Thursday, July 17, 2008

a few more


Who will sing what must be sung
in plain speech? Antiope is dead—
Molpadia’s arrow thudded through
her body— so she exited the embrace
of Theseus, whose face froze, centaur-like,
to marble-carved disbelief,

despair. Do you know what you were
saving her from, Molpadia?
Do you know how we will save
ourselves, now, with nothing to fight for?


All of the answers are sleeping today,
making it the perfect weather to ask why
to these unbearable becauses. Come rain,
erase us, come thunder, make our voices again
useless. Night, come back
quickly, hide us from our bodies,
cover everything that is missing.

The cloth of the sky has been twisted
and twisted, wrung, pulled taut
against itself, by hands whose thoughts
are elsewhere. No rain comes.

Hippolyta (sleeping)

She haunts. Could it be only gods
are allowed to happen once, then rest? Apart
from us, a part
of us, apart, and unconfessed.

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

four and twenty

Hi All,

I've been off the gooseberry map for a long time. I was reading all the old post a couple weeks ago and saw the one about Four and Twenty. I submitted a little scrap of a poem and found out today that they accepted it. I wanted to share it, even though it's not my favorite. Hope you're all doing well, I've really enjoyed reading all the posts, despite my silence.


When the Bass Player Dreams of Playing the Bass

Fingers find flesh in exchange for strings,
And blink out night-hidden rhythms.

Monday, July 7, 2008



I dreamt waterbirds and windstorms—
shriek, roar, the image of the world
dismantling itself before our eyes.

Then, alone, I watched my fingertips
fly off as moths, and I fell back into
the nothing that was left of everything.

My body gone, I felt a rising
from within, unalone, we rose
as a great wave to crest but never
crash, never scatter because
there is nothing left to fall against.