So it is snowing outside. Here is what it looks like.
Here is a little haiku I though of this morning when I saw the snow:
the snow falls down, white and crisp
a simple canvas
perfect for art or dog piss.
Tag Archives: poem
Damn.. that house is old
So I may not like the TV show This Old House, but I do really like old houses. Which is why I loved this poem my mom sent me earlier today:
Houses
by Rachel Field
I like old houses best, don’t you?
They never go cluttering up the view
With roofs too red and paint too new,
With doors too green and blinds too blue!
The old ones look as if they grew,
Their bricks may be dingy, their clapboards askew
From sitting so many seasons through,
But they’ve learned in a hundred years or two
Not to go cluttering up the view.
That’s a picture I took last November of the chipping paint on my house. I think the best part of old houses is the chipping paint. Perhaps because of the disproportionate amount of lead paint chips I ate as a child.
12 Hours In
we hit 287
the fat cows
stopped looking
like shadows
started looking
like statues
we blinked and hands
came into focus
thick
like hams
wrenches gripping
pop caps
a sharp click
and soothing fizz
soda sucked
through phallic straws
we whispered
“Virginia”
hurtled by
XXX signs
projecting magenta
tinging
the grapefruit moon
shoulders shouldered
rat eyes
squinted
we cracked
our chicken necks
pulled
our
gristle
from the bone
we all touched
somehow
my thigh rubbing
hers elbowing
his elbow
resting against
the front seat
the moon had
burst and
leaked
sticky juice
into the trees
we rolled
down the windows
in Maryland
Great poem by a great friend.
Filed under link
Filed under photo
Look at my Valentine’s Day book… and yes it’s a gif.
Filed under photo
the headache
This headache is killing me, which reminds me of a poem I wrote over the summer about another headache that was at that time killing me.
my head is a building
it is boxy and large
and must be destroyed
every method has been attempted
it begins slowly
an ice pick tries to shatter through
unsuccessful. it jabs harder
the building is ready to give up,
but the frame is too strong, too sturdy.
no success leads to harsher methods
the battering ram appears
it batters, but can not break
It pushes harder and harder
the building wants to dissolve,
but the frame is too stubborn.
the building still stands
but the insides have been gutted;
no thoughts enter or exit.
the building is just a skeleton:
empty, unsettled.
the wrecking ball has been called in
it works from the inside out.
it sits in the empty building
and thrusts itself into the walls.
the frame shakes, yet never falls
the building is ready to crumble
but instead it stays motionless.
taking the punches.
Filed under regular
Friend’s poem
We stood at the edge of
The water and sent the
Smooth stones we had gathered earlier sailing
Across the surface.
Ripples glided out
And suddenly I was hypnotized.
It was as though I had fallen through that center ripple
Straight down to the bottom of the lake.
In the quiet darkness
I could only feel the fish moving past me.
In that moment I was Saul,
Struck blind by God.
And the feeling of those scaly bodies sliding against my skin
Was all I needed to know that
All would be forgiven
As long as I just asked for it.
An invisible hand lifted me through the water
And as I broke the surface
My wings unfurled and I
Soared into the sun.
Not a modern Icarus,
Doomed for eternity,
But a liberated soul.
By the time I regained my sight
And opened my eyes
You had become concerned,
Asking me if I was alright.
I started to explain
But stopped because to rob you
Of your own
Deliverance
Release
Unshackling
Would have been the undoing of my new found freedom.
Filed under regular
What I Try to Touch
Something beautiful my friend wrote.
Once,
I let a kitten sleep in the crook of my arm
and another wrapped around my neck
a genuine fur scarf.
She smelled like unwashed sheets
and something not unpleasantly animal.Now,
When one loose hair tickles the inside of my elbow
or when dust sinks teeth in my nose,
just before I sleep because there is nothing else to do
I am reminded of this ghost of a good thing.There was the Barfuss Park too,
in the Schwarzwald
which I still feel between my toes
mud making mountains
the dents on the bottom of my feet
hot cinnamon air
melting thickly in the mouthWhen my mother holds my hand
I am four
and in the grocery store
She hums the tune her mother hummed
and her mother hummed
I hear it now.
I am slipping her earrings out
as I sit in her lap
my fingers whisper so softly
that she doesn’t feel.This morning I felt age in my neck.
My pillow is too thick – I should replace it.
My dreams are drizzle
cold and constant.When the water pushes me with gentle,
insistent hands
I reach for these things.
Filed under link
ohijustdontknow 