only poetry could

push away

the sadness,

the anger,

the frustration,

overwhelming,

nauseating

on and on

just angry

and sad.

I could breath again.

It's probably not a good idea to write poetry

on a day like this one

when you you just want to scream

scream. Out loud.

It's not a good idea to write poetry and

not be careful and take your time choose your words

carefully...

over and over we go.

On a day like today I thought if I could just write a few lines

the feeling in my chest would go away

It hasn't worked.

The news only gets worse. Children.

Kids. The fucking good news?

hospitals know how treat gunshot wounds

in children. I can't speak.

Words are useless on a day

like this day. Old poets are useless

on a day like this day.

Only words

are on offer.

What strange mistress is this who comes in the night?

unbidden and unwanted - oh god, please let me sleep!

but she nags and whines; insistent that I rise

to give her time and watch her dance.

I strain to hear her song, fingers poised to quickly write

Watching her spin and turn, to capture the bare moment,

But she falls silent, and her eyes refuse to look in mine

and she drifts back into the night; was she really here?

Will sleep return? Will I be able to lie down before

the hours turn to dawn? What have I got to show for

the appearance of my ghostly apparition: an empty page,

an unsettled soul and my lonely heart?

I stumble through the day and wonder why she won’t come

when the sun is up and I am ready to work

Why does she not appear when I need to fill the line

and satisfy the urgent desire to dance on my own?

Another night has come, and the restless sprite returns

Enticing and seducing, tempting me to rise again

Will this be the night when the urgent need to sing

is complete? Will my heart and the soul be filled at last?

I used to sleep like a teenager stumbling out of bed at noon

after a night of arguing obscure points of forgotten philosophy

with my clothes stinking of cigarettes and stale coffee

waiting for sunrise to signal the earth has spun another turn.

I used to sleep like a child - games filling the nighttime drifting

among the drama and crazy myths that never quite

come true while chasing the wildness of misspent days

hoping for adventures with a happy ending we can’t imagine.

I used to sleep like a baby - eyes twitching in some strange dream

deeply, deeply as though drugged senseless and grasping

for a mother who’s lost their little girl broken-hearted

and crying out for the touch of redemption and joy.

I used to dream silently in a wordless prayer spinning into

space waiting for the story to come to the final end where

we find the key and unlock the mystery that pulls us forward

and forward and forward, powerless, unable to resist.

I used to lay awake staring into the night chest heaving

with grief and the loss of you wondering how we so failed each

other letting our hands and hearts slip their moors like ships

adrift in a turbulent sea of lives that never quite find the shore.

You never believed me when

I said I was sorry

Even when I held your broken heart

in my bloody hands.

When you saw my future

In the stars and planets

Did you know, could you see

Where we would be now?

The first night we spent together

And I held you to me, you whispered,

“don’t fall in love with me”

It was just another way I failed you.

I remember that bright, white hot,

terrible day, when we saw

our hearts laid bare on

the new life inside you

In the bright, bright sunshine

All my words were meaningless

One bond broken, another made

What was the difference?

We are bare photons of light

Speeding away, across the sky

quantum particles

entangled,

tethered by grief

A strange phenomenon

Spooky action at a distance.

In my dream I’m wearing a pink dress and the fabric

is cool and cottony against my legs.

In this dream, I am waiting

for I hear thunder in the distance

and someone singing a sad, old love song.

The afternoon thrumming with a gathering storm.

we see what we want to see.

a brother said, “you don’t care for prayer, do you?”

and he asked me, where is god?

I turned my hands to the sky like radio telescopes

I said, I want to believe, I do

But all I hear is the constant hum

cosmic background radiation

the low rumble of distant thunder

and the steady buzz of the heat death of the universe.

I am now a girl in a black dress.

Oh, I see the look in your eyes

it’s just a kink -- there’s no need to worry

I sway a little as I wait for the rain to come

I have one hand on my chest and the other on myself.

I am swaying a little as the storm comes in.

The way is not in the sky. The way is in the heart.†

Suddenly I am back in my dream and my pink dress

lays cool and cottony against my skin

I hear some far-off music playing, soft and sad

while the air tastes like thunder in the afternoon.

Can I ever remember writing a happy song?

where God smiles down on the wide green land

and the old grey poet wakes from his restless sleep?

_________________________________________________

† Gautama Buddha

When you came to me you were just Wilson.

Full of confrontation, unimpressed

with your own kind, with mine as well, but stressed,

you were seeking quiet contemplation

with Buddha in his lotus position.

Peace may come from within us, Buddha confessed

Yet we lack the grace which a cat is blessed.

The cat curls against the Buddha’s cushion.

You were not yet old, not yet a mister,

An acolyte to our little garden

born wild but it’s no accident.

Sweet Bodhisattva, gentle inquisitor!

a cat will love, no matter how far then

humans are deceived by our own embarrassment.

for cats, self-deception is not in the bargain,

and when it comes to love; they’re expedient–

sunlight and belly scratches; a solemn Sacrament.

If I were a poet

I could write a love song to God

that only she would hear

I would whisper it softly

into her ear

softly.

if I were a poet

while I was singing

I would brush away the tears

that would fall

upon her holy cheek,

gently.

softly.

was I wrong to reach my hand

out to you

when I saw you cry?

and when I said I believe in Karma

you misunderstood.

if I were I a poet

I would tell you

the Wicked are not always

Punished.

the Righteous do not always receive their Just Reward.

it’s that

All Of It.

All the Good. All the Evil.

She. Will, Consume. It.

All Of It. It will amount to Nothing.

I lay my head upon your chest

just to hear you breathe.

if I were a poet

I would sing my love song to Gaea

softly, gently,

until you fell asleep

my words, like jewels, would fall

in the spring rain.

only…

it’s the spaces between

the words we remember,

the pauses on long walks,

the barely remembered glances,

one hand touches another.

If I were a poet

I would never catch my breath,

nothing to say.

stare out the window.

hear the door slam.

was I wrong

to reach my hand out to you

when I heard you cry?