More of the collection “That Kind of Real
More of the collection that is coming into Being….
That Kind of Goodbye
I.
a few sips down the throat
and it will be finished
but foam will stay
for a few residual moments
on the lip
of that kind of Goodbye
II.
bitter taste of something thick
still clinging to the roof of mouth
and back of throat
that does not know how to completely say
that kind of Goodbye
III.
tip of tongue moving
against gums and teeth
as evening lowers it bones
to be gnawed on because there is
some flavor left
that kind of Goodbye
IV.
long after falling to sleep
ears hear ticking
of some alarm
not set to go off
until later
and knowing it will
stun me stupid
clinging half inch off the covers
even though I expected
that kind of Goodbye
That Kind of Cave
I.
Plato knew the disguise of shadows
pretending to be light
and runners came into the camp
to warn a new campaign
was riding hard over sage and slither
to take away the right to live
in gentle culture’s Sweat lodge life
that kind of cave
II.
Crunching bones of gotten gain,
Wolf knew the reason to digest
even rottenest of meat
when catch was meager
or easily fended off
but for this cracking
those that wait for her
to feed upon her best thought thoughts
waiting, whining whelps,
in darkness that shed little light
that filled the gut of bright eyed need to know
laying on well-worn rocks
that kind of cave
III.
Seedlings know false springs and sprouts
but I, the gardener must pluck
weed from flowerbed
and leave potential pulsing in the dark
for its time and place and truth
underneath pine-spill acid and raindrops
and doves that would love to take them
in their craw, should they not stay hidden
in that kind of cave
That Kind of Woman
I.
a woman, peering through shroud
of curtain after curtain
of many kinds of rain
and clouds, and crowds
with faces turned up in hope
and she gives it, one phrase at a time
like the shadows that peak
through softest satin
when the night light is right
that kind of woman
II.
a lake, an elongated moon,
a passion stroking surface
like a silver swan skims
dark from a heavy dew-stained glass
she is a parter of branches
for better view of the mirror
that reflects her
that kind of Woman
III.
a simple sigh, a terrible sigh,
a sigh heard from heaven
to the depths of hell
from a throat that is so softened
it can no longer hold it
and yet lays out paper, and a pen,
sits on steps and lets stars fill her
in places that sighs have left empty
that kind of Woman
IV.
she is cupped palm of grace,
of agape, of passion
that reaches to cover her face,
and mine,
when it feels like sorrow
might startle us
and cause us to flee
from this spiral suction
that dares to try
to lead one of us ashore
while the other treads hardest waters
that kind of Woman
is swan
That Kind Of Father
I.
a man who sweeps snow off the porch
and blazes a trail
before sun comes up
or stars go down
so his son can take out the garbage
to that very spot
he spent an hour shoveling around
that kind of father
II.
one who took is daughter
to her Daddy-daughter date
and didn’t dance
because he couldn’t,
and besides, he didn’t know
how to hold her
but held her elbow
when she got in the car
when the music was over
that kind of father
III.
a voice that softened when angry,
so you had to lean in to hear
and wished you hadn’t
for then you saw the hurt
in his eyes that his words would not give away
that kind of father
IV.
who took his own aging
like he took reins,
firmly, but softly so he would not harden
the mouth of his team,
his daughter, his son;
let years take its own course
but piled memories
like straw on the hayrack,
that he would stack
and restack, in case of need
later, when their was a run-away
and something ate all his hard harvest
that kind of father
That Kind Of Grace
I.
sweeping vestibule
with vicious broom
until nothing is left but motes,
there is
that kind of Grace
II.
boat crossing lake, full speed,
as if arrival were the thing,
chugging to a stop
to avoid a skim of geese
that kind of Grace
III.
Grace, strewn like petals
on a steep climb
Discussion Area - Leave a Comment