J-i-poetry - Simple Poetry Blog

We're neither of us angels

I

The crowd of lesser demons gnawing at my thoughts doesn’t come from us –

my mind circles because our moments won’t stand still to be captured.

I only haunt myself when you’re not in reach to remind me I haven’t died.

II

I weave secrets, around you, over you, yet in your presence nothing is hidden,

not even the carelessness of my wishing. You are the pennies winking low in the well,

taunting me. Every past moment of wistfulness for someone I hadn’t met yet arriving

with the grace and fluidity of rain now distils fears to the nightmare of losing this.

III

No angels will save us – still a barter better than any

offered at the crossroads. I’ll love the demons to death.

Inauguration

My futile attempt to find nature

I start with parks,

Unassuming grassy expanses

Rimmed with palms, perhaps

With a pond or playground

I graduate to preserves

Larger ponds, sometimes with

Geese, always with ducks

I walk along its paved paths

Or rocky byways, but I

Run into the road

The sounds of cars inescapable

Beyond the quacks and honks

And rustling of untrimmed mesquites

I try a "hike", more of a

Stroll through the stones of a

Great, holey hill

I lose track of my impromptu

Guides, so I take the easy route

It leads to he canal, another

Reminder of man's hubris in the

Desert biome I now call home

I was born to a land of true wilds,

Of old growth forests protected by

Fences, yes, but standing proud, uncut

I was born to hills, and creeks, and

Bushes bursting with black berries,

Counting the stars on a clear night,

Camping in the back yard,

Craning our necks to watch deer

And woodpeckers working

To hear bats screech under the new moon

I sit on a plastic bench, molded like wood

I watch men fish at stocked ponds,

I hope the sounds of motorcycles

Doesn't scare their catch,

But these creatures are likely as

Trained to the sounds as the grackles

Are to rooting through trash

I pray that the little natures around me

Remain un-golfed, and undeveloped

That the canal can yet give rest to cormorants,

That the bougainvilleas can shelter the sparrows,

That what little respect my new home has

For its many gifts can yet be preserved,

For the sake of the hikers, the birds,

The saguaros, even the God-given rocks

I pray for all of these things with my one

Little soul, with all the nature within,

Though futile my tiny words may be

To the unrelenting force of mankind's

Unending greed and craving for more,

More, more

Staycation

Rooting through yellowed, dusty memories

Those of my grandmother's back yard,

The smell of sweet maple leaves

And the sting of late autumn

We made "potions" in my backyard,

Collected rocks from the stream

In the park, and amethystine bruises.

April, when the slush finally gave way

To the annihilated lawn, the mud warming

Bringing worms for fishing to the surface.

I remember when my brother lost his

Pink fishing rod to a monsterous carp

At the KOA campground pond,

How dad fished for it with his rod,

I can't remember if he got it back.

We never went fishing with him again.

I fold up my hippocampus and stow it neatly

In the chest from whence it came,

Closing up my ribs, I vow to discuss this

Experience with my therapist,

Cleaning off the dust of age,

Hoping his insight can interpret the

Dregs of this old cup.

Freeze Warning

Poison in the Dose

Mostly rice with a bit of chicken

It was only a few weeks,

Shopping at the local

Asian foods store.

Getting used to having

No car to shop with,

Packing a week's worth

Of groceries into a single

Backpack.

We ate mostly rice and

Vegetables with a bit of

Diced chicken for a bit of

Protein, once a week.

Bone-hungry and sick,

Despair set in.

"I want my mom" I said.

I didn't want her often,

Or even at all since leaving.

But after a few weeks of

Rice with nothing,

Anything seemed better

Than waiting for the anemia

To set in.

P.S.

(I didn't call my mom. We relented and subscribed to Walmart's delivery service and now we're doing okay)

Decomposing

Her fingers, the wispy breath of young wheat.

An Ohio summer hangs like a warm towel after swimming.

We kickball ideas over the nylon floor of the trampoline;

She recites revisions for her newest novel.

The dank rot of sweet hay and dirt wafts over memories.

February

First crickets of an Arizona

Spring breaks the hush of

A cold-snap winter.

Light rain makes for a soggy

Week, but is never enough for the

Reservoirs. The streets grow louder

As motorcyclists break out their

Bikes, emboldened by the rising

Warmth. Finally, the last citrus fruits

Gain their ripeness, falling lethargically

To stone gardens, preparing to

Adorn themselves with new blossoms.