Tag: poetry

In my dreams, I wake insidea ruin that is still alive. Fungus threads through melike a patient wound. It begins in the brain—a soft blanching,a fog in the thoughts,spores settling where memory should be. Then it works downward,slowly, intimately,into the joints,into the hollow ache of bone. I feel its silent patience,its pale multiplication. It does … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – “Host of Decay” – Growing, v.2

I stand hereas if placed. Not grown,not arrived,but set downin the thin silence of the fieldlike a markeror a warning. Above methe clouds driftwith the slow certainty of animalsthat know the road home. Grey.White.Grey again.A soft corruption of the blue,as though the dayhas begun to bruise. They do not hurry.That is what unsettles me. They … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – “Under a White, Watching Sky – Greying Wisps, v.5

Here, at the edge of myself,I stand and look up. Clouds loosen their pale weightacross the blue,folding and unfoldinglike slow-spoken names. A grey seam passes through them.Then white.Then a brighter openingwhere the sky shows throughas if it has been waitingall along. The noise of the daywithdraws.The ordinary worldslips a little farther away. I do not … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – “The Quiet Above” – Greying Wisps, v.4

I stand stillwhere the earth holds me,and the sky opens abovelike a thought not yet spoken. Clouds drift there—grey-cuffed, white-bright,soft bodiesunfastening themselvesacross blue distance. The world lowers its voice.Even the noise of livingthins to a murmur,and I find myselfinside a hushlarge enough to hear. The clouds movewith no labor at all,as if the wind were … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – “Greying Wisps” – Greying Wisps, v.3

I stand rooted here,a small upright witnessset beneath the turning heights. Clouds drift overhead,soft as torn wool,grey combed through white,their slow shapes changingagainst the blue. From this far edge of thingsthe world grows quiet.Its grinding noisefalls awaylike dust settling in still water. The clouds pass onwithout effort,without complaint,crossing the open field of my sightas if … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – “At Eye Level with the Sky” – Greying Wisps, v.2

The stones—They don’t just stand, they heave.Tired gods with marble jaws and spines of jagged grit,twitching in that yellow fever-light,that rot-light of afternoon and ash.See the names?Carved like hexes into the skin—that pale, dying, limestone skin.The rain has licked the letters loose.The sun has kissed the marrow to ruin.They’re keeping watch.Yeah, they’re watching the quiet … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – “The Grit-Singers (A Blues for the Mineral Dark)” – Ghostly Stones, v.5

The stones rise up like tired gods,marble jaws, granite spines,standing crooked in the fever-lightof afternoon and ash.Names are carved like spellsinto their pale and dying skin,names the rain has worried loose,names the sun has kissed to ruin. They keep their vigil over the buried ones,the sleepers under six feet of silence,the vanished kings, the broken … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – “The Dead Still Sing in Granite” – Ghostly Stones, v.4 (Revised while listening to The Doors)

Marble and granite rise from the earthlike old thoughts that refuse to vanish,leaning into the weather,holding their names against rain,against sun,against the long dull hand of neglect. Time has not shattered them all at once.It has only softened them:the corners rounded,the lettering thin,the bright intention dulled to gray.Still, they standabove the bones they mark,above the … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – “Where the Quiet Keeps” – Ghostly Stones, v.3

Ancient stones of marble and granitestand half-upright in their weathered rows,raised to remember,so often left behind.Sun bleaches their faces;rain stains their names;traffic and timework together to soften the edges. Their surfaces carry the hand of years,not gentle, but patient,as if memory itselfhad worn grooves into the grain.They keep watch over what is buried below,over the … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – “Epitaphs in Stone” – Ghostly Stones, v.2

I went down into the little suburban woodson a day when the sun was hot as a penny on a stove,and the leaves hung up therelike a room full of old lacegone brown at the edges. I was looking for the fallen ones,the trunks with their collars split open,the branches thrown out widelike a drunk … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – “The Woods with Rust in Their Throat” – A Bit of Goldsworthy & Adams, v.4… in a Tom Waits style lament…