The Many Faces of Poetry – Rust/Untitled/ImagePosted: August 27, 2021
Sometimes I think I’m finished, that the last word has been written, the last kiss has been kissed. Then I tell myself
“Don’t be ridiculous!”. I’m here until I’m not here. Then I’ll be somewhere else, I’m sure of it.
These are recent poems, so recent they’re not even written, or half written.
How can the world be killed?
Melt the ice caps;
Beauties that we’ve known and loved
Polar bears will swim to exhaustion,
their cubs will starve.
A beautiful creature is dying,
but is the world dead?
Poach ivory from elephants until
there are no more elephants.
A great and profound beauty is dying.
I feel its death throes in my body, but still
the world can’t die.
There is no end to the world. Perhaps
when a small piece of our planet is murdered,
it diminishes those of us who live in this time,
for we are accomplice to the crime.
I don’t see myself as a world killer.
I see myself as a world maker.
But I can’t stop the tides that are rising,
the beaches that are drowning,
the storms that are raging.
We killed our world for comfort. I did.
You did. I bought into the con
until I saw the contempt in the con.
When I saw the con, I stomped on it like a poisoned artifact.
Earth killer! Murderer! Earth hater!
Is the world dead? It can’t be.
The desolate tide flats where bones show in the mud,
where mangled soldiers lie, where steel and gunpowder
show their leavings. That’s what I see, but that isn’t all
there is to see. Earth still lives.
Aug 18 2021
There’s a part of my heart that I’ve never given
because it didn’t exist
It lives because of you, it was called forth
from my soul’s interior,
a place that yearns to be rid
of the burden of unloved Love.
It is the love that is shaped like you
a burnt silhouette
outlined by my vision
of your love for me.
I want my love for you
to be full like the orange moon
behind smoky clouds
to be full like a dark sky of stars
to be full like only a starving spirit
can ever know to be full.
August 19 2021
Image: woman weeps over body of loved one.
On her knees, she rocks back and forth, hands clasped
The film is silent, black and white
but I can hear
grief, agony of heart and flesh.
Image: child running down a road in terror
fleeing the bombs, the thunder and flames running.
Image: men holding onto the fence
of their prison, drained of life and hope.
Image: mass graves filling as soldiers
toss bodies, casual
as farmers disposing of chaff.
Image: as camps are liberated
prisoners barely able to walk
to their freedom.
Image: filmed from bombers, napalm cannisters
topple end over end
incinerating jungle canopy and all beneath.
Image: B17 over Germany loses its wing
tumbling. No parachutes.
Image: There is nothing
I’ve seen the images
thousands of times
I rock in my chair before the screen
Image image image image
My eyes have become two people
each one has a mind
Their minds are pasted in surrounding spheres
I choose to sit here
and partake of the images
I choose, I’m just a modern person
I live my life on the ordinary street
safe for now from everything
before everyone knew
Image would wrap the world
Engulf and change our history,
turn it from experience into Image,
leaving us to feel
just a bit hollow
even though we are filled beyond satiation