Archive for November, 1992

Bishop Speaks Only in Riddles

Posted: November 30, 1992 in Poetry
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What secrets do I have hid up my sleeve
For careless players thinking it’s a game?
I warn them that it’s easy not to grieve
When their persona is alive and sane.
Nightmare of sewers made of rotting flesh,
The ever present threat: Nathaniel’s ghouls;
These horrors from the past, they still impress,
But blind the future to these witless fools.
Your characters will come and go my dears;
They never perish like the one before.
Just tally up your growing list of fears;
The ones that really scare you to the core.
And every time you think the story ends,
I’ll introduce one more of many friends.

Eagle Feathers

Posted: November 27, 1992 in Poetry
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from my hair flutter many eagle feathers,
tied to the dark ends of curls,
framing my face in the chill wind
which flies over flat expanses:
the seas and the prairies.
it is this wind which cloaks
my feathered brothers and sisters
while they hunt with their keen eyes.
in these skies, dusted with clouds,
runs the horse of my spirit
and my name, glancing from
one end of the world to the other.
these eagle feathers tug at my hair
in the wind to tell me: fly! fly!

An Imaginary Forest

Posted: November 27, 1992 in Poetry
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in the yard of my childhood
stand trees that are no longer there,
they made way for a deck and some stairs.
these trees are ghosts of the wood
that supported the planks
high up in the air,
where Mom would be scared
for me, as well she should
have been. I imagined tanks
and other dangerous things:
Sauron after my candy ring,
and my happiness was my thanks
for being the young king
of a forest of trees bent with caring.

I
my knife is bone.
I break in half
my knife of bone.
each half I place
into my mouth;
they’re just like fangs
with which I have
become a wolf.

II
to a weeping spirit woman
saddened by the sky,
I make you cut your hand
and then you break your knife.

III
mother wolf.

The Maker of Myths

Posted: November 26, 1992 in Poetry
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“Had he no staff? Then with a dream-thread he held
the illusion. Breathing, he held it; the void, the illusion,
and felt for its earth. There was nothing to feel:
‘I shall gather the void’. He felt, but there was nothing.”
-Uitoto Indian Myth from The Red Swan

He had questions, and thoughts
About feeling nothing but the void,
Wishing for earth to stand on;
Dreaming of thread to hold the illusions
Of nothing, of the void.

Weave the earth from dream-thread
And the illusion of the void.
Where there was nothing,
There is now earth.
Gather the void into itself,
Into the crook of your arm,
Into the fold of your dress,
Also made of dream-thread.
All of you, made of earth.

“Now in the underworld, thinking and thinking,
the maker of myths permitted this story to come into being.”

Untitled Poem #137

Posted: November 25, 1992 in Poetry
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I want to write you
with my soul;
like a piece of bread
soaked in wine;
to stroke each word
like painting a lover,
then stand from the canvas
and murder myself
for ink.

Scarecrow

Posted: November 20, 1992 in Poetry
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I
to look at you as a scarecrow
doesn’t work; you don’t scare me
like that.
my heavy heart just tends to grow
heavier; strength starts to tear me
apart.

II
you are a singular flame
that sears me awake
from a comfortable death
of being a man with no name.
I need you to love me somewhat;
you must speak your mind
thinking through every breath,
knowing exactly where to cut.

III
this is for no one else but you,
but don’t think you’re not the one.
this could mean any number of things.