Tag Archives: observational

~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 ©®

Advertisements

~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 ©®

~knowing

hush the long
mouth
confession is
a season behind
a river of saltwater
through a still house
a fragile disarray of
veins, heavy with poetry
in a sky colored with ink
tender sways the pendulum
redivides a woman
furnishes her wind
there is no metaphor
to unravel

lah. 5.1.16 ©®

~afterword

this, I’ve learned from the quiet
from the breathing
in rooms where rain won’t reach
in a house built from sheets
of paper
a voice escapes the keyhole
& imagination follows
dismantling daylight & darkness
a calamity of strangled language
& thundering hoofbeats
stirring dust bottled in bluedark
veins
like inkstains of fine wine
if it is born of fire or water or air
it must be poetry
searching for the curve of
a listening ear

lah. 5.12.16 ©®

~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.

~I’m obliged to tell you

by definition, she is the refrain

the old soul of a poet, reborn
and reborn again

as similes spread in her half-spent light
darker grows the deathless ink
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.

~notes on the spanse of time

*

evening dims

and diminishes

as morning must

to a ripening fternoon

*

stilled above the stretching field

its tips of dancing wheat

a softened sun pauses

at the brink of a hard horizon
until night becomes itself

*

eleven minutes after eleven hours

the clockhands point mockingly
a ticking insinuation there is nothing

worth a wish
the chance of poetry

and such things

*

a reminiscent fog hangs on

mutes the abbreviated hours
chill chalks the landscape

like a quiet room
a shameless sliver of moon takes back

its indelible darkness

*

if tomorrow remains uncreated

and time forgets its blueprint
must we measure beginnings by

the anticipation of breathing?

*

in the season of dying

the locusts came