Poems from the Wilderness
These are some things I wrote at the lake this summer, when I was fortunate enough to spend a few days down there by myself. It was beautiful and quiet and lonesome, and I think the work reflects that.
Do Not Touch The Exhibits
You cordon off some parts of you,
You know some people say we all do.
I don’t know the way,
the why
of hiding selves
inside
layers
and layers
of me.
There is such force in throwing oneself into another’s arms,
such strength in
trusting
and risking,
I tear myself apart
to share
the self
I know is there
with me.
with you.
You cordon off some parts of you,
Some people say we all do.
Evening Whispers
There is something simmering
beneath the surface of the water
here
at the edge of the world
under the whispers of ripples
colliding softly to quiet each other
under a sky that descends from azure to flames
as the sun makes its exit.
There is a final thought
a simple breath drawn
that forces us to wonder
to what do I owe this moment
for what do I deserve this connection
to perfection.
Underneath it all
this swell; an anonymous rumbling that builds to a thunder,
even in the silence of sunset.
The evening’s broadening light calls it forth
makes my sensitivity stronger
the soft undersurfacetension
a vocabulary for frustration
a framework for song.
There is something simmering
beneath the surface of the water
here
at the edge of the world.
Intimate
I am buried under the weight
of loving
there are too many hearts
too many beautiful hearts
that go unseen
that are not well-loved
as they deserve
I well up inside
with loving
cuts
on the skin
that I need you to see
the most intimate skin
the most intimate sense
a core exposed
I am disturbed inside
awakened and longing
the queerest sense that I am nothing without you
without the ability to show you
this
The Ice and The Fire
Missing is like ice
a burning set deep
inside the body
that will not sleep
yet wakes you from yours
and the anger is like a fire
melts the ice, but
leaves you with burns
on the inside
that no water will cool
this desire is too much
far too much
for a fragile frame
it is a great gift
a terrible curse
a hand in the night
so you are not alone
that strangles away your breath
and ties you to the bed
a grief that only
the most petulant child would complain of
which
every poet writes of
tell me one more time how I help you
and how you need me
I will remember it
As I wait with ice and fire.
Do Not Touch The Exhibits
You cordon off some parts of you,
You know some people say we all do.
I don’t know the way,
the why
of hiding selves
inside
layers
and layers
of me.
There is such force in throwing oneself into another’s arms,
such strength in
trusting
and risking,
I tear myself apart
to share
the self
I know is there
with me.
with you.
You cordon off some parts of you,
Some people say we all do.
Evening Whispers
There is something simmering
beneath the surface of the water
here
at the edge of the world
under the whispers of ripples
colliding softly to quiet each other
under a sky that descends from azure to flames
as the sun makes its exit.
There is a final thought
a simple breath drawn
that forces us to wonder
to what do I owe this moment
for what do I deserve this connection
to perfection.
Underneath it all
this swell; an anonymous rumbling that builds to a thunder,
even in the silence of sunset.
The evening’s broadening light calls it forth
makes my sensitivity stronger
the soft undersurfacetension
a vocabulary for frustration
a framework for song.
There is something simmering
beneath the surface of the water
here
at the edge of the world.
Intimate
I am buried under the weight
of loving
there are too many hearts
too many beautiful hearts
that go unseen
that are not well-loved
as they deserve
I well up inside
with loving
cuts
on the skin
that I need you to see
the most intimate skin
the most intimate sense
a core exposed
I am disturbed inside
awakened and longing
the queerest sense that I am nothing without you
without the ability to show you
this
The Ice and The Fire
Missing is like ice
a burning set deep
inside the body
that will not sleep
yet wakes you from yours
and the anger is like a fire
melts the ice, but
leaves you with burns
on the inside
that no water will cool
this desire is too much
far too much
for a fragile frame
it is a great gift
a terrible curse
a hand in the night
so you are not alone
that strangles away your breath
and ties you to the bed
a grief that only
the most petulant child would complain of
which
every poet writes of
tell me one more time how I help you
and how you need me
I will remember it
As I wait with ice and fire.