Clouds and Trees

"Nothing ever goes away enough or arrives enough,/ and I want to cry when I think of my heart,/ muscle pounding in muscle, greedy always for joy." – 'A Warning', Eric Anderson

Month: January, 2009


I’m writing seven poems
(eight if you count these opening lines)
in order to describe my different sides
and to take from different angles
the story I tell about myself
and the pieces that build me
and fill me up
with the desire
to write

These melting masks
all pool at my feet
spilling their facelessness
on my uncensored skin

My mind feels like a bowl
of writhing snakes
lashing each other’s tongues
with forked ambitions

I look to the sky
for the trace of some disguise
and discover that I’m the one
with something to hide
But how can I believe my eyes
when my mind sees only in black and white?

Though I claim to be
some cornered convalescent character
I cannot claim to deserve the same
sympathy that I allot myself

I want some sense of shape
of boldly defined corners and cracks
I want some understanding
of my chaotic cruelty

I wonder at the whispers
that find me in my holy moments
lining my mind
with words to describe
this life

I am cold emotion
swinging feet on the quay
I wait for my ships to pass
as I claim to see
the secrets beneath the waves



Vanishing acres
Slippery, tangled chaos
spotted, unblinking

“We are such stuff as dreams are made on”

time to fill the void
with sketched reflections
shadows on a silver screen
suspended from the sky
by hands and fingers
tracing tasteless colors in the spray
tell me why my eyes turned gray
in the light of the moon
the background shivers and quakes
and I feel as if
surrounded by a sleep
in a play of cornered characters
dripping lines in the blinding light
guided by the men upstairs
who seem to be enjoying
the show


mysterious connections
between altruism
and the anachronism
of a world beyond oneself
the lonely soul
reviling solipsism
and styling himself
blind king of the mind
he looks inside
hoping to find
a trace of history
of lost civilizations
rubble of a world
which he outlived
or failed to see
in his endless solitude
his hopeless meditation
filling the months
until she lets him be