Just In Case You Thought You Were Special

I remember when I use to want to be a writer. Dreams of Pulitzer prizes danced in my head.

But then I got older, and I started reading the stuff you write.

So I burned all my notebooks, all my hopes and dreams.

And then I realized you were quoting Flaubert and T.S. Elliot.

That you did not in fact write that yourself.

Damn it.

The Missing Of Friends Part I

shook out a couple of nights ago

Where Rise Fell

Cutting between I went left or
Right. I am unsure. I went a
Place between that was not
Straight. There was water and woods.
The mayflies had hatched
And all the kinds of fish were
Kissing them
From the surface. I sat under a
Tall willow and watched the fish
Rise and mayflies fall.
I watched the world reunite
Between right and left.
Sat there in the whole.
Glimpsing where it was gone.

take care - ds

new for today, 8/something

the evening is not
lonely. it's just I'm day and
you're night - still apart.

we walked up and down
the stairs together, living
in the same tall space.

I saw a thousand
mayflies, but lost them trying
to count silver wings.

every time a boat
swam by I worried the waves
would swamp my city.

I live here, and so
does everyone else. We try
all day to forget.

I did not wave back
because my arms were full of
rain. I am sorry.

almost never get
scared; we're cradling the end.
it's more important.

love all -

ds

Bottom of the Well

Some days she feels paint
others; words and dreams
And her slave driving boss makes her work in the kitchen, faster, faster
it is a holiday
yet her little sons are still in school
in a panic she realizes
she is very very late
she runs to the school, to the principals office
heart pounding
Administrators look down their noses at her
She is ashamed
the boys were crying she is told
-YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND she shouts as she grabs the telephone from the receptionists desk
-THE LITTLE ONE IS ONLY THIS BIG
she indicates he comes up to her hip, when he is standing
where did they go,did somebody steal them?
She fears the worst

The boys are in a white clapboard shack
abandoned and still, by the river's edge
Lost boys, abandoned
as usual, alone, together

She floats through the rooms over dirty hardwood floors
discarded cracker boxes litter the room
then outside
to find
The little one is sleeping on the roadside
in the grass
she nudges him repeatedly
-This is not safe

they return to the shack and lie down by the window
background of moonlight and darkness
still waters mirror the sky
-It is so peaceful here, she says to the young ones in her arms

-Yes

And they are walking collecting treasures
feathers, rocks and leaves

As they approach the overgrown walkway to the clapboard house
She sees him
The man is the Authority
Severe eyes, warm rust colored beard, soft voice
He says, in a whisper,
-Are you coming in here?
he is trying to decipher whether or not she is the one
She pretends to live somewhere else
to be someone else
someone other than the irresponsible mother she knows herself to be
-We are just going for a walk
calm voice, poker face
-Then why do you look so afraid?
-Perhaps you misunderstand me
-Perhaps

Of Paint & Poetry

A few years ago I read a collection of poetry written by disadvantaged children.

Some of them were quite good, which just goes to show that writing poetry isn't necessarily a matter of age; it's a matter of life experiences. And some 10-year-olds have seen enough tragedy to last a lifetime.

There was one in particular that stood out to me: a girl has made a mess with a bucket of paint. And so an attempt to help her mother all but precipitates an anxiety attack as she tries to clean up; not because she's afraid her mother will yell at her. But because she cannot reason how, on earth, she will ever "get all of this paint out of my mouth."

I loved that line. And I thought then, as I do now, that I understood her quite clearly. That even though I haven't lived her life or endured her tragedies, I knew (know) precisely what she meant.

And yesterday, driving home, those words popped into my head for the first time in months. And try as I might, I couldn't shake them out again.

Instead, I thought of all those moments I bit my tongue when I most needed to speak. Those times when I stared blankly at the world, my insides shaking with words.

And I imagined myself, as this girl, opening my mouth and trying — quite futilely — to clean the paint from my tongue even as it continues to flow through me.

If I were an artist: this is what I would draw.

If I could show you how I felt, this is what you would see.