they say i am sensitive
and that i’m not tough —
enough. but — i made
it this far — ain’t i have?
amongst y’all, who are.
poems
Self-expression
in the desert southwest
doves call themselves out
and say their own names
in self-identifying syllables —
two in “ink-uh” of the little inca
eurasian’s 3-noted “you-ray-zhun”
four of the “white-wingèd dove”
and the unmistakable five notes
of the song “mourning dove i am”
Ex Libris R. Le G.
“…multum ille et terris jactatus et alto
Vi superum, saevae memorem Junonis ob iram,
Multa quoque et bello passus, dum conderet urbem
Inferretque deos Latio:…” —Virgil, The Aeneid
Having no home, what should I do with these,
Tossed as I am about the sounding seas,
Sport of exiling winds of change and chance—
Feet in America, and heart in France.
Homeless, ’tis meet I find my books a home:
Coffined in crates and cases long they lay,
Distant from me three thousand miles of foam
Dungeoned in cellars cold and nailed away,
As in a sepulchre, till Judgment Day.
Lost to their gentle uses in the tomb,
Cobwebbed companions of the spidered gloom,
At last they rise again to live once more,—
Dread resurrection of the auction room.
Books I have loved so well, my love so true
Tells me ’tis time that I should part from you,
No longer, selfish, hoard and use you not,
Nor leave you in the unlettered dark to rot,
But into alien keeping you resign—
Hands that love books, fear not, no less than mine.
Thus shall you live upon warm shelves again,
And ‘neath an evening lamp your pages glow,
Others shall press ‘twixt leaf and leaf soft flowers,
As I was wont to press them long ago;
And blessings be upon the eyes that rain
A tear upon my flowers—I mean on “ours”—
If haply here and there kind eyes shall find
Some sad old flower that I have left behind.
—Richard Le Gallienne,
Fight for our lives
like wild animals, I am happy hiding
the artificial frightens my being —
but it is time to fight for the earth
scrambled blackout poetry created from Rafe Martin, Birdwing, 2005
CBT
but the science bears out
my catastrophic thinking
Blaring quiet
A clock is ticking
in my living room —
I never even noticed
that it makes noise —
my mind is ticking,
my heart is ticking.
Everything quiet
is audible at 3 a.m.
Sensational
the famous five senses
are only helper senses
to our other infinite unnamed
Vernal ode to euphony
nests bustling in leafy trees
eggs cracking open tenderly
vernal music on the breeze
excitement buzzing busily
tree roots drinking merrily
underground working tirelessly
restless flowers pacing weeds
manufacturing aromatherapies
reds purples yellows greens
poppies blooming endlessly!
WILD’ness
WILD
is beautiful
wild is free —
wilderness is not
an empty canvas
for Man to do
what he will —
wilderness is
an already full canvas
painted by God
Stragglers
bird alights on branch
mottled-lit golden leaves fall
drifting like feathers
Deciduous
just like trees
my life is a mix—
seasonal change
and evergreen
Alone in the city
my heart is dying
for this gambel’s quail crying
lovesick for a mate
Inferno
menopause is dry
as wood chips but it’s kindling
for warm winter fires