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Salt, Smoke, Water and Stone

Monthly Archives: July 2018

This day

31 Tuesday Jul 2018

Posted by feralpoet in aging, becoming, Body, community, fear, honoring, learning, Loss, nature, pain, poems, poetry, transition, work

≈ Comments Off on This day

This day he walks slowly,

approaching in nearly a shuffle.

Handing me a candy- the kind once known as penny-

saying, this aging stuff, not so easy.

I used to think, he shares with a soft shake of his head,

I could stay a perpetual teenager. But not so.

His health, not good,

the poetry, music and culture

having always fed him

no longer enough.

Or so it seems to him, on this day.

Clutching a small handled paper bag, one somehow

always carried,

he steps away, looking emptily into distance

not physically there,

leaving me with a golden,

foil covered chocolate coin never to be eaten

and an appreciation for his difficult facing

of what he long imagined

could be outrun.

Where is your Beauty?

31 Tuesday Jul 2018

Posted by feralpoet in abundance, beauty, becoming, Found, Love, mystery, poems, poetry, welcoming

≈ Comments Off on Where is your Beauty?

Where is your Beauty?

Surely not

in the new shoes, fresh haircut,

expensive manufactured perfume or

endless product

product

product

pushed, hawked, manipulated into your brain

tinkering with insecurities secret and unspoken.

Your Beauty,

your Beauty! exists. Period. No one sells it to you,

convinces you of it, holds it over you, or

wants you solely because of it-

that sort is no kin of Beauty, but mere poison.

The posh tie, synthetic cologne, hippest beard or band-

they’ll not birth Beauty either.

No mask is She. Neither bought nor sold,

She is spark, and giggle, dance step and honest stumble.

She is inspiration,

your in-spiring moment to moment.

Nurture these and Beauty rises, rises,

a river filling thirsty banks longing

to sing her praises.

Flock

26 Thursday Jul 2018

Posted by feralpoet in becoming, break out, change, community, courage, family, movement, poems, poetry, release, the road

≈ Comments Off on Flock

He

a sheep

like us all

walks, one day,

in a new direction.

Sheep don’t do that,

leave their flock.

In this he becomes a black sheep

turning away from name, money, easy street-

which isn’t so easy.

With him, now, he carries weight

of blame, criticism, and no one bothering to ask

why.

Years, many, pass.

His children grow, not knowing the stories he never told,

seeing him as just another sheep folded into the flock.

They wander for a path of their own.

One, separating from the rest, looks back

wondering

why he never asked why.

Broadness of day

26 Thursday Jul 2018

Posted by feralpoet in family, light, poems, poetry

≈ Comments Off on Broadness of day

What must she have done upon discovering

her husband’s sexuality

with their daughters?

At which point, what year, and how-

in broadness of day, in sneaking through night,

along whisper, twist, and shadow never confirming?

And complicity? Suspicion?

Imagine the toxins pumping, daily, through veins

related, betrayed, confused, abused.

Where,

its beginning.

How,

its end.

How.

Through bright sky

06 Friday Jul 2018

Posted by feralpoet in abundance, adventure, break out, change, Deliverance, discomfort, flight, home, learning, nature, poems, poetry, work

≈ Comments Off on Through bright sky

The swallow dip of joy,

swift arc and cut through bright sky,

has been on lengthy migration

to lands unnamed.

Yet the time allotted here, however long,

confined in concrete, noise, requirement and excess

may finally break me of this place.

What follows out

of the daily abrasions of adjusting

while not giving everything and nothing away

may open space enough for that swallow

to return truly

home.

Come back

05 Thursday Jul 2018

Posted by feralpoet in abundance, beauty, Body, home, movement, nature, poems, poetry, welcoming, wonder, work

≈ Comments Off on Come back

In search of meaning

but having to pay the bills.

Needing to matter,

but busy cursing the neglected dogs keeping you awake.

Reaching, yet thick in mud,

being with a sideways mess of months of days

and snarled in the wonderment of

what, in hell, this is all about…

Coming back, returning to echoes of your own one body,

again, again, again, again,

the home your fantasy conjured

minus the straightforwardness and glitter

of safe comfortable forever there

except it is precisely that in folly

and learning and diligent removal of concept

and heavy cultural residue.

This is home, your body, waiting,

waiting

for you to come back

to what is real, always with you, and still

strangely

not known.

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