Reluctant Raven

Oh yes, I know
reluctant raven
you're so
flighty

Oh yes, I hear
shouting voices,
warn from
above

But don't you know
I ignore them
because I long to feel
your plush down

And don't you hear
so tenderly
my whispers meaning well
They're honest

Yes, I see you are young
not knowing how to fly
Surely I can do no better
but I'm willing to try
Just to try

Yes, I feel, feathered one
it's frightening to know,
whether we will plummet or soar
When right I'll let you go
Let you go

One Hundred Pounds

I recall the last time now
It came all at once to me,
as from an electric shock
My feet kicked upward
not reeling, but as pistons
intent to decapitate
I remember one heel
landing flush across the jaw
and the dead weight
He was separated then
- his body from his mind
One rendered useless,
and the other
on unfamiliar substrate
One where every strength,
every blatant advantage,
was my own
The one hundred pounds,
that profound disparity,
meant nothing now
And he knew

Obscene Embyro/Mossen Womb

He used his fingers only
to displace the earth
Pulling at sprawling roots, and
discarding their intentions
Their tendrils hung down
and touched his naked back
painting streaks across
his body as he moved
His forearms and elbows
aching and mud-caked,
a wreath of manzanita
entangled in his ashen hair,
and nostrils flaring before
the smell of soil and leaves
He dug a cavity there,
just enough to coil in,
and lined it with moss
Invertebrates roiled out
clambering for the light,
while groundwater dripped
freckling his skin with mud
He lay there unmoving,
an obscene embryo
in a mossen womb,
making no sound

Grandfather

His grandfather's face was not the same. It had been years, but they were buffered by a placid existence. It had weathered under the burden of internal oils seeping through in expressions unintended. One might recall that involuntary (embarrassing) quivering in the jaw as you seek a voice in the rightful place of sobs.

The iron oxidized.
The silver tarnished.

They sat on the tracks during the grandson's break from work and drank coffee as old friends might. These days the boy hadn't much time aside from those long shifts, and those he did were accounted for in days advance.

The dregs dribbled from a crease in a paper cup.

That rare silence only seen in times of death. It was all. He said it didn't matter much anymore, regarding that all would die alone. He said, "When the time comes, you'd better be your own."

A Real Why

She leaves them
all the same
Bleedin' heart;
an apology
I'd tell her now,
if I possessed the sway
a blink or bat of an eye
(that wincing smile),
she knows the one,
it's no response for
a thousand yard stare
And she can't even offer
a real why

The Mud

Sometimes it was just
the mud that called him
He knew it held meaning
but he didn't dare touch it
for it was something sacred
It was unspoken,
obviously explicable,
but without explanation
It didn't need one
It just was
So he wallowed

He's Forgotten/Doesn't Know/Doesn't Care

When he speaks of her
there is no mercy or pity
It's scorn, but I see there
a slight wincing in his eyes
as if inhalation reminds him
of old wounds she gave
His remarks flow quickly
without consideration
He leaves no indication
that he knows they'd offend
But he's forgotten
that her broken body
has laid waste to her mind
Cleansing her of humanity,
of reasoning, or logic
And instead, he tells himself
the fault is hers alone,
because that gift he gave me,
that stoic righteousness,
that self-damaging pride,
tells him to deny his failures
But he doesn't know
about her limitations,
her stunting conditions,
because she still cares
and wouldn't mention them
For fear they'd annoy him
and she wants none of it
She wishes him and his well,
hoping he'll take care
of himself and get healthy
Loving his children
as much as her own
But he doesn't care
and he'll be sorry
when He claims her

Ann Druyan on her husband's death...

“When my husband died, because he was so famous & known for not being a believer, many people would come up to me — it still sometimes happens — & ask me if Carl changed at the end & converted to a belief in an afterlife. They also frequently ask me if I think I will see him again. Carl faced his death with unflagging courage & never sought refuge in illusions. The tragedy was that we knew we would never see each other again. I don’t ever expect to be reunited with Carl. But, the great thing is that when we were together, for nearly twenty years, we lived with a vivid appreciation of how brief & precious life is. We never trivialized the meaning of death by pretending it was anything other than a final parting. Every single moment that we were alive & we were together was miraculous — not miraculous in the sense of inexplicable or supernatural. We knew we were beneficiaries of chance… That pure chance could be so generous & so kind… That we could find each other, as Carl wrote so beautifully in Cosmos, you know, in the vastness of space & the immensity of time… That we could be together for twenty years. That is something which sustains me & it’s much more meaningful…

The way he treated me & the way I treated him, the way we took care of each other & our family, while he lived. That is so much more important than the idea I will see him someday. I don’t think I’ll ever see Carl again. But I saw him. We saw each other. We found each other in the cosmos, and that was wonderful.“

-Ann Druyan

Belly of the Beast

The room itself was alive last night,
the music made an organism of it
Inhaling the energy of the occupants,
and bellowing it back in exhalation,
leaving them breathless and gasping

Smiling, reaching, stomping for life,
and linking arms with new, old friends
Men and women alike, absorbed,
clapping heels upon the floorboards
Sliding upon a sea of liquored slick,
and careening like drunken tops

Blood flew harshly through
oiled veins and sweating arteries
Throats burning and stomachs
clenched in cramping agony
It wasn't enough to arrest motion,
because each of them craved it

It was the belly of the beast;
expansive bubbling to the brim

Last night, movement meant life

Songbird

Today felt the same as then,
when we held no judgements
You for me and me for you,
as when we shared the path
Strolling to the rhythm
of those cheerful chirps
But I slew that songbird
for all the lies it sang to us,
and you said it was premature
for you still believed them
It's refreshing to know
you listen to it no longer
Closed your eyes, and
ground your foot forward
And for that, today, it felt good
It felt like friendship again,
and I'm grateful