because while some truths lend themselves to equations, others are best described in verse

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The Volta

It is a little over a mile each way,
dappling sidewalks punctuated
by tree roots and cobbled street pavers;
up to Chimborazo and the old war hospital.
The road ends as it did back then:
at Oakwood– a mile, as i have said, to the gates,
threading a future through the laces
of my worn out running shoes. Touching
fingertips to the stone arch, i turn
& say not today, re-turning to eke
on with whatever of existence
is given in the next twenty-four,
until tomorrow, when i again
run this little-over-a-mile heavy-
footed dream, a Nike pre-swoosh,
arriving late: i have thrown away
more chances yet than i have claimed,
boiled what is left down to this little-
over-a-mile and the gates where,
one Saturday long ago, i saw an owl
in sunlight perched on a granite cross.

Point of origin

Flames burn brightest in darkness,
volcanic truths that sing the end of days.

Mother,

I would write you other than this
handful of platitudes, let your ash
be breath-ed into ember, your sparks scattered
across the midnight sky to bear forth
the sun and other fierce stars.

But I am no god,
and heaven is hot to the touch. There is pain
in the burning.

Judgment
is like nightmare, a woman
with a fiery sword whose heart smolders
until the seas are made new.

 

 

Another in the series of poems for the collaborative Nine Realms project. You can find out more of the myth behind Muspelheim, the Realm of Fire, here. Also, please support this amazing, multi-faceted international arts endeavor (which includes poets, visual artists, musicians & the carving of a real Viking boat)– our Indiegogo campaign ends next week!

as April ends, aftershocks

In Nepal, they are dead by the thousands,
yet at night, in the epic tragedy of our bed,
they are hardly spared a thought as we fight
for the happiness so long missed. I wanted
this to be an easy poem to write: all sweeping
sentiment and unfolded perspective, laundry
tossed on the couch and handily sorted.
I, after all, have no burials to plan, no body to bear.
Survival is too far a concept to be bought dear,
though, and I am left with this landslide
of vague loneliness, wishing only for you
to hold me, for a kindness, for a plane ticket
to Katmandu. There are all kinds of earthquakes,
love; some nearer home than others.

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