An Eagle

I was seated quietly,
my feet resting a ledge below
but my knees still high
against my chest
My lengthy arms across them
burning mildly in the sun
Just observing contentedly
and trying to absorb
the beauty presented
by that unique vantage
Two feet ahead of me,
a drop of seventy feet,
and I thought for a moment
of what might happen
if the earth gave way suddenly
as a result of moving plates,
before being distracted
by the elegant control
and effortless adjustment
of the eagle before me
It started off high
The tips of its wings
quaking gently across the sky
before spiraling down
to within mere inches
of the perilous treetops
I flinched once,
expecting it to plunge
too far and collide
but with the slightest shift
a draft cast it upward
with a power and grace
only a raptor could afford
And then, in that single frame,
its shadow passed over me,
cradling my body in shade
and I'd never felt so small
as in that second

Before or after...

He was sitting,
legs crossed awkwardly
and leaning back
with all eyes to the sky,
trying to deconstruct
the invention of time
using only his thoughts
Serene contemplation,
sincere consideration,
and all eyes to the sky,
unable to decide
if acknowledgement
ever occurred
before dismissal
or always after

Morning Sun

The sun rose,
thawing the atmosphere
through fog and blood
Its quiet light
filtering in
through the window
and, elegantly,
it crawled along the bed
A benevolent wraith
across our bodies
As we tried to continue
dreaming hidden visions
projected on our eyelids
The morning sun,
and a shift
from black to red
And when we opened
our tired eyes
we looked not past
one another

Writhing

For a moment, I thought
I'd forgotten
what it was like
But I've just decided
not even a second ago
and now I'm certain
that this is something alien
Something alien, displaced,
writhing in my stomach,
and my body doesn't know
what to do with it
Doesn't recognize
this foreign medium,
but it can't reject it,
and my squinting eyes
don't recall this face
They're straining to focus,
and my conscience says not,
but they won't cease
They're hungry,
in cahoots with the writher
and they pay no mind
to the heart's content

The Last Time

I never broke in front of you
Never made me flinch
I just smiled while you yelled
Eyes out of focus,
underwater without a blink
A stupid, spoiled smile
Letting your abuse
flow through my skull
without taking notice
of the individual parts

I looked you in the eye once
in the midst of your tantrum
and your hand connected
across my child's cheek
But I didn't waver then
Your eyes wide and mouth open
My gaze dropping your guard
No retaliation needed
That would be the last time

Angry, angry, angry...

Saw myself in your visage
Your jaw tightened
and breathing irregular
Fire and brimstone
seeping from your pores
That steady drip
Eating away the air
like some gaseous acid
Had you stopped
even for a moment or two
you would have seen
that it was all for not
But I know all too well
that's not a valid option
Sometimes, all is red,
when vision blurs
and blood boils
scalding the veins
Can't stop either,
'cause you're lost in it
Eyeballs deep
in a bath of rage

The Taste

I knew it happened,
even across the world
Down to the day
when it traveled
over the Atlantic
and I breathed it in
Coating my tongue
with some residue
that weakened my knees
I wasted that day
trying to wash down
that awful taste
But it didn't go away
and I blamed you
for putting it there
And it took a while,
it took me too long,
to recognize
I was the one
that held onto it
While you
never knew
it was there

Portrait

He pictured himself in a setting he'd never encountered. On hands and knees, climbing an oak-strewn hillside - the first to do so in known history. Ducking under red-skinned manzanitas, with the bone and claw necklaces of leather thread dangling down from his neck, perpendicular to his chest. Drinking from patches of moss nestled in the stone, or with cupped hands from a hidden stream. His body scarred to match the landscape, painted with clay, and his skin tan and freckled. Adorned with found objects of curious origin. Carrying weapons made from antler, obsidian, and hardwood. And a crown of madrone and thistles atop his head. That was the existence he hoped for.

The Cavity

He had a cavity in him
A vacuum of sorts,
and he imagined
that each day it grew
by a steady increment
Of course,
all cavities long
to be filled
So he always searched
for what might seal it
Then one overcast day
his eyes fell upon her,
all in a hurry,
followed by his heart
And he was certain then,
she could close the gap,
just as molten solder
fills the void and binds
It was wrong too,
to think such thoughts,
and he was aware
'Ought to look inside
for the answer, ol' friend'
But he'd tried that
and decided it was lost
or moving all the time
through his veins
Elusive or rare
No, today it was her
and it would remain

Hemingway

He worried about her,
for she would not break,
and he knew somehow
that the world had a way
of claiming her kind
She was too good,
too gentle, too wonderful
Just couldn't last
So each small visit
he made significant
in whatever way he could
And then he'd leave
knowing he might
never see her again
The hollow would grow
and in his chest,
his heart labored and waned
And he'd whisper
comforts he ignored, and
lies disguised as assurances,
hoping selfishly that
she might break
and live forever

Thanks for reminding me, Ernest.

"The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in, shock-proof, shit detector. This is the writer's radar and all great writers have had it."