sonnet

Gone a dozen ceaseless season

from our languid winter love,

leaving but forgotten treason

and new discovered distance of

emotion far from gentle flame

leaving the glow less gratifying

thus giving it a brand new name

and one much less satisfying.

Unknown to either side then

we could be so distant in heart,

for quick emotion back in time can

convince one season would not part.

Now snows but leave us to our sides,

apart, separate, until our paths collide.

bee sting

O, villainous, blackened bee

that didst send its force to sting me

upon the leg, just removed the knee!

Prithee, check thy conscience!

With mine anger, I doth too much tread

and I should but use pity in its stead

for it is I alive and this poor creature dead!

classroom observations

eager and erect, dumb,

poses assumed so as to grab

that which is strewn

about before them

by nodding, blinking slow,

smiling quick, grunting

often, not to stand out,

but be be hidden away,

frightened to not know,

hiding amongst others

who know not, and don't try to,

wanting to be present, counted only

as among those here,

as if saying, yes, I am here,

of course I know,

and give time, minutes,

and even more is sold still,

by way of postures slumping,

hunched, with faces expressing thoughts,

not possessing them,

writing, furiously,

writing that grunts

and thuds itself and only distracts,

writing without cease

which knows not why it writes

or of what is written,

but it is written, and it is thought,

I have it, at least,

accepted and taken with as truth--

but here I sit, pretending, too,

to give my attention, staring

instead at sets of legs, still paying

my due to the voice in front,

frantically annoyed,

modestly laughing,

mostly distracted, playing the same,

attempting to compose this thought,

considering them

amongst those of others

who mull me over, as I them,

thinking myself different,

them posing with thoughts,

but, myself with the same,

united in another thing, sharing

in another thought, all of us:

to leave! to be released!

let me go, on my own time, please!

Upon Completing A Fine Balance

I come to place my chair,

walking carefully, centering

with the sun amidst spears

of grass, dirt, and light buzzers;

balancing heat and thirst

with cool shade and liquid,

balancing this with thoughts,

words, pages, freakishly before me . . . 

"Birth and death-- what could be

more monstrous than that?"

Us, knit between;

going over the balance

I sweat, gorge liquid, overheat--

a victim of my elements,

or them my tools,

going over the options:

that it is all meaningless,

a quilt that has lost its pattern,

that it is maddening, and we know

we can not pick up each strand,

that we will fulfill its prophecy

avoiding or embracing this all along,

that we take all that we can

and sometimes actually give, too,

that we follow its commands,

ashamed, wishing we hadn't,

that it embarrasses us with a mirror

showing us poor and disgusting,

that we roll through it, brandishing

our hideous features, laughing,

that it is controlled by us, so that we believe

we made the right choices,

that we exist independent from it, only

leaving ourselves alone with memories,

that we fix it, and clash

to sort it all out and are killed for it,

that it frightens us and we are terrified,

wanting to snip bits out of it,

that we accept it and move on,

with a half-smile, scarred from it,

that we balance it amongst things

falling apart, centers not holding,

wavering, staggering, thinking,

concluding . . .  almost arriving,

"the circle completes itself"--

I stretch my legs further, extending

to wipe my feet on a patch of green

moss, fabric-soft, inviting and comforting,

my skin burning above it; leaning back

to shut my eyes, forgetting stinging

bugs by remaining stilled and calmed;

should I rest here? or retreat,

cooling myself off.

red skin, burnt--

red skin, burnt,

dead, and dying still--

calloused, hard,

rough, and stronger yet--

tomorrow,

with new layers,

I'll walk and be burnt,

but slowly grow accustomed

that it may feel less bad,

less bad.

I leave this chair on my porch--

I leave this chair on my porch

as proof of life, that this spot is lived on;

that here I watch, hear and read,

smile to the streets or think

while storms rolling in hard

never quite reach where I sit,

question grass length and cardinal color,

speculate on my neighbors,

their noisy, happy children,

laugh and am made mad

above books and pages,

and watch for the gesture

of a passerby in motion

as I lift my head and nod;

my legs crossed or not, I am content,

in comfort or not, I am content

to let the dirt and pollen stain my feet,

to let tiny bugs crawl and faucets to drip,

and as petals amass I'll not sweep them off,

as this spot is lived on and it is there

I must leave my chair, perched,

leaning comfortably, bent and prepared.