Thursday, August 11, 2016

Gros Morne

I don't want to leave

This place

Is too beautiful
To put into words

And I am afraid
I will forget this beauty
And how it makes me feel

I am in love and terrified

If I drop, there is nothing to catch me
And yet, a part of me wants to
Cascade down like the falls
There is a lake beneath
I would be at home
Just another ring on a tree trunk

Mountains are the measure of the Earth's age
And these ones are ancient
They are the roots of the previous epoch's Himalayas

I am at one of the world's oldest graveyards
And all around me is a wedding of life

Thursday, August 4, 2016

Daily Bread p I

Everywhere, I seek daily bread
In any moment, at any time
I look about for a taste of daily bread
In the conversations of others
In speech, and a stranger's smile
Through a woman's voice
And another's gaze
In the songs of the birds
Over the bridge on the subway
In the middle of empty streets
Along the contours of a foreign tongue
Through all the races and variations
Of the human form
Among tree tops
And the bed of stars
Through the quiet hours of the night
I seek the daily bread
In any shape or form it takes
On giant television screens
On stages
And a multitude of screens
I keep close to me
In the park, at work
In my lover's embrace
My mother's voice
Through particular arrangements of words
Amid tragedies of Greek proportions
And all the triumphs of the human soul
I seek the daily bread apportioned me

Daily Bread p II

I seek the daily bread inherent in memory
Or a recording of your voice
Or a picture of your smile

I seek the daily bread in sharing a cup of tea
Over personal stories that shrink distances
Like a phone call

I seek the daily bread
In the smile of passerby
I seek it in books, in headlines
On screens, and search bars
I seek it on the bus
In the metro
On my way home
And in your arms

I seek it in your eyes
And in your step
I seek it inside you
I seek it outside you
I seek the daily bread in fire
And surrender
I seek it beneath the moon
And over the horizon
I seek it in the stars
And bodies of water
I seek it in the arch of your calves
And in the twitch and tremble of your lips
I seek it in the skip of your pulse
And in the sudden absences of your breath

A Love Story p I

Love is the fire where bread bakes
Fire is the bread of lovers

These words cling to shadows
The fountain is dry
And the eyes don't see
What of bread? What of lovers?
Who am I to speak of faith, of fire?
What do I know of lover's bread?
I am full of wine and smoke and sweets
What does a full belly know of hunger?
Of bread burning under white phosphorus
And depleted uranium?
Of ovens that will never bake another loaf?
Of hearts that will never race again?
And eyes that will never again dance
At the sight of a loved one?

Do not ask me of love
To it, I am a stranger
I have approached the edge of its flames
And imagined the experience of burning
At its center
This imagining, I speak into words
But only fire, and burning can speak love's name