Tag Archives: nature

~wingspan

there are birds inside the wall

listen
to the rhythm of feathers flapping
like rumors of small hollow bodies
and their desperate chirping need
to be free

I can’t unbutton the drywall
or paint it a bold color of
escape

but I try to explain that I’m
addicted to a certain kind of
sad
and maybe we all hide behind
the same corner

if this were elsewhere
a different canvas, a different life
we could fly together
experience the rain
and become intimate with
the outside storm

as if there never was a wall
after all

lah  6.18.12 ©®

~secondhand

i.
once we were a melody

a slow string of harmonic words
abundant sentences
like flowers in spring

our syllables moved wind
to wheat

ii.
mathematically, forgiveness is
a top-heavy relationship
fraction

and in the sum of reduction
one becomes whole
while the other, a remainder

iii.
I have assumed the shape of water
of air

in a cloud
or a balloon

I must be poetry
I am fluid

the slow blue leak of
sky or sea or hope

I believe it’s a sign
maybe a malignancy
a cancer

iv.
heavy is this lifetime that
rains snow
each day colder than the last
but predictable
the way it falls with certainty
and purpose

and I feel compelled
to cut up the whiteness
like cocaine
and fill sinuses with misery
or all the color of pocket-stains

v.
and then
yellow streamed through my window
slanted, sideways

but I am disabled

numb and broken-winged
before the open sun

lah  6.15.12 ©®

~comely

listen to quiet roots
unfold
a forest in my hair
the thin bones of thickets
& stars pulsing against
my skin
I’m becoming night

~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 ©

~observations on similarities

there is symbolism
in unspoken words
an assonance in
a crow’s cries
& the winter wind
lah 4.24.16 ©®

~cherry picking

forget the sun
she wants storms
a wild urge to thunder
the season
to straddle the roots
as sky-sweat pierces the naked
slimleaf spreads wetness
penetrates pink petals
inch by inch
embrace this ache, the slow deflowering
heavy air pants like breath
thrusts
until it bursts in sharp release
coming in the garden
an unshy butterfly & her torn wings
a shuddering wind
moving through her

lah. 5.25.16 ©®

~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.

~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.

~the change

late september

and the thicker wind

beckons

an impatient narrative of blackbirds

is angered

angled against an earl grey sky

clouds steeping in the wait

her field has grown

paler

relieved of its bearing

barnwalls weakened where

the hen no longer lays

and a same forgetful sun sets

farther south

flushed over long sentences of spruce

pine cones mature

quickening the calendar

perhaps the resting canada geese

observe how half a century

seasons

a wrinkled reflection

prepares for the coming fall

7.17.15

By Lori Hamilton, © 2015, All rights reserved.