Saturday, June 27, 2009

Moss Rose ~ Emily Howard




Word like a poultice I put on your chest
Words like a stew you give me when I am hungry

Words like a cell that endlessly divides
Words like a membrane between us

Words like a stepping stone across the narrow river
Words like a fragile row boat in a choppy sea

Words like a wand
Words like a Swiss Army knife

Words like kites, like balloons
Words like a subtle addiction

Words like a horse riding me swiftly to your house.
Words like a train that already left the station

Words like curtains blowing
Words like ducks in a pond

Words like a Buddha statue
Words like a raspberry staining my dress

Words like high walls we cannot see over
Words like chinks between the stones

Words that I want to claim as mine
Words that don’t belong to me

Words that I want to give to you
Words that fell out of the package on the way

Words that were said long before us
Words that are artifacts in the ground

Words like a glass of cider
Words that sputter drunkenly down the street

Words like attic roofs
Words like umbrellas

Words that pick up the high winds
Words that float down like a Victorian governess

Words that hanging gardens
Words like those who have abandoned us.

Words like us
Words like us.



wood (the elder tree) ~ mark cobley



hawthorn



a craving for nicotine.

then the fire


the sun dawns when sleep is impossible.


they come back

not holding hands or in groups

but every way you turn your head

they are beneath your eyelids like heartbeats.

Thursday, June 25, 2009

the elder tree

Friday, June 19, 2009

Vanish ~ Emily Howard



Some of us were given away at birth

To satisfy our mother’s cravings

And we know it even if we remain at home

Throwing chicken bones in the attic

and casting fortunes until childhood passes


These days, most days I just wait

for night and the glow of electronics

love is banter from light boxes

I wonder if I have only written to myself

Later, I scan the evidence

Most of it disappeared.


Between he and I, we don’t know who is

Whom. Between us, we don’t know if our bodies

are text. Texting, I fall away into the dark

my body a jumble of letters, a ticker tape

across Columbus Circle. a broadcast from

Rapunzel Towers in two steady beams.


Love is a radio sound

made to chase away ghosts



When we turn it off we are startled at the relief.

Quiet, followed by a very bearable loneliness

Tomorrow we will want its static again


Tomorrow, he will garden rampions

I will crave their taste without knowing their taste.

Tomorrow, my mother will call

Wants to know am I coming on vacation

And did I get a haircut yet.



in the woodland they chop the trees down



I am taking away the room

the long room

when it rains

I listen to the radio.



As night progresses



it is getting dark

the woods are getting closer


bracelets

Acanthus


you just look out

from the letter box


not saying goodbye

you never said goodbye.



it wasn't even raining.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

golf

Monday, June 8, 2009

dominoes

Sunday, June 7, 2009

no subject ~ mark cobley



I will be blamed.


like the silence since you left

has grown slower.


Now i watch the doors

their changing shapes.


Watch the ash grow

clouds

listen to the church bell

in Berlin.



In winter
the bare trees
criss cross the sky.

Friday, June 5, 2009

June ~ mark cobley



to come back
cannot be done.




along the edge of the woods

It is an unusual moon

but it doesn't rain

easy the walk here

I like having this to myself

I like the breeze

foxgloves

familiarity

it is not far past

the wooden bench of a fallen tree

last years leaves left

to disappear.




Speak again soon.



Two swans
by the river banks reeds reflect


dog rose bending
as the rain falls

the traffic in the distance.




In.




In the cushions memory I like that I see you

the window steaming up here
in the kitchen by the kettle
whistling


it is true we loved
still do



not long gone

I imagine never coming home


everywhere
the long slow days touch
short nights
on the rim
in the borders

traffic and yellow cabs




columbus circle

59th St and 8th Ave.



Because you have gone too far away now



I measure


with sweet seedless black grape
rye bread

from here



the thinning river

May

sun ripening tomato. fountains, distance from monuments

the stone houses