October’s Punch

Cold west wind
Dead blunt force of a
Bumbling windchime
clanking all hell
and out of
Harmony in my ears.
—-
Loose thoughts of a
Bended mind about
The sunset draped like
A great cathedral mural.
Again the idea of West and
Waning time.
—–
Moon blue fingernail
Of the cosmic finger
Squeezing the trigger
Of the gun to the head of
The universal mind  then,
big bang
end of night.
——
Sweet life for a ride
Well ridden. The roads.
The rail, the beckoning
Sky, her great wide turns
Brewing weather, October’s punches

raining down.
We are born
Under the bird song again.

Thankful. Thankful.

©sunontiepost2016

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Abandon

What’s rising up inside is silent

first. This is not cheerful but

feel for where it is coming from and hold

yourself still

your tongue too, as it comes up further

reaches the places where

razor wire has grown like a cancer in your

body, running hot in your veins, still be still

though it commands your mind

to suffer along side the wrecked and ruined

heart and tremble

tremble.

Do not reach with hands

this place

over time, runs the silver down your face and

further along you will learn how to break

over and over

you will learn to

abandon.

 

©Sunontiepost 2016

 

 

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Lovely Broken Creatures

In the day room it is common
to catch one talking to the wall
the one with the clock.
There is something to be said for
observing time this way.
Not with words.

I move to the window, I don’t know if
It’s March or April, but contemplate the
rain anyway in the morning, it might still
be May of another year
or later
I can’t remember
today Her name was something
I could not put up with
this evening
Her hands take careful measure
making sure I see the way she snaps
the tarot cards down,
like a glass in a drinking challenge
I think
then I get her name from the air
Hope
and she says I could love you but I won’t
tells me I’m already tethered to the natural
world by the spirit of the wolf and adds
not for the first time
my heart leaps into the wind
on black wings, so fuck you
she says to me
lastly, looking down
Visiting hours are over
so I make my way quietly
across the room under the
nurses eye
towards the pouring rain
in whatever month it falls
It falls on us all,
lovely broken creatures.

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Pain

You are
you are
The chain tying me to the pole
next to a hole
in the basement of a house not
lived in and cold

outside though
flags and parades
signs of life

Those righteous

They come to kick you
so they can continue
on in this way

though some will see you
and walk away
from the hoopla
and shred their gowns and costumes.

you are
you are a
dangerous one
to dream
of a life

not forever burning down
always galvanized
by arching lightning

You can not even venture into
the light. Hold tight to the
chain while they kick and close your eyes.

Tell yourself,
it won’t last forever.

*Sunontiepost

Copy Right 2012

( With a nod to Ursula K. Le Guin‘s “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas“

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Out Post Poem #2

Let the traffic go slow

down York Street.

 

because the birds are singing

I yell for taxi drivers to lay off

their horns.

 

There are some things

only those of us who have forfeited

the right to love know

about song.

 

Today I pretend

that I can send my

heart out onto the

wind.  See its black wings

glistening in the sunshine

calm and serene.

 

God get me rest, time to think, help

me get closer to the river.

*Sunontiepost

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Poem for a Glacier

Long blue glacier

shrugging your shoulders

in the morning

having an ancient understanding

with the sunlight and the sea

At the top of the world

even your whispers go smashing

into good cold water trying

to say your name

 

A long wild lung strung over

the globe , like the lightning

that never stops to catch its breath,

never turns an eye toward the place where

it was born.

 

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Seven Things I Should Tell You

for Monica

1.
I need to sit among the forest of all uncontemptable colored leaves
And thoughtfully let my mind run clean, to breathe easy and green.

2.
Olympus crumbles and is giving way to the streets
They paved over Far Arden; Great Gods eat shit today.

3.
The breeze is heavy with the memory of love
Lost in the wilderness.

4.
If Jesus were alive today, whiskey would be in his wine glass,
No breaking bread, instead, smoking cigarettes.  The world moves on.

5.
Nothing can be put plain over the phone.  Nothing has been said
In the hours we’ve spent, the days we wait.

6.
The head becomes heavy in the hands.  It is the way I remember you now.

7.
It’s time to let you go.  Time to quit thinking one more try
Will hold me in your heart.
The leaves fall with no contempt for the breeze
That pushes them apart from what they knew so well.

*Sunontiepost

-word invention intentional-

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Broken

He says it may be
Stones  in his throat
When he clutches,
chokes

Says his heart flops
Like a fish in
The bottom of a boat

And the world tilts
Then gently begins to
Shutter, strobe

sounds serious when
He says he is nearly done
Being told he is too young

To have  days filled with pain
Go by like a great
Light shinning straight
In his eyes

Not everything has a word for it
And he doesn’t always remember things

Then stops talking and looks
Away.

Somewhere else now.

~~~~~

I don’t say I can imagine this

That maybe the stones are holding
A fire within themselves

Waiting to break free
to begin the forging of words
Against the anvil of his heart

I wont think of that until later

Later, when I remember there was something
Else he said about , red ribbons,
Coming loose from his sleeves,

The meaning of everything crawling
away from me.  Time and time Again.

©2012 Sunontiepost*

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Work Boots

For My Father

I have watched him work, my Father,
His long shadow in the driveway is as determined
As it is on the forest path leading to the headwaters
Of the Cumberland River.
His eyes fearsome with task, his back straight and
Strong, his jaw always set to smile
Always capable of drawing back.

As a child I believed it was him that instructed
The skies in their lessons of thunder, as he strode
Through the eastern Kentucky mountains and was
Recognized by the ghosts of fallen warriors as one of
The brave, as one of their own who must travel the many
Continents of the heart, and sometimes alone, be bound by
Fevers and by suffrage to strange crossroads.

I have seen him sleep, my Father, the untroubled sleep of
Men who’ve known only two times of day and maybe six
Hours of sleep at home.  Seen him sleep also the sleep of
Troubled men who keep the frayed and thinning dreams
Of their sons harbored at home.

I dream of him, my Father, and the places from which we came,
Crawling in mines, in-under trains, now even air planes.

Every fold in the work-boot, every crease in the brow is
Testament to how the earth moves with us, how we struggle
Will all the love we have to get our arms around, and the
Names of our Mothers, and the names of our sisters are words
We can whisper for the strength of their sound.

I have listened to him, my Father, who does much telling
Without saying a word, who has given two Heaven’s worth of
Love without making a sound, save for the quiet rustlings of
The wings in his shoulders.

Ó2012 Sunontiepost*

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Morning, Love

As we reach into each other
We are captured

As images in the eyes of God,
The devil, and all ministries
On T.V.

We are
Poetry written on the walls
by sunlight and Venetian
Blinds at the window, from the
Sheets

Just outside,
the ocean crawls
To reach the beach

Over and over
just to touch
Its porcelain cheek.

Ó2012/Sunontiepost*
revision

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