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POETIC FLIGHTS 2

Page 10

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Poems about struggle and dark love poetry are listed on the index of poems

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dark love
Patient sentries
Of sober thought
Stepped aside,
Allowed me to pass,
As righteously
I thrashed toward
The battle lines--
The air in flames;

Her words seared
My weakest flank,
Truth a bullet,
Kissed its mark--
I saw the birth
Of my darkened heart;

Bunkers reinforced,
Nothing left
To negotiate,
I watched myself
Become a lie;

Winter's sickness
Numbed my veins,
My cherished icons
Ripped apart,
Welded frozen
To the ground;

When spring returned,
Melting
Blood and ice,
Only remnants
Of remorse
Could be found.



poems of struggle
The blue spruce outside her window
Senses her indecision--
The final approach to a turning point?

The sediment of unmet expectations,
Fallen fences of desire and need,
Rusted entanglements, truth and lies,
The contradictions, the compromises--
A chaotic landscape filling her mind--
What to keep, what to leave behind?

Seeing it there, tall and aloof
Shouldered against
Slick towers of steel and glass
And the drivers stuck in traffic,
Impatient to fill their lives up,
Desperately wishing
They were somewhere else--

How she envies its pure simplicity!
Quietly drinking the sun,
Serenely greening its needle gown,
Taking in
Only what the wind and rain allow
Without complaint--
Never beyond the limits of its thrust--
A virtue of trees--

Stuck at the surface of time and space,
Barely aware, nothing ever enough--
Like children hurling rocks skyward
And watching them fall to the ground--

Restlessness, it seems, is sewn
In the deepest fabric of thought:
Are we designed--condemned--
To always push
Beyond our conscious bounds,
And bear the knowledge
Of a line that can't be crossed?

A branch of the spruce is broken,
She notices now,
But Nature has no flaw--
Her judgment had been too harsh.

Hope and love--
Though always short of completion--
Are the only way we have
To make sense of what does not--
To fumble with our Gordian knot.

poems of struggle
Mirror, mirror, on the wall:
Is this face, this mind,
Yesterday's
Only in comforting thought
Like today's gloating sun,
Simply a clever copy?
Memories, familiar ghosts
Testing my faith
In this thing called the past,
Parts stitched together
With bits of hollow time
To form this semblance of
Myself.

Within these fleeting layers
Of transparency
How Nature loves to hide--
Lightness pulls me down.

I shed my skin, my bones,
One H, or C or O as good
As any other,
This scrapbook in my head
This spectre from nowhere--
My only proof?
The face of some boy that
I once knew, now intrudes
Dancing
Through thick weavings
Of earthy green
Plump, bee-humming heads
Of gold
Waving a large gauze sock
In easy rhythm
With the Monarch's mimic
Entranced with innocuous
Notions of capture--
Should I accept this feigned
Identity as my own?

The river sweeps too strong,
The shore beyond my reach--
So easy to drown.

As I tease apart the fishbone
On my plate,
Another lost image taunts:
Was I there watching
As the dark skin of the sea
Tore open?
Your huge gray-black body
Suddenly
Rising from below
Like a strange submarine
Flying skyward
Crashing down,
Great wings thundering
Across the moment--
Then gone
Diving deep,
Your gentle mouth
Combing milk from the ocean--

Somewhere in Jamaica
Or Pakistan
They found
Your mother's ankle bones,
The feet that trod
Along some Eocene shore--
Does her desire still swim
Inside your bones?

Does that unlikely spark
That primal thread
Born in dense blackness
Ages ago
Fed by a raging smoker
Still
Dream its first dream
Somewhere inside us?

Thoughts entwined in thoughts,
How carelessly time
Unglues
What we try to bind
With tears, with joy
And fine illusion--
Oh, Seneca, how well you knew--
Dying is the highest form of art.

poems of humanity
Through the clinging haze it glistens black
Heaving upward against its lopping weight,
Brain crushed against the ceiling of stars,
Superhelix twisted on itself.

The bloodied air, the sucked out streams
The torn off fins and jaguar skins
Tangled in its uprooted, consumptive coil,
The slime of wasted words
The blind soul mongers, the organ grinders
The rusted staircase hanging on a thread,
The gods buzzing like flies inside its great
Simian head.


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