Words come back around

This was written by my friend Sara; it’s so good, I’m re-posting it here:
When I Find the One that Likes Me Too

Instead of hours, on and on,
over pints, or through the park
about my Past,
I’ll take you to SkateLand, where we will couple’s skate,
skirting the fallen, popular tweens, one standing, the other,
a half-circle Sit-N-Spin on the seat of jeans

We will go to the Air and Space Museum
to pulverize astronaut ice cream like florist-foam, brown
and pink. There, a shy girl-nerd studies the suspended
Cold War jet, the IMAX marquee, various capsules,
diesel Blue Birds idling in line,
vehemently ignored,
by nerdy, high-school boys

We’ll go to a symphony at a conservative religious university
and hold hands. No longer library staff, I will
not police the stacks for stolen kisses.
We’ll instead pretend to look up Ezra Pound and,
between the shelves, I’ll take your lapels,
a mix of permission-asking and desire,
and kiss you, there, myself

Sit on the couch,
at dark 5-o’-clock while I write
and the dim light shows up ghosts. You
won’t see them, but you’ll believe, for me,
and I won’t be afraid, with you.
And that’s all you’ll need to know.


Whose hands are touching
By the sea
Among the holiday crowd?
A woman points
Toward the girls in strange dress,
Their heads covered.
Her children look on.
I wonder what she tells them;
What observation
She makes.
She’s not close enough
To see the graceful touch
Of hands.
Two Moslem girls
Sitting placid on the sand;
Their heads bowed
In silent meditation.
What is next for them?
All the holiday people
And the girls in hijab
Return home
With the same taste of
Sea air upon
Their lips.

A Nation Dreamless Sleeping II


Dreaming everyday dreams—

Lost in mental alcoves,

Never shared never spoken

Never rising beyond orthodox sleep.


Many multitudes of memories intertwined

Like wind whistling between buildings. 

Something moving Chills the skin 

But indistinct; en mass and lacking the distinction

Altogether felt. 

Dreamers dreaming together 

The blunt force of silence 

Like the buzz behind background speech 

Felt among the masses. 

Their thoughts are thinking—though not 

Specific dreams 

Recalling the missed, the gained, the 

Hoped for, the ironic, compassion. 

Consider those dreams 

Among children who play and run from fears while so many multitudes

Of dreamers dreaming everyday thoughts together 

Seek imaginary hope. Dreamless sleeping. 

Or waking 

Only to remember nothing of dreams or hope 

Or even proper excitement or alarm. 

Waking only to the taste of a dry mouth and the bothersome

Trouble of another day to trudge through. 

Won’t we begin beholding 

Every dreamer’s spirit accompanying us? 

Or have we forgotten how to catch even that little breath 

Of the massed winds about us? 

Hope, let’s say. 

Not dreams while sleeping, but 

Dreams where each of us stand at any fateful moment 

Dreams in the romantic, hopeful sense. 

What if dreamers cease dreaming? 

What is the price to pay for wholesale silence? 

One nation, under 

God Dreamless Asleep— 

Set us alight 

Who dare to wake 

Dreamless dreamers,

Shaken—slumbering without dreams

And remind the waking

When the sleeper’s voice returns.

Locust Voices

Ten thousand thousand Locust voicesSing in chorus; a cathedral of trees hold
The Devout devouring.
All God’s people said, “Amen.”

Hold Light to the world,
You, the sometimes darkness children, Now above the noonday sun.
All God’s people stood and said, “Amen.”

Preacher, Preacher call on me.
My hand’s up high; can’t you see?
This heart inside—a
Mark of pain.
Will it ever reach back up again?
All God’s people stood, shook off dust, and said, “Amen.”

Speckeled daisy-dresses ladies fan themselves
Remember what breath this world has to
Offer—and, dasies,
It is wilting—nothing.
All God’s people stood, shook off dust, clasped their hands and said “Amen.”

Sinner, Sister don’t you know
Where the sinnin’ spirits go?
Now heads all bowed—eyes all close
Tis’ not the time for time to wait,
It’s time for fear and a time for faith.
All God’s people stood, shook off dust, clasped hands, bowed heads, and said, “Amen.”

All God’s people waited
While dinner finished cooking.
Ten thousand thousand Locust voices
Sing in chorus; a cathedral of trees hold
The Devout
Devouring voices in a service—outside
The church.
Sunday dinners
Rarely burn.


Noise, Noise, Noise, Noise.I am kept awake tonight.
Outside my open door
The inconsiderate television flares.
Its jitter crawling shadow slithers across the wall
Like a drive-in B-movie
Escaping its abandoned theater.

This society isn’t going to make it, is it?
The reservoir of our culture
Will only hold so much stagnant water
Before it overflows
Or bursts.

The commentator speaks.
He’s holding his microphone too close.
His voice, distorted and breathy.
A group of women argue with him,
Or, at least those sound like angry voices.
“I’ll give five thousand dollars to the first
one of you to take her clothes off right here.”
Five thousand dollars.
Are the women angry over the paltry amount
Or might each know what an abuse of chastity
Such questions are?

Drip, Drip, Drip, Drip.
Flit, Flit, Flit, Flit, flipping through the cable channels
Tributary to the pool of America.
Where does my America drink tonight?
Silver rivulets of blue electric water
That burn the soul and scorch a quenched thirst.
The public service is poisoned.
What treatment can squelch out
The runoff?

The newsman said today
That missiles may protect us from missiles.
Will missiles make the madmen go away?
Mankind makes mad men masters of misery.
Are we protected for the sake of hot dogs and barbecue?
For the sake of public supply,
Please pass the mustard gas.

The television man went away.
Popular culture has quit my home.
I turned on light and darkness fled.
There is a drug now for people who
Fear public places.
Is there no drug for those addicted to the noise?

I am half awake now.
The sudden flicker of society disturbed my sleep.
How many are half sleeping?
Of what do dreams consist?
Perhaps I should awaken more; this
Pool is going to overflow, isn’t it?
I can feel the cold pressure building
From deep below.
Water returns to its source.
Tune in next week.
It’s going to break out soon
Flood all the rivers in Hell.

Many Months, Many Promises Later

I do not know and am afraid. So many words—So many words spoken or left silent
for never speaking
or speaking at the missing time always the wrong time that lingers.
We sometimes hear ourselves speaking what we wish Without first consulting reality Or speaking what we would want as truth
Without first consulting God—We speak rashly.

...Time and Light Both constant—Time fades Beyond the use of Vision Though I remember–years And cherish the event of memory Though some keep little Joy—
We sometimes cherish pain— By Pain living comes. And by Pain, Too often, my words come to living.
I would not have it so Would share joyful words But something negates And many months, many Promises Constant constant fade fading What if light and time had fallen–there?

Circles and Synthesis

Sometimes,When many words seem to roll around the brink
And one wonders which will fall out and be lost—
Which will tip inside and kept as treasure,
I’m afraid to push upon the words
They may crush themselves
Or burden the Spirit of another and my own.
Words and hot tea,
Either given or taken in a rush may burn
To burn away some of taste forever.
There is more to singing than our voices
And more to knowing than our words
And more to love than touch.
I should pause to listen
While smaller voices whisper still.
Few know how to touch anymore.

Dream well—
Few know how
To Dream
Or fear
To Dream
Or listen
Or touch
Or Love.

With Some Pretense

The Poet Has only room for speaking
In the interlude between Words. Poets are often quiet—when
Silent Speaking sounds above Words that cannot bear
Sentiment is more than speaking. Love is beyond expression of Emotion. After sounds A poet is mute—though His voice may deafen And his whispers move The Spirit—