Before it sank it broke in half.
That’s what gets me every time.
Not the coldness of the winter waters
That are a numbing kindness.
Not the unthinking slaughter
Of workers who never got on boats.
Not the ships that never heard
The calls of distress, but the blindness
That never sees that truths come to us broken.
Before they lie silent on ocean floors
Before they lie, truths are always two-fold.
The one part which we let fall, frozen,
And the one part which we hold.

Dawn, like a wolf, emerges from its lair
With eyes like stars set in its grey white hair
Sentinel to the morning that threatens to fall.

Where will you go, lover of my night
When day pierces the shadows of your flight
Devourer, fighter, keeper of the wall?

Who will keep my wolverine dreams
From the touch of these corroding beams
Leader of the pack, one for all?

Light approaches the hills in a slow prowl
Glancing, peak to peak, in a silvery howl
The early morning sentinel’s call.

 

(An Aubade is a poem written for the dawn, traditionally when lovers part.
Art work by ka-kind)

Jane Austen once said
(She’s a rock star too)
That mostly you’re in love with the fact
That someone’s in love with you.

Narcissism.
It seems an ugly thing.
But isn’t it true that when The Boss cancels his North Carolina concert and refuses to sing,
And I post his note on Facebook because my heart has taken wing,
That I’m convinced that like that other frikkin rockstar Sting,
He sees everything I do?

I read the notes left in the margins
Of books left on tables next to mine.
I hold mugs of tea long after the owners
Have drunk them, looking for the heat
Of their hands. I often barge in
To rooms when singers have just left
And breathe the note, the beat.
I park in spots that shoppers vacate
And wonder what they bought, what
They saw, what they ate. I sometimes
Stand in line where children stood
Scuffing their feet, itching, pulling
At hands that rein them in, and wonder
Who are the wonderers who inhabit
My skin.

Purple Ladybugs, they said
Found only in Hawaii
Perfect for those of us, I thought
Looking for stimuli.
When all the world seems
Flattened and hard, and
Facebook posts seem dreary,
Purple ladybugs pop up:
Soul food for the weary.

Details, I thought, and pictures
To show that there is hope
And joy and miracles of nature:
And then I looked at Snope.
Apparently its all a hoax
-Move along, nothing to see here, folks!-
And I do move on, faith renewed,
In pursuit of illusion, Purple-Ladybug-imbued.

 

On some forgotten mile of regret
Pebbled with smoothened tears
I shall seek out a rock of bitter rest
And solace my weary feet of fears.

If the ocean froths before me
Alive with my leaping crimes,
If the trees roar above me
And deny me comforting rhymes;

If no walker passes by my seat
No glance with which to save me;
If no guilty eye will my eye greet
Or no passing breeze will brave me;

I shall make of my sieved soul
A covering for my head
And bind these blistered feet I stole
With pity stripped from bark and bole
To sing me that I once was whole
And measure each mile I tread.

 

Lines are drawn in many ways
Rivers and seas, mountain ranges
Do it. Deserts are harder to use
And oceans often end in bays
Harbouring those refused
Other shelters, other roofs.

Seas are parted to let the exile through
And red marks so many partitions
In lines and rivulets, veins
On the body of the blue
Earth, ruddied with nations
Riddled with stains.

Walking in streets paved with the dead
The folded hands, the unseeing head
The numbers with zeroes marching abreast
It’s easy to stop looking for signs
The names of roads are rollcalls
Unfolding underfoot, in endless lines.

 

Too late to be fooled
Too early to learn from Spring
Snow burnt grass, ice shy fish
Hard black earth, wind cooled
I have been a fool for lesser things.

Too old to be wooed
Too young to shed these wings
Age crimped eyes, silver hair
Morning tea fresh brewed
I have been a fool for lesser things.

Too tame to be ruled
Too rowdy to be held by rings
Latch held windows, gentle walks
Still not ready to be schooled
To be a fool for lesser things.

The greyness of skies doesn’t bother me much
I feel less pressure to be joyful.
The bluer it is, the fairer the day
As clear as justice, so they say.
For myself, a hidden sun is such
An undeserved, blessed trifle.
A little rain is better yet, it drops
Like mercy, I’ve heard it said.