All posts tagged: landscape

And Maybe…. Mystery

I point my ears to the farthest tree and listen to the needles sway and sing, like a nursery song remembered from childhood. I’m thinking about mending, about restoring, about the remedy of words. Dusk settles and my thoughts inch toward alone-ness. When I sit on the suburban steps staring out at the particulates and angels hidden in the ashes of cigarettes, I think of the soul, of how, maybe it smells like the dampness of rain and if it can be mended. A soul who exists in autonomy, hermiting against the waking world. Content to watch the seeds separate and sow, to watch the birds bend back their beaks in this August heat. The truth is: we exist only inside ourselves, our souls are dormant and our real selves, unactualized. Often times, we are only ever half a real person. We whisper ourselves to sleep and drown in stagnant waters, warm, and maybe even comfortable. And, so, the words we use to sooth ourselves begin to ring true; we listen without question, without second …

Dining Room in the Country

There is no wall between the landscape Parallel lines split clean passed Pastel symmetry divided by stucco walls, Vivid but barren The colors do not blur, but blend against the brush Geometry stilted against memory A lasting gaze A woman leans against the pane, Outside looking in. More feral at heart than the cats That’ve claimed her chairs. A wild thing, that tree plucked clean by pulpy hands Flesh happy to have picked flesh Now resting on a clothed table Until dusk inherits the red Resting against shoulders We can cover with our thumbs How has it happened that a piece can be held in your hands, possessed, purchased, & owned But never really known?

Hiking Into a Happy New Year

The afternoon shuts its doors. The heart tightens it valves, the dragon maple sunk in its bones, The grass asleep in its wheel. The year squeezes to this point, the cold Hung like a lantern against the dark burn of a syllable: I roll it around on my tongue, I warm its edges … Charles Wright, closing lines to “Light Journal,” Zone Journals (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1988)

Summer Thus Far…

Talked to a friend on the phone, told her I’d forgotten how to write. It’s true. Maybe it’s just that I have nothing to say really. Who is it I’m speaking to now, exactly? I’ve been told too often that I’m overly vague. But my life isn’t exactly something that can entertain pages upon pages, or even a handful of people really. To be honest, it’s just scraps, feathered pieces of paper torn on each end. Sometimes I wonder why I even write things here…. And then I remember: because it feels good to write things down. Put words down on a page that only really half-exists. Anyway, back to the content of my life, I’m ambiguous and indistinct. Maybe that’s why I’ve taken to poems. The right people to seem to understand them (or at least in my mind they do.) It’s like a type of codex; poems unite likewise minds flowing down the current of the universe. But in attempt to be a little less vague, let me share a little piece of …