Tag Archives: poem

Home

Standard

I walked the winding path today

around the apartment buildings

right through my childhood.

 

Everything smelled the same.

The big white lilies gave off a fragrance of early evening,

the sunset was in its incipient stages.

The heat bearable, like me.

 

Summer petering out.

 

I leapt from one slab of stone to the next, imagined where the bench used to be,

and the staircase where all the teenagers laughed and wrote funny signs on the wall,

and me, just a child, in my cream polo T-shirt with red ladybugs and two buttons.

 

I came around the walls, touching, scraping.

Nothing but old people now on the other side of those walls, sequestered by them.

I still breathed through widened nostrils, I alone could still leap.

 

Where the bench once stood, just arid space.

(Where I once insulted another girl’s doll and was ostracized an entire summer.)

Even the buildings look old, and that is comforting.

 

It is comforting to know some things never change,

that you can count on them never to change,

that your memories still have places to inhabit.

 

It is comforting to unearth roots,

anchoring where it used to be.

My soul is comforted by old immovable things now.

 

There is a weak storm brewing.

I don’t feel threatened. It too has no strength anymore.

It tousles the treetops, the night sky a pinkish fog,

raindrops dry out before they hit the cement.

 

It is merely a swoosh.

 

A coming and going like the ocean tides.

Doves cooing on warm roof tiles, small sparrows under bushes.

It is farewell.

The invisible pane

Standard

the sun is hanging in the fir trees by the collar of its wintry coat.

old people have come out into the park to walk their dogs to its skirt.

the dogs prance and snoop. the people themselves walk at an angle, slanted,

like leaden-limbed mimes on a running belt that’s running

in the opposite direction.

they’re pushing against an invisible pane (pain?…)

they’re pressing ahead, pushing against tomorrow,

while everything hurtles them against yesterday.

they’ve seen it all in their lifetime. fought it all.

now they’re left fighting friction

and gravity.

Loss of faith

Standard

i swam like a fish to the bottom of my being.

at the bottom of that sea of sand i swam into yesterday.

i drilled softly for the pearls to collect in my little necklace of happiness.

i flapped my little fish tail around and stirred up the sand at the bottom of the sea

to drill for more depth.

to bury myself completely on this side and emerge all the more alive on the other.

to find a shell still intact, a crustacean, a remnant of the great continent’s air fleet, now sunk.

but no. the love had petrified and become

this hard sepulchral distance between us

between me and everything.

insurmountable. and i knew

that happiness was for fish.

all i could hope for was a sparkling bead here and there at the bottom, like a shard of light,

where the ocean just happened to smile on that day.

My Roommate

Standard

It’s morning.

A spider has just rappelled down on my desk,

where I was writing a goodbye letter.

He stopped an inch short of touching it

and is hanging there, by his own thread,

suspended,

like me.

I cannot breathe.

I’m watching him wrap the whole room up in sticky wordless webs,

so nimble, like an eight-fingered pianist’s hand,

tapping the table,

waiting for a thought or waiting for

prey.

He’s off. He scurried speechless.

They say it’s bad luck to see a spider in the morning.

Shampoo and conditioning

Standard

night & day are disengaging with the sound of grain growing.

my sleep hovers over these different planets

and various bellyaches are screaming their hunger –

people don’t need poetry.

people need bread, and paperwork, and shoes.

sandwiched between convention and fear,

old people just want to conform.

my calling, my calling –

do I call you?

and will you call me back?

as day breaks,

we’re being instrumental to our own deaths.

love is a foreign word

that cannot fly

pummelled by gastric demands.

somebody please call the extrication unit.

my calling once drove this pile of contorted flesh.

my calling now has a decent job.

it’s hard to believe

it ever lived.

you said nothing will be changed, not even an iota,

and look now, turns out it’s so easy,

if you want to be happy

just buy a shampoo.