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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.
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.
A tracing hand
Betrays the dust
On cracking sand.
A baking band
Of steaming rust,
A tracing hand
That fights the scan
Of vying lust
On cracking sand.
Leaves you a strand
Of thinnest trust,
A tracing hand.
You’re breathing land,
So sit and cuss
On cracking sand.
No time for fuss,
You flail away.
A tracing hand
On cracking sand.
3/6-3/25/09
(This is the poem that inspired my blog title.)
There is, perhaps, a periled point,
Where, lost and dazed, you cannot turn;
But tilt your eyes, and tear a glance
Behind, toward the grainy shore.
Only the path, the sea before
The fragile prow, the rotting craft;
Prowling below, hushed by the sky,
Salt kisses on your paling hands.
Thirsty mirage conjures the sands.
They rise beneath the foaming waves,
Echo your thirst and mock your eyes-
The luscious islands undulate.
But still you falter, taste the bait,
Clear water sleeping on your tounge.
Trapped by static infinity,
Time fails; the end is swift and long.
12/23/08
The Periled Point: A Poetic Journey 