Unfortunately, this page won’t for some reason allow formatting. Therefore, this poetry lacks not only stanzas but format (indentations and spacing — the double spacing of each line irritates me to no end). I debated whether or not to put it here because of that, and I hope that not too much is lost as you read, though form completes a poem. This poetry is not recent, but by leaving it here I hope to inspire myself to try more. I’ve never been totally comfortable with poetry but others have thought it all right. Hopefully, you feel the same.
Sour Grapes
(for Annie Dillard)
When I spoke to Annie last
my mind went numb —
this is what happens
(I think)
when years of faith
melt
like wax without wicks,
a stench heavy, thick
like incense, nothing left but
ashes at my feet and
on my forehead,
gritty on my shaking fingers.
Take of this body, drink
Christ with a cork, she said;
How can you believe it’s Him
When all you taste is sour grapes?
.
Exp. 96 NOV 01
The day he said he loved me
I cried; bud passion bloomed
softly, scarlet like the peonies
I grew under the windowsill.
And though I never knew when
the flowers died, I watched his
love for me turn rancid — a
stench like forgotten butter
in a fridge of chilled memories,
where I know he kept what
poisoned me. When I expired
he cleaned it out, replaced
the old with new stock — fresh
products give him pleasure.
I watch him savour them like
a wine-taster who swirls the
liquid in his mouth then spits,
already grasping a new glass.
If he could feel me now
it would be my icy
fingers wrapped around his
kissed neck, and after I revelled
in his humiliating, undignified demise,
I would unplug his fridge and
put him in it to rot, marked forever
on his sallow forehead with
an expiry date from months before.
.
Danse Macabre
Black trees like
charred skeletons dance —
burnt marionettes
in a sinister wind that
whistles with haunting timbre
an ominous tune.
In the twilight
of black November
they wave grotesquely,
swaying trance-like,
silhouettes against a
foreboding sky smeared
with charcoal clouds.
The candle in my window
flickers; I watch, again
alone. Not a simple whisper
in my ear; it is the limbs
that rattle, clacking;
bony digits reach: hungry
sticks of skinny beggars.
Death sticks to blades
of grass like clinging
grasshoppers, seeps under
windows and oozes along walls;
thief-like clouds creep and
slither to smother the unsuspecting moon.
.
Windstorm
From the moment
I step outside
what chance have I,
meagre as I am; you
torment me into submission:
feet trip, hair flies into stinging
eyes. You beat and bend,
destroy and whip —
sometimes I awake because
you’re shrieking in my ear.
I am powerless before you —
you’ve won the battle every time —
on days like this I wait for you
to quit your manic frenzy. Then
I emerge unscathed, hair
neat, no stinging burn of red
upon my cheeks. But then I watch
beat another — like some
omnipotent god gone bad,
you are the universal bully.
.
Break
Bare feet burrow deeper
Finding cool, dark dirt,
Bringing momentary relief from
Dry, dusty earth in soiled socks.
Sweat beads and trickles,
Tickling; a damp stained shirt
Swipes the grime, thick
And salty on parched lips.
Raw blisters burn on tender
Weary hands that clutch
The smooth wood of the hoe;
My fingers ache to straighten.
Insects drone and buzz;
No trees for miles, it seems,
And the outhouse is way
At the end of my row.
I lean, wilting, toilworn,
Back aching, to cry in the
Middle of nowhere, somewhere
In the stench of tomatoes.