I am a poet who no longer writes poetry – that’s tragic on a literary level. In an effort to remind myself of what used to be, for better or for worse, I feel compelled to post a small gaggle of word-songs from the way back. There’s also a few of you angels out yonder who have requested as much – now you know these kind, selfless call-outs don’t go unheard. Thank you for wanting such things, and for pulling out this piece of my storybook. She wants to be real again – maybe this will be the spark that starts the poetic fires once more. I’ve hesitated sharing these, because they all come from a long-gone voice. I suspect that’s why I haven’t been writing verse lately – the entire way of speaking such truths has dramatically changed. There won’t like be any more woe-is-me confessional outbursts, or tales of unrequited love. The poet in me needs to be reborn if she is to write again.
But first, an acknowledgement of what was. The path that took me to the current doorstep. Yeah, I can do that.
Poem #1
Last words. What they will be. Or won’t be.
Famous Last Words
We all have a name that will
Be on our lips the final two moments of our
Living hours –
The syllables that spring forth as a last
Desperate sound, echoing the
Feelings we will take with us
Forever. Some hope it will be their
Beloveds; soul mates in this lifetime that seem
Indelible and
Permanent. Some believe it will be a child
Or two – the lifeblood, the extension of our own
Cells and screams; a natural inclination
As the peephole narrows.
I don’t believe it’s ever who we
Think it will be. I don’t believe we can really
Know, until the air siphons inward like an
Angry vacuum, oxygen dissipating, heartbeats
Waning.
I know what won’t be said
As my energies falter –
I won’t be crying out Father,
I won’t be reaching for an ethereal maker, hoping for
Redemption, grasping for my Providence.
You might hear a whisper of
Relief
In the name that leaves my
Lips. You might hear me scream my own.
11-26-04
Poem # 2
This one was penned in the aftermath of my first Ayahuasca experience, upon return from the Amazon. Appropriate here, as it’s a voice-awakening moment. Yay for those.
Now Hear This
Oh
Hell
YES.
Fuck the butterfly notion,
I am a shell-less, bloodless
Vampire, shooting up and through the
Darkness, casting scales and scabs and
Shadowed memories, to find this
Screaming core.
Oh hell YES
I have things to say, to spill and
Vomit, to point to and
Illuminate, to teach and tell and
Unravel, sometimes,
To splatter, and catapult,
Others –
But I have risen, I have
RISEN from those jungle depths
With a voice and rhythm and a body and a
Soul, ready to finally say
Yes, I claim my destiny.
Yes, I want a different
Way. I no longer choose such
Mediocrity, such
Shackling day-to-days,
The restraints of a love unre-
Turned, the suffocation of a life
Unfull-
Filled. Fearless? Not even close.
But I trust this
Transformation. I trust that I can
Fucking fly, that I will have everything
Everything all that is Mine,
That I do deserve the mirrored reflection
Of everything I
Give. Oh hell.
YES.
6-2-06
Written in a passionate spurt at the gates of LAX
Poem #3
This was written for the Navy JAG, an old boyfriend I spent a year or so madly adoring. He did a tour in Baghdad during those days, and this poem expressed as best it could the long-distance love dance, riding to and from each other on those ever-moving staircases. Anyone whose ever known a long distance bond definitely knows these motions.
Escalators
The world is full of
Moving stairs,
The infinite Escher loop,
Hailing and sailing the motionless
Travelers as we float
Unconsciously
To the other realms, the places and
Spaces that hold our answerless
Secrets.
Mine always lead to or from your
Silent salute, your
Olive-oil glances, sometimes full of
Radiant, overwhelming comfort,
Sometimes nothing but
Agony, the excruciating
Exits.
They bring us
Together
Like mutual
Landslides, like sky-
Divers looking for a
Hand-grab, and we hold on for dear
Life
Sucking in our breath,
Eyes squeezed shut yet still
Hopeful, thinking
This feels just like
Living. Just like the danger-less
Fly-bys of
Dreams.
Other times, they are like an
Earthquake, with jagged faults
Jutting up to
Disconnect, and one carries you and
One carries me and it’s anything but
Unionized, anything but
Rhythmic, an asthmatic
Revolt, an omnipotent slingshot.
These are the metal-coated moments
Where I’m left clinging to the railings,
Waiting for the directions to
Reverse.
3-14-05
Poem #4
This is literally my first tangible memory – my sister giving me a bath. I’m guessing I was around a 2 years old – maybe even less. I can still call this into memory today, as vivid as it ever was.
First Memory
The tiny half-breath of
Moist, lavender scented air
Swept in with the tickling rush
Of bathwater, tiptoeing down
The inside of my newly formed
Cheek,
I laughed out loud,
My sister’s manicured hand lowering
Onto my chest, a little loving push,
And the water waves rise up in another
Greeting,
I see her smile and laugh once more,
My ears submerged and comforted,
Liquid ear muffs
Distorting the resonance, making the
Swoosh of the air sound
Distant and
Harmless,
Pushing the movement of the moths
Outside
Swiftly into slow
Motion,
And if I had the words then,
If I knew how to twist my mouth to form the sounds,
I would have said
That I felt fearless,
Protected,
Whole and complete –
It’s the moment I started
Living.
10-5-03
Poem #5
I read once that in the morgues in LA, they burn the unclaimed bodies collectively each December. This. . .had an affect.
The Nameless Burn
Every December,
The unclaimed bodies at the morgue are burned,
Collectively,
Bone dust mingling with the dreamscapes,
Until you can’t tell the wet dreams from the death wishes.
The stench is like Auschwitz – heavy and bleak
Like rotted flesh mixed with cake flour and acid.
Jane and John Doe’s, lighting up the sky,
A final tapestry that streaks the horizon with
Knowningness – each hue a humble whisper –
I was here.
6/22/04
Lastly, a very sincere shout-out to Derrick C. Brown, a mind-blowing beat boy I recently crossed paths with. His poem “A Finger, Two Dots and Me” has literally inspired me to write in this gorgeous format again, and that’s no small feat. Click the poem’s title to go read it – he’s a pro, see – get the hankies ready before reading.
I loved that. Thanks.