"I lift my head from the pillow
I see the frost moon
Lowering my head I think of home”
A Raft of Grief
"The raft that means ‘a great number’ is not related at all to the raft that carries people or their possessions in the water. The two words are homonyms … ”
—Morris Dictionary of Word and Phrase Origins
If only there were a boat,
low and long and loaded
with all we’d brought or built:
the fatal inattentions,
anxieties and tics
that time had sanctified,
our good and bad intentions,
rages, lapses, and aches.
If only it were that easy,
to stand only ankle-
deep in the sullied water
hoisting our shared cargo,
sinking no further beneath
its weight. If only the boat
did not need a rower;
we’d push it off together
then wade to opposite banks
absolved at last, forever,
buoyant, watching it go.
Today there’s supposed to be a break
in the weather. I sound as if I care
when I sort of don’t.
Like weather in diaries—it always sounds
more important than it was: “Low
clouds today. Cold and wet.” Or
"No rain again. Six days in a row."
If these were from the journal of, say,
Herman Melville, you’d say, “Hmm,
six days in a row. Herman sounds grim”
and then you’d feel like him.
And in a poem that starts “A break
in the weather” you sense significance
because it’s in a poem, where words
have more significance, ho ho.
“I knew that I was dying.
something in me said, go ahead, die, sleep, become as
then something else in me said, no, save the tiniest
it needn’t be much, just a spark.
a spark can set a whole forest on
just a spark. save it.”
Charles Bukowski, The Last Night of the Earth Poem
They sat on the back patio. It was dusk and the warm winds breathed in and out, like an ocean tide. She had noticed that you could bet your bottom dollar on the heavy breezes every night this time in late-August. It calmed her and felt cleansing, though it stirred all the leaves and grass around them into a waving, swaying sort of mess. Doors slammed from time to time.
Tea lights lit up the porch, tangled up with the vines.
Her brown leather boots were propped up across his legs, and she kept craning her neck to peak round the porch ceiling to catch glimpses of the nearly Blue Moon dancing out from under shrouds of clouds.
He asked her why she insisted on always going 5 miles over the speed limit.
And sometimes she wondered if she was born with too much fire inside.
”..but the sun seemed immobile as if suspended by a wire.”
"And what would you say if I called you my Indian Paintbrush?"
"Why, I’d say that you were my Fairy Slipper."
"Then it only rests to be that you are my Yellow-Poplar (Liriodendron Tulipifera)…TulipTree."
"Well then, I suppose you’d be my Yucca Blossom."
"And you dear, are my Rhododendron."
(pictured: Flowers at my front stoop, blooming with the Full Moon. Every year they disappear and I think they’ve gone forever. They always come back.)
Merrily merrily merrily merrily
life is but a dream.