my best guess
is that the look on your face
when i grumbled about the coffee
was disappointment.
did you think you'd married
a man with gentle graces?
turns out you got
just a man
with a stubbly face
a protruding nose
and a propensity for being selfish.
but did you know
that even as i'm growling
i look at you in your pajamas and wonder:
what computer malfunction,
what missing receipt,
what transposed number on the cosmic ledger book of the divine economy
afforded me
my eastern princess?
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
April Poem 2
|
Labels:
poetry
what if tomorrow
is like today
with its lukewarm shower
its bad coffee
its uncomfortable office chair
the way the computer screen burns
into my bloodshot eyes?
what if tomorrows are stuck
like a scratched cd
repeating only enough
to catch the same dull notes
but never a melody?
sometimes i want to drive
somewhere off the map
where there's no signal
and there's no one who knows
i spent 8 out of 12-hour days
doing things i'd never have done
if it weren't for what they paid.
is like today
with its lukewarm shower
its bad coffee
its uncomfortable office chair
the way the computer screen burns
into my bloodshot eyes?
what if tomorrows are stuck
like a scratched cd
repeating only enough
to catch the same dull notes
but never a melody?
sometimes i want to drive
somewhere off the map
where there's no signal
and there's no one who knows
i spent 8 out of 12-hour days
doing things i'd never have done
if it weren't for what they paid.
April Poem 1
|
Labels:
napowrimo,
optimism,
poetry,
the universe
My friend Chrissy has made me aware of something called NaPoWriMo, or National Poetry Writing Month. NaPoWriMo is a challenge to write a poem every day of the month of April. I'm usually not into these kinds of things, but I've come to realize the importance of just getting your fingers on a keyboard when it comes to writing. I'm declaring here, publicly, that I will do this. In fact, I'll post them here as a way to stay accountable.
the world slow-burns like a lighting punk
and you and I dance on the ember
drawing firefly trails with our glowing feet.
who watches our descent?
whose fingers will smart as they clamp to extinguish us?
or maybe we'll just burn
setting ash we shed like snakeskin
to be conveyed on rivers of curling smoke
which pool in the air, congeal as words
and spell out the secrets of the universe.
maybe before we burn to the bottom
we'll touch the threads of a waiting fuse
we'll dash headlong down its silvery length
sending sparks like rain into the thirsty dark.
at last we will explode!
a symphony of ascending fire
a color for every one of us
as we split and sputter and flash.
will we fade at last?
or will we continue to detonate
until the universe is filled with light?
the world slow-burns like a lighting punk
and you and I dance on the ember
drawing firefly trails with our glowing feet.
who watches our descent?
whose fingers will smart as they clamp to extinguish us?
or maybe we'll just burn
setting ash we shed like snakeskin
to be conveyed on rivers of curling smoke
which pool in the air, congeal as words
and spell out the secrets of the universe.
maybe before we burn to the bottom
we'll touch the threads of a waiting fuse
we'll dash headlong down its silvery length
sending sparks like rain into the thirsty dark.
at last we will explode!
a symphony of ascending fire
a color for every one of us
as we split and sputter and flash.
will we fade at last?
or will we continue to detonate
until the universe is filled with light?
The Curtain
On some nights I sit in my backyard,
my head turned away
from the only window I can see from where I sit.
My head is turned, not because of what the window reveals,
but because the window is draped with red curtains
and I’m afraid that one day
the curtains will be drawn aside.
Maybe there will be a woman undressing,
or something equally
cliché
which is the name we’ve given to our fear
that the book of Ecclesiastes is right:
there’s nothing new under our sun;
everything is a quiet repetition of the same;
the starry dynamo in the machinery of night
is a box full of cogs,
and after counting every tooth
we’ll no longer burn for heavenly connection.
What if Moses felt the same way?
What if God offered to show himself to Moses in all of his glory
yet Moses chose to hide himself in the cleft of the rock?
What if all he wanted was a glimpse,
just a hint,
just the backside glory?
my head turned away
from the only window I can see from where I sit.
My head is turned, not because of what the window reveals,
but because the window is draped with red curtains
and I’m afraid that one day
the curtains will be drawn aside.
Maybe there will be a woman undressing,
or something equally
cliché
which is the name we’ve given to our fear
that the book of Ecclesiastes is right:
there’s nothing new under our sun;
everything is a quiet repetition of the same;
the starry dynamo in the machinery of night
is a box full of cogs,
and after counting every tooth
we’ll no longer burn for heavenly connection.
What if Moses felt the same way?
What if God offered to show himself to Moses in all of his glory
yet Moses chose to hide himself in the cleft of the rock?
What if all he wanted was a glimpse,
just a hint,
just the backside glory?
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