coming home

I imagine you on the flat two-lane roads,
coming on ahead of the weather.

Behind you, a blizzard falls out of the northwest,
the kind that nearly froze Pa Ingalls as he stumbled blindly
past the barn, past the corner of the house,
into open prairie.
Snow drifts against your mother's headstone,
softens the print your left hand made
in the frozen earth at the base.

I hear you sang today, the Lord's Prayer,
to a roomful of mourners;
and in between the lines Thy kingdom come,
Thy will be done,
they could hear the dripping from the eaves.
A warm wind; the lull of comfort
that softens the earth a little before the storm.

If I'm going to crack
in the middle of a service, it's usually
right there -
Thy kingdom come
(and the sharpness of longing)
Thy will be done
(and the joyful fruitlessness
of submission)
On earth as it is
in Heaven.
You can't sing if you're crying,
you can only whisper your prayers.

Dry pavement under your wheels,
thin shoulders squared to
what's behind you.
The whiteness comes on, obliterating stars,
and I hope your clear blue voice
rests now; on the earth
where it welcomed you,
that your tears had their turn.

Yellow cake

You hate yellow cake.
Yielding and meek.

you could level a man twice my weight,
you like to say,
and I want to watch.
you are twice me.
angry all the time and sad, all the time
and loving, loudly loving, all the time.
reported aggressive, flagrant, persistent:
your martial arts.

You've never raised your voice to me.
In all the years
and only once have told me to shut. up.
(Some kind of record.)
I know you've been
a punching bag, more than once.
And a cushion, in your largeness, for the weight
of men, and you've had better sex than I
by far, I fear.

But never yellow cake. Never mild,
though your hair and skin would argue.

You're yellow as a steamshovel,
a loudmouthedbitch and
pushy blonde,
with creamy icing skin and
round blue candy eyes.

double negative

I can't not love you.
I can't not want you,
late at night before I fall asleep,
and first thing waking, still warm
No matter how I pray;
because you are my calm
as well as my conflict.
I cannot make myself pick up the hammer
and assault the final barrier between us
because that would change
everything
And not for the better.
It takes the double-negative
of not-not-loving,
not-not-wanting,
and for good measure
not telling you the truth
To balance out my endless passion
for what does not
does not
belong to me.

night listening

this hour a sweep of the brush in ink
black, and the wind-tunnel of forced air rush
the sound, and all in their beds
and I awake as usual, just unconscious of my limbs
in a hard chair, drink in

not-silence, defined by warm walls here
and the cold outside, the distance north and south
maps of the lives, you in your bed too under
colorless sheets,
unknown habits and positions, also silent

the symphony of sleepers' breath
fogs the imagined night air, behind the white noise
of the furnace running; yours too,
hushed, halted, gasped or rattling the glass with basso
snores, if I could hear them all in wave-like rhythm
on my shores
if all that presence were a blanket wrapped around me
then perhaps I'd lose myself,
and find my part

of all the exhausted topics, emptied of their worth

of all the states of being to escape the grasp of verse

of all the ways our souls must bend, or break the bones of faith

this, the wound accepted open-armed

this the grace that missed the mark, and harmed

this the shame

by no one name

is known



of all the songs a man may wake to moan



yours the name I pray and cry

yours the door I'm waiting by

mine the sin that wastes its breath

mine the verse done half to death

last night I looked up from my book
at the clock, startled, and I responded Yes
I miss you too.
without even knowing why,
as if the phone had rung unexpectedly
at 11:45pm.

when someone thinks hard about you
from a distance
it is a thing you cannot see or look away from;
it the stillness after a shout, and the image fading -
the empty room becomes instead
the space between you and
the one who has spoken your name
to themselves
on the cold night air, somewhere
someone searching
for the words
they would use if
they thought you were listening,
at 11:45pm.

what good is it?
to hear the shout, to speak
as if spoken to;
sitting alone, with a book
I wonder
not for the first time.
This comes and goes, this ear
like a dog's ear, tuned to the miles
between one breath and
the next.

Billy

a man with grey eyes and long grey hair
wears an earring I'd swear was made of pop-top rings; Billy
blesses me, as I bag his groceries - "You look good, kid."
he's the scarecrow, and the tin man too
loose-limbed, corroded joints, long necked and bony.
he smells of dirty linens, walks like he sleeps on the floor -
he's too long in the spine for anything short of
a queen. And he may well know the needle, or the bottle,
or both; may well dream dreams that are greasy and dark.

But his eyes are full of light and air; full of seas he may have seen.
He says he comes from Houston - big storms there recently. For sure
he's got some miles on him, and some distance in him.
Straight as a rail, he walks all the way home
with his one-bag-full
"Yes, ma'am" he says with a wink, when I say
Take care.

at the performance

last night i watched five dancers
bending, blending silently down the aisle
of the large sanctuary, between the pews
cavorting, climbing, swinging over under
touching, caressing, wound tight like springs
arms and hands against stained glass
like great clockwork beings
they jumped, they breathed in
they gave in and turned away
they moved toward me, together and apart
and I cried as I watched them
knowing they were
doing something for me that I could not
do for myself

and then

It is not a falling -
no one is bruised
no gut-wrenching thrills

No one is falling -
it isn’t an accident,
and it's not a shame, not quite

Think of the Pleiades:
You stare into darkness for a long while, and
your eyes unfocus; while you brood, bored
It begins.
The first one is a startlement -
the next a joy, the third a story to tell but then
the rain of light begins in earnest
And this is no longer the world you knew

Thrilled to silence.
Awed, and distantly fearing -

Falling
In this case
Is far away and soundless
Is holding me motionless
Has stilled me
Will leave me intact
and, hopefully, wiser than I was
Before

my husband is jealous of this machine
the laptop confessional

In his mind the invisible audience of men
perhaps, or the time I spend awake after midnight
not wound in sheets, not blinking into darkness
while he breathes deeply beside me

the adultery of my attentions

he has threatened to destroy the object, using
I suppose that force all men resort to
when confounded
because I get bored so easily, in front of
the TV
and his definition of family time
is grouping

and my eyes are more easily focused
on the fine print, when I'm alone
and the room is dark
so now I wait

up all night, lit from beneath
sitting in a hard chair
my back to the bedroom

setting the table

one cup times 26 or 39
each holds perhaps three thimblesfull of wine
set like jewels around an empty space
a veiled cipher, cradled in its tray

the blood of Christ is shed for us
and caught in a plastic shotglass

in the uncooled sacristy, the summer vine
turns dank in stale neglect; no one declines
dispensed the night before, cheap by the case
still consubstantiates to save by grace

no drop is wasted; when it's done
you funnel it into the bottle, or drink it down

------

food shelf (draft)

a young mother
listens with wide, careful eyes
to the new rules:
if you woke up before 7
with 2 kids under 4
and no man,
you must present yourself here
between 11 and 3.
bring proof of address.
you get 15 pounds
per adult 18 to 54; and another 15
for each child over 10,
and whatever we can find
for the babies.
get here early.

people who come for food in pairs
and small groups
stand straight, make eye contact -- together they are the people.
it's better if they front me a little, count the cans.
it's better if they say, beans again?
I don't need these -- no peanut butter either,
no instant potatoes and no damned rice.

this is what i eat at home;
but what i give
the people leaves them hungry,
because they have
no choice --
and we call that empty place
in their stomachs
incentive.

by the way

I've recently posted a handful of poems written over the past 3 years. Many have been edited several times, others not at all. Over time, these poems, some of them, will be culled entirely.
JS

north (draft)

To the conundrum of love and its bearing on faith,
To the point of lost bearings, in proximity
To truth, to home, to vast ignorance and cruelty –

Two idiots in motion, and the space between;
I know that there’s a God behind this somewhere,
And I tremble.

things unseen

Talk to me.
Fill up the empty Why
And bridge the dust-shot void.
Maybe a thousand words replace a gesture,
Millions to approximate a touch,
But try.
Breathe on my hands;
There’s nothing written to prevent this.

tell me anything,
even what you saw on TV last night
and as you speak I’ll see it all:
like the blind see
in every increment but one
so that
like a chair wedged against the door
the Why is yet held back
by facts surmised
the longing filled by faith
in things unseen

birthday poem

Pry up the pavement
From the darkened seedbeds, to loosen summer grasses –
Yellowed white where light’s forgotten –
Under stones’ dank smell of soil;
Where yearning life
Awaits new eyes.

Plant something in the well-trod turf
Named “OURS” in all the city’s languages –
Some gone ahead, gone down
And yellowed, pale,
Where all men (grass) must go.
That new sod
Sprung from mind’s eye
Where all new life begins.

Make something real, that breathes and grows,
And sure enough
You have to reach into the dirt
With hands once white,
And play a song on honored bones –

Sneeze in the dust of long-dead ashes –

And undo the weedy tethers of Spring’s
Sleeping dream.

metes and bounds

I walk every day.
I’ve measured the city by metes and bounds:
If eyes over surfaces scoured, like skateboard wheels,
Curbstones and benches (avoiding eye contact)
Pavements and mailboxes, manholes and bus stops,
All would be pockmarked and powdered
With scrutiny.

My maps head-height like most;
No sense gawking upward.
Yet more often I’m hunting for paper:
The torn leaves of writing that sting of rejection,
Balled wads of notebook-ruled, tossed aside litter
The carefully folded reminders, now lost.

Grocery store -- parents' notes --
Red-faced looseleaf naming names,
Passed in class; directionless missives
In eye-gutters clinging:
Can you discern
Class from handwriting,
parse out the prude, the perverted,
the passionless lists in mechanical pencil --

Or love.
The broken rarely keep their cold dismissals,
Though they’re worn, from prying hard between the lines;
Hand-creased, palm printed, the ink absorbed to bone.
The pleading scratch, cross out,
To spin what’s futile into hope.

Love notes are rarely lost.
Burning in breast pockets, everyone keeps their proof
From prying eyes.

I gather to me the unwanted.
Hardly anyone scatters the ashes of what they desire.
No one lucky ever goes unloved;
No unlucky bastard has a pocket that’s secure
Or a hand uncramped from cold
Or a moment on the street to pause,
And look ahead –
His shoes pinch and his bus runs late,
His nerveless fingers lose their hope
And paper parts from memory, dormant
Til resurrected and re-read.

the line (revised)

what it means to be a sinner:
i suppose

it's not answering the phone when your sister calls, from Texas,
because you're busy thinking about someone else's man;
and glancing around near your feet for the line
that marks the crossing:
here I'm thinking wrong
here I'm doing wrong,
as if there were a difference.

suppose that Janus were the God of choice, or even just
the Pope;
this sinning-by-numbers,
and the difference between right and wrong no more complex
than the line where one county meets the next.
suppose our boundaries in common,
and we could meet there, you and I, like
neighbors
leaning on the fence --

whereas the word is not so easily fooled;
forget the law.
it's the song, as Stevie Smith once wrote,
and Christ the singer,
the one-hit-wonder of all time.
the song you woke up with, chipping away
at your transgressions.

so sinning goes on anywhere the song can reach;
and like a certain acid sinks to bone,
so does the sweet truth of your crime;
and someone else's man can feel it too,
as does your sister in Texas, right now:

the wound, desire --
the song that binds the wound;
and the thin red scar of longing for him
anyway,
a cross on the palm, an incision
in the heart.

June 21

today my young son disappeared
for just a few moments, at the supermarket
and now I'm afraid to go to sleep.


it's not that he'll be out of sight;
we're safe here, at home.


but
that's twice in the past two weeks --
i look up from a magazine, a picnic table
and the light has changed

the bright sun hides the scalpel's edge
among the ordinary objects,
an exacto blade that neatly carves the outline
of a truth, and lifts it from my page,
leaving a hole in the day.

this time it was my boy, gone utterly
without a sound


a week ago, I saw a parkland bloodlessly
eviscerated
by the appearance of a wounded deer.
it lurched, its broken body
heaving, leaping on snapped legs
across the baseball field where children ran
laughing --

if i had not been surrounded then
by other people, kids,
I would have thought myself insane,
so clean the slice that split
the breathing life, revealing terror's mad despair.

the deer had been hit by a car.

out in the parking lot I found my child,
waiting,

knowing we would come, but just then
looking not quite certain --
a missing piece, a small but priceless truth -
my very breath, my soul
seen from a horrible distance


across a plane


of vast indifference


on an otherwise lovely summer day.

the worst sidewalks

The worst sidewalks
are the ones covered with loose stones and sand and bits of rubble;
they run alongside the busiest roads
east-west arteries through town, always rumbling
all blacktop-patched potholes like bad teeth,
never clean or smooth
because the traffic hurtles onward without cease,
the heavy trucks rattling and booming like doom bearing down,
the glaring mindless drivers in salt-riddled cars
revving their impatience with the narrow lanes
gunning it like rapists, to make the light.

Along these roads are the most unfortunate
of pedestrians,
those with no choice.
no quiet tree-lined side streets, and no time
and the damned stones eat into your shoes
while you drag a hundred pounds of whatever you must carry
and cringe from the shrieking engines
with no green margin between you and the crumbling curbstone -
no good line of demarcation
separating your small life
from the merciless onward pounding
the roaring annihilation
and that sand and grit creeps through your skin
chews at your heel
becomes the taste of filth in your mouth.

don't spill the beans

Find yourself waking,
and the trap of consciousness snaps --
Still weary of subject and object,
still in your work clothes.

Remember that kids' board game,
"Don't Spill the Beans?"
By Hasbro or some such.
A precarious balance,
to which beans are added one or two at a time, by turns.
You need to get your point across,
but you really can't say it.

-- whoever spills is the loser. That's you.

If you gag yourself with sheets and keep
the shades down,
You won't have to think in words, and no one
the wiser.

You need good old-school poker,
a game of unrevealing ways.
Intimacy is not what we're moving toward, here.
Though I don't know how long we can stand
at the edge of the gulf, without
tipping a hand.
Pray, and don't think --
don't anticipate, and for God's sake
don't imagine what you'd say
if anyone asked.

exhumation

Let me press my ear against your ribs
to hear
the hammering within,
to hear the gut and the breathing,
the soft sighs --
It's spring, finally,
and the tenderest of things are easing their stiff parts
into the sunlight.
Sun bright on the newly-turned earth of winter's grave.
It's the bright heat inside your car
that makes the stupid metal box into a womb.


In my recent experience,
spring is when people pass away,
and this week has been no exception.
What shall I cry? All people are grass,
their constancy is like the flower of the field.

Kindly lay me down
in the park, unwrapped
to thaw, like so much meat on the countertop,
like something the Inuit forgot to bury --

be brave, look at me in the light --
kneel down beside me, tell me if you hear
anything.

As if discourse were a sacrament.
Back in college, all we did was stay up
drinking espresso or vodka
into the wee hours, talk about life --
now, maybe six words out of a thousand
are worth their vowels.
Better to sing those vowels, round-mouthed,
better to slap out the consonants on
your thighs,
now that we're older and we've realized
everything worth saying is already
set to music.
Take me to the river -- drop me in the water.
Fish me out clean
and wrap me in a blanket,
give me a glass of wine and sing me a lullaby.
Go to sleep you little baby.
Go to sleep you little baby.
Your mama's gone away
and your daddy's gone to stay
didn't leave nobody
but the baby.


(credits to Alison Krause et al.)

in the beginning

There's a Moby tune I really love from years ago, called "God Moving Over the Face of the Waters." It's an instrumental, and has been utilized on at least one movie soundtrack that I know of ("Heat") wherein the imagery, while great (DeNiro, Pacino) isn't quite up to the majesty of the orchestration. As electronica goes, it's a truly inspired piece of music.

Which has only to do with this blog in the sense that this is the beginning, the first posting -- a nearly blank canvas -- and if one could engineer a soundtrack for each posting (wouldn't that be something!) I suppose I would choose thusly.

Though truthfully, I don't imagine this little scrap of text could even stand up to Pacino.