Don’t chain me
to rhyme or metrical
expectations, let
words fall
where they
may
This is not a problem
but process
statement
stacked
One of play because
if adults can’t play
with words, well then
Where can they play?
This is our last meeting
so fleeting
and torn off from reality
I’m living for the secrets
Ive lost all my accountability
and I write this from obscurity
please meet the indie culture
People ask me where the poems come from
I tell everyone the same thing
They just appear, a word, a fragment, a feeling
Then I always say, “I’ve got to write that,”
Hence a poem is born
We fall out of touch for a long time
It was many years ago when we knew the glory
Lovers can go away though for years
Only to reconnect again with the passion of self
That allows real friendship to evolve
I love drinking alcohol
Not wine, though I enjoy an occasional glass
Not beer, though with spicy food what could be better
I love spirits, this past year has been bourbon
I never get drunk, it’s about the burn and the glow
There are other things going on
I won’t go into details at the moment
Spring is around the corner
Morning light wakes me up early
Rebirth my old friend, extending my hand and heart
I’m sorry, dear words,
for promising you place
then being fidgety.
Tossing you out.
I’m sorry, dear poem,
for failing to write you
down. You see,
I thought you’d stay
awhile but then you
ran away with whatever
else was in my shopping
list, never to be reclaimed.
Sorry at last for being
fickle with art, instead
of tender, reassuring, true.
Instead of a space
I offered a vacuum.
No amends can be made
now except a new draft.
I don’t know what I did (or didn’t do)
To fall out of her favor. And I know
I’m not the only one, to be mystified
By her behavior. Our time together
Was pleasant—unmarred by argument.
But she packed her bags completely
Leaving discreetly in the night—the scent
Of her perfume a bare hint in the empty air.
Hard to hear at present—but once she murmured
Sweet somethings in my ear all evening.
Now, behold the horror that I’ve become:
The pages so blank—the fingers so numb.
More at https://about.me/dklawitter.
It begins at the base, a series
of background questions.
Then the story is spread out
Leaf to branch to leaf, a face
of a protagonist, a villain,
a few strange quotations.
One way, the story branches to
a satisfying locus of foliage.
The other way, the way is broken,
splintered, falls breathless to the ground.
We visited the graveyard often
Even though we knew no one
In the graves themselves
It was at the crest of a hill
As if to place the dead skyward
With my Polaroid camera, I would
Snap photos of the markers, hoping
And simultaneously not hoping
That in one of them there would be
The wisp or specter of a ghost
When the products popped out
There was always that moment
Of ethereal mystery as the image
Faded into firm being.
I miss the words
doing their job
filling pages
Designs falling
into place
syllable to stanza
The silence
this silence
pushed back
Away for
another moment
or two
That’s what
I miss most
The words
folding me
into themselves
This woman,
collar locked high
against old wind
in the half hall
of her youth,
but clean words collect
in her head
as she steps
away
from lost windows
and rooms
to lean towards
the narrow lane,
where she sculpts
a path through briars
to the gate.
More at http://mariemacsweeney.com.
I’m writing less these days.
Figuring out the reason
I lose the frame of mind
That has till now
Heated my coffee,
Whose depth you compared
With my navel.
The times you gifted me with
Awaits at my threshold
Not to enter into my domicile
But to resurrect in me
The ancient tradition
Of coating love with courtly songs
Where I’m Petrarch
And you my Laurel,
Coronating the chase with
A second’s glance of the Human-god.
Woe seems me.