Tag Archives: goodbyes

~unremembering

this you should know

 

it’s almost march
& I’m becoming bluer

 

as restless as a verb
forgotten by the wind
too sacred for
the telling

 

how little I remember
of months with no corners

 

the similarities of secondhand
smoke
& shadows sewn
into scars

 

this naked wreckage

 

my eyes, full of water
full of ink

 

 

lah 2.20.17 ©®

~caliginous

night is never
dark enough
to hide the ghost
we know must
be our breath
or the footsteps
of the ghost
we know must
live here carved
out of water
spilling from
our hearts
night is only
the gossip of
hollow bones
the gossip of
ghosts that
become the body
bent in prayer
bent in sin
much farther
than close
waiting for
small deaths
of small moments
night is never
dark enough
to listen to
our own echoes
the thinning
of a voice
like the whisper
that follows a
shadow or the
vowels lost in
a forgotten sky
half-uttered
suspended in ink

lah 2.15.17 ©®

~rote

it’s winter & the night smells of smoke
& ache

I’m alone
in a house full of black ink
a thousand miles from here

searching for something that belonged to you
older than an apology
something quiet
like the cadence in caesuras of
february’s shifting snow

as white as an empty page

it’s always winter & I am not this

when I measure the sound of clouds
moving their darkness like yesterday’s words
& when I measure the thickening air
between us by months
by my shadow’s long bones
sleeping in a bed of separation

it’s the same way I assemble assonance
in a small room with small walls
as it calls out metaphors
until it echoes in my ribs, ghosting
my voice

it’s still winter & I remember forgetting

I’m growing older
colder between these sheets
writing you in this poem I pretend to be
& trying to name this grief
lah 2.11.17 ©

~likewise

this might be yesterday, or tomorrow, the same
wind rustles corn, row on row, the same search
for faltering light, threaded loosely like ribbons of former clouds, like palsied wingbeats of my own breathing, mourning stands the lonely tree
By Lori Hamilton, © 2015, All rights reserved.

~recollections

black fades from its own fullness

extinguishes the nightlight
undressing trees from their
truest colors

stars are orphaned by
the wakening day
cloudbanks break for
a larger sun

notice as an aged fall flower
straightens her crooked spine
startles the grazing white-tailed deer
to run with the wildwater

it seems the air is colder here
just before the light
as if the warmth was somehow
left behind
a dozen years long

forgotten to the fields
like the secret language of butterflies
By Lori Hamilton, © 2015, All rights reserved.

~understanding the ramifications of indiscretion

x.
sometimes everything is missing
something
xx.
perhaps night is weak

always falling

even the moon slides away to
soft edges of darkness
xxx.
in the cold awakening
another tired day scatters sunlight
on the susquehanna

old river, relaxed
against colloquial curves

a peculiar musky scent slips the water
unaware

a red-tailed hawk in flight
talons tear through the blue
iv.
sometimes anything is something
v.
the soul is fashioned from
versed incantations
and dots of color
deeper than the self

a simile of purge and cleanse
like benediction after sin
vi.
an aging ash outgrows its roots
what was will cease to be
this slow demise of fading leaves
the consequences to the tree
vii.
sometimes something that’s everything
is nothing at all
By Lori Hamilton, © 2015, All rights reserved.

~lesser than

half-moon belly
slight curve
ceased

like lost night
to mourning’s bright
light

churchdoves flew
the steeple
this ninth day
of august

your body
gone from me

tiny wings flutter
aloft

slow hours
blue a dying field

a solitary pilgrimage
follows the holy fog

nearer the breath of god

RIP JonThomas
By Lori Hamilton, © 2015, All rights reserved.

~notes on writing parables

late july is familiar and two dozen months
have scurried on the way seasons do
changing as they stay the same

caught in this motionless moment
this pause of mourning
pinned between blue heavens
and blessed waking
still life lingers in summery light
like bits of quiet conversation
or a brief blossoming peony

a bird in flight

waiting to be captured and kept

held as memories that have not died but
become buried in graves of metaphors
to grow words from seedtime to harvest

but in this long blooming sentence
of grief

only verbs have adjusted to
the past tense
By Lori Hamilton, © 2015, All rights reserved.

~umbrage

she can’t recall the waiting
or the lengthening sky
her sorrow drapes awkwardly
from three corners of a quiet moment

the ghostly ache of a stradavarius
keeps time with turbulence
couples the sounding ruins
like a narrative of vultures
burning sermons to lesser bodies

her crops die in the fields
withered roots reject the grounding

and from the darkening comes
an assemblage of words she hasn’t
written yet

a poem untold
half-remembered

lah  7.11.15

~one

what i know of time, i learned from
you

perhaps winter has
too many midnights
darkness is complicated, always but
inches away
the clockface, a blank page

after a dozen decembers, the earth still
tilts
and even in the soft grey snow
the sun is too warm

home is just walls, holding back
the cold

lah  7.10.15