Notes of the Day XI-XV [Poetry]

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XI. The little boy in the shark fin hat Stalks through the shelves at the library Hunting for stories instead of minnows And gulping down trivia whole. XII. Tamara cries when you bring her a brownie, A corner piece, just like she likes them, Because she thought nobody ever noticed. XIII. The old man at the copy machine Bellows and curses the staff as incompetent. He just doesn’t want to say He’s alone in world that’s no longer his own. XIV. People are scared of beauty Because it means God is real. So they ignore the flute player in the more »

The Halls of the Wind [poetry]

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I see you in the sunlight laughing behind the leaves casting everything golden. I see you in the color of the sky in the early October morning; pale, crisp, bespeaking wind and distant storms above blazing trees. I hear you in the river and the laughter of strangers. My eyes search the crowd but never find your face. My hand reaches through the darkness, but never finds yours. It is like you stand always behind me, just out of sight and reach. I can feel your eyes on my back, but when I turn, you turn keeping always out of more »

Notes of the Day VI-X [Poetry]

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VI. What do we do with an entire life? What a vast ocean of time In which to do nothing. And what a glorious revelation To know that nothing is at the core Of all our ambitions. VII. The voice of God Is in the creaking wicker Of a porch swing swaying in the wind With no one sitting on it. Is there anything more inviting? Is there anything more lonely? VIII. The raindrops play on my window pane And gossip about the old days. One was a river, another the sea, And one once played as a tear. IX. more »

Notes of the Day I-V [poetry]

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[Notes of the Day are short poems or a few poetic lines, kept together in a single ongoing poetry document.] I. The most real things are the most unseen, they swirl and eddy in little small laughs, for anyone who has seen leaves swirl in a courtyard will never say the wind is not real. II. The leaves are green again. Funny how, in winter, one forgets what the color green looks like, and in the summer, the skeletal silhouettes of nude branches are nothing but fading dreams. III. Day by day, the sunflower sprouts, and turns toward the sun more »

Sunday [poem]

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We walked among the trees together, hand in hand, in slow synchronized steps. The trunks rose like columns in some ancient temple and the leaves glittered and shone with gilded edges. These are your trees, and you know them as well as your own children. You know the paths among them well enough to walk them blind, and no matter how far we wander, I never fear getting lost as long as you keep my hand. We walk along the riverbank, and swirl our bare feet in the clear water; it rushes over our skin like cold satin. You settle more »

How to Read a Story [poem]

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A response to English 295: Intro to Literary Theory A story isn’t meant to be taken out of its comfortable pages and reprinted a hundred times on clinical white paper. A story isn’t meant to be captured, beaten and pinned down to a desk with pens and cut open with the razors of analysis. You cannot slice it apart and rifle through its entrails and syntax and hope to cut the heart out of it. You can, I suppose, do these things, if your goal is to kill a story, for nothing kills a story like a magnifying glass and more »

A Message to Follow the Sun [poem]

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Tell me, love, where does the sun go when it’s dark? Does it go into the sea, where all the lost embittered tears have taken rest? Does it go beyond the veil of life and death, perchance to shine upon the dead while all the living sleep? If I could chase that drop of light over the edge of the world what would I find? Would there be trees, rivers and grass? Butterflies and sunflowers? Another world beyond my own, that knows no time or pain? Who would await me on that shore? Would it be you, love? Is that more »