Improbability

There it is
the desire of flesh and blood
of a little mirror
I am surprised by
and delighted to look into
This is the puzzle I want
the research of years
studying the shape of eyes
length of cheek bone
gait, tone, color—
colors running everywhere
chasing through green grass
returning to white sheets
sharing blue behind clouds
red specks of words
growing conversations

There is the primal desire
all possibility
all improbability
more faint than future choices
less likely than imagination
But there you reside, this moment,
in the me of dust
the only place
you breathe.

Babylon: Surreal Babies published by Dewi Lewis

Winter Came

Winter Sunrise

Winter came
and I wanted
a way out
Because Spring
wouldn’t last long enough

I made it though snow
picked up by a
wagon train
and passed Springtime
sleeping through the
exchange

I’ve met others on the road
Other travelers headed
to Summer, or somewhere
warmer
or drier
or wetter

But this train still passes
them by
and I wonder
If I
should jump while I can still
Fall.

A Dream, A Memory

You are a dream
you were barely real
and are fading

In each moment
memory gives way
becomes imagination

But when two souls meet
whatever lifetime
sparks of lightning
outshine the moon

Time may delude
that shock of thunder
but the echo still beats
in my blood.

A Rusty Book

You are a rusty book
and I am
emptying a page of my mind

I’m carving out shapes
of letters
to define who I am
or how I’m called
an anchor to a paper
that I know will lift with the wind
as soon as I raise my hand
while the lines are still drying
swept away
imprinted, a form
that will long lose meaning
just as I will lose my own

A war beats within ribcages
each side needs, each side fights
the opposite
each exhale starving the inhale
lungs caught between
their capacity to fill
or be emptied

Our lungs can stretch
we can dance with our own flexibility
and we can sing inside each moment we prolong
Subtleties give way in our perceptions of time
Our meditations will remind us

I am not one, but two
I am not home–but residing
a temporary traveler

Let me tell you the histories I have seen
hear the stories you will out-do
with a laugh
and I will fall back, a child
Reaching always to your shoulder, pretending
I am only short
I am only young
My heart has not expanded like my lungs
and my lungs are weak
Instead, my heart will grow more of its kind
to compensate
Reconstruct the inner workings of my chest,
build trenches to carry the new blood

I will never mature
only age
There will be dust and weeds
and you will wonder what
became of the garden you meant to tend.Over The Garden Wall; A Study In Roses.  Read more: http://chestofbooks.com/travel/italy/south-tyrol/John-Stoddard-Lectures/South-Tyrol-Part-11.html#.VKajlHtvmkI#ixzz3NfkM0l9V

My heart is an orchard.

It’s not that I don’t love you
your roots have grown into me
like I am the orchard and you,
the first apple tree.

Apple trees have a long growing season
their fruit stores well, last longer
grows into the colder months,
not like short-enjoyed peaches.

*Studies prove an apple a day
really does keep the doctor away.

You have kept me healthy.

But I am an orchard
By definition, you can’t be the only tree
There are peaches, and plums,
and I want to grow cherries.

My soil may not be as rich as it once was
but there’s still plenty of it
despite the rain and wind
redistributing somewhere else.

You see, I still love you
but the season is young
and the planter may have
other plans.

If we ever have a fire…

If we ever have a fire
my heart will be lost
I’ve written it down in at least 20 notebooks
1-subject, 3-subject, 100 pages after SE Asian History

These notebooks are more powerful
than my journals, I never kept
when I started writing in journals, I thought some great historian or biographer would need the details to tell the story of my life. That was when I thought, someday, my story would be one to tell.

Three years ago, I brought buckets of books, paper, memories, to the new life I created. There wasn’t room to store all of it. His small things were already in the margins of the closets I hurriedly cluttered.

For posterity’s sake, I thought I could digitize my notebooks, place verses in type-faces and faux books, to scroll through, rather than turn and squint. I barely completed Notebook Blue.

The next summer, I went through my memories, tore poems from between pages of death and depression, pictures of heartache that still felt like yesterday. We were moving, and the moving truck was small, space in my heart was limited.

Journals are heavy, bulky memories. I saved the poems, and I keep the notebooks that hold them.