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(for a project in which I was supposed to describe my existential self or who I am in an existential manner or some convoluted thing like that. i sort of preferred not to answer the question)
You’d ask me who I am, and how I’d know.
You’d ask me what material weaves my soul?
There are few depths and lengths to which I’d go;
My mind is not tame yard or shallow shoal.
My lock is not a keyed and open door
For any man to rest his curious eyes.
My stock is not new made in earthly forge;
I am no weapon when the battle flies.
My barrel is not straight and gleaming bright.
I hold myself against no poor man’s head.
Shuttle and loom are my weapons, my pride.
You pierce my peace with loaded balls of lead.
In time, and without deadly mortal tools,
I may discover this, the quest of fools.
She was a virtuoso in her brazen composure
Suspicious, the tilt of her head as she bent over the missal
So visible, so vividly volatile
Like a breath of steam straining to be foam
Like sea-foam spray craving to rush
To rush and cry over the very rocks, mired in their steadfast prayers
Wary of watching eyes, she became a sculpture
The lines of her back fluid and clear
Her profile focused, her outline intense
Skimming inquiry through a blurring lens
The wind will soon blow her away.
Sketch: Words
Wander ‘cross the page
Pretty little mage
Shining little wizard word
Curt in frame and age.
Sing a tinkling song
Frolicking along
Put a smile on my face
Though your spelling’s wrong.
3/7
Sketch: Fence
Border me, golden field
Swallow me, whipping wheat
Beat me bare, batting breezes
Crack me dry, summer heat
Paint in chips under sunny
Summer skies, arching blue
Over skipping children’s laughter
They play the fence, too.
3/7-3/25
My Room 3/17
Who am I? My soul’s in piles.
A jumbled mess, a sloppy kiss,
Like rumpled blouses on the floor,
Pick ‘em up and find some more-
More socks, more books and wandering pens,
Who knows? What’s lying in wait
Is best left, my mind’s too far
Up high, down low, no care for tangles.
The dust crowding like scattered spangles
Makes no mark on smiles nor pouts.
The floor hidden ‘neath distant shouts
Is only ground. I see a soul.
Pressing the cool tiles
Fingers break the ivory geometry
Graying lines, blocked and defiled
By a damp human intrusion
Eyes tight with thought
The heat stings my back
Leaning on knuckles in knots
I still, and watch my skin age.
2/23/09
The Periled Point: A Poetic Journey 