Pantoum poem

Quite long, unsure of the title.


The Lady Metamorphosis

She folds the flowers in her naked hand

The door to the stairs is closed and barred

The girl stands back to watch her

Her hat is the only thing left in the room.

The door to the stairs is closed and barred

Her fingers are made of wood and brass

Her hat is the only thing left in the room

In the room of her sounds and her wooden bones

Her fingers are made of wood and brass

In the arms of the brass band she smiled and leaned

In the room of her sounds and her wooden bones

Circling moons lift their skirts to dance.

In the arms of the brass band she smiled and leaned

Circling women remember her name

Circling moons lift their skirts to dance

Pillars of men make their forms on the carpet.

Circling women remember her name

Pillars of paragons, wives and mothers,

(Pillars of men make their forms on the carpet)

They tell her, the strength of a woman is Nature’s blood.

Pillars of paragons, wives and mothers,

They nod, their rings bobbing like birds

They tell her, the strength of a woman is Nature’s blood

This in the mirroring moons of the walls.

They nod, their rings bobbing like birds

This is the blood of the elder tree!

This in the mirroring moons of the walls

Is your woman’s strength, the stones of the earth!

This is the blood of the elder tree

“Is it mournful to hide me in blackberry gowns?

Is your woman’s strength the stones of the earth?

My fingers are wooden! My hair is fruit!

“Is it mournful to hide me in blackberry gowns?

My bones were strained from the sap of almonds.

My fingers are wooden. My hair is fruit.

The brass of my eyelids is sheer with day.

“My bones were strained from the sap of almonds.”

The way that she said it was sweet as a prayer

“The brass of my eyelids is sheer with day.”

She closed them thinking of doors and locks.

The way that she said it was sweet as a prayer

She touched the flowers on the bare table

She closed them, thinking of doors and locks.

The circles were closed, their backs on the floor.

She touched the flowers on the bare table

The girl stands back to watch her

The circles were closed, their backs on the floor

She folds the flowers in her naked hand.

Digging things up...

Hummingbird

Looking from this
                          fusion-filled window pane
               your breath mixes the glass with warm.

Standing just over my shoulder
                          you watch me, the hummingbird
                straying to christen us with sight.

For a stillness, the moment surrenders
                          almost every subtle day
                 spent together, each white, uneasy night.

And looking at the hummingbird's eyes
                            like pins on a red cushion
                  pricks my sensibility to light and touch.

When your hand reached out too late
                             to touch my shoulder, all
                   I could think of was the unthinking flight
                             that disappeared from the window.

More Gay Suicides

Another gay man took his life in despair this week.

I cannot let this keep happening without saying something. These gay suicides have to stop. I am horrified to see so many of my brothers dropping around me, giving up, surrendering to the blank hatred and vicious slander used against us for the entire course of our history.

Our people are stronger than this.

You do not have to give in. You do not have to take your own life. Your support is everywhere around you.

I am horrified. But I am also honored that I live in a day when the world is finally starting to look up, take notice, and say something. It's taken us two millenia of fighting with the churches, the mosques, the establishments and institutions, to make everyone see just who we are--and more importantly, how strong the hatred against us really is.  It is disgusting and heartbreaking to me that the Movement is pushing forward in the wake of these unnecessary and innocent deaths. But I thank them for showing the world what's going on, and that it must be stopped.

PAY ATTENTION

We are LOUD. We are PROUD. We are STRONG. Stop the hate.

Sometime in September...

Bus Stop

Coal in the afterglow
red lamps basking
in the passing
of strangers and mingling
lights and strange words.

Black trees hunch contentedly
on banks of false suppositions
cornered cigarette smoke,
hiding laughter.
Feeble people march

to solid--beat--plank--still
wondering stars into place
with their drifting questions
poised on no one.

Under a dusty bus station canopy
I'm waiting for the time
when I can stop avoiding
a poem--surrounded
by words--graffiti--scraped
in pale plastic windows.

Between cars that the road
rolls before me, and people
no one makes eye contact
except for the evening star
singly watching perched in dusk.

Somewhere I find the language
painted on transforming sky
indelible and punctuated by
deep
black trees.

Dreaming

After Ones

they are peaceful
they sit, side by side
just nodding in
their little yellow caps
and their little yellow coats
under a tree

I think a week has gone by

the sun counts things
at home the dust creeps
through the yellow light
they watch it drift
and count the motes
that land on their still bonnets

at last, from underneath
a great flash comes
and a broad thunder
and all the terrible birds of heaven sing

Stone broke

An apt way to describe how I've been feeling lately. Not just broke...stone broke. Stone faced. Stone hearted.

Poverty

And I can't even sell
old clothes too worn
too many times to make

some money off of so that
I can eat, buy soap
this week, sample sushi

on Tuesday with Sam
who's too kind to let me
go without any.

My shaving cream smells
like plastic and all over
I'm worn too often

to make some money
so that I can sleep a little.
Nowhere is serving crusty

bread and dried out eggs
to people my age--it's this
or desperate running.

Peach poem

This metaphor needs a place to breathe.

Peach

Peach hangs like a heart
on bony black skeleton
branches.

Chambered fruit trying
to be a heart,
dangling between rib
cages.

Oh, bleeding suspension.
It saps me, sweetly
there, needing
heart.

Climbing tangles ribs,
my sticky hands
reach
for peach, perfect
envelope of arteries,
swelling marble urn,
strange song.

Oh,--tender suspension.
Reach back for me,
peach.