poem: A Dull Knife

I am profoundly sad today.

   Shadows grew longer, overnight

and the odor of autumn

  can be discerned in the final

glowing embers of summer's inferno.

  The house, it seems

already smells of winter-

   stale rooms and stagnant air

heavy with pernicious glances

   as we stalk each other like cats

through spaces inhabited

       by dreams of commonality,

now worn common by familiarity.

 

And I cry, seemingly, for all things today.

   The grief of unwed turtles

preparing for hibernation, I own.

   Plus the tears of plovers

 adding salt to the ocean, as the birds

   set their gaze on eroding shorelines

south.

 

Chief Joseph said, "My heart is sick and sad"

   and I know what he meant.

Each measured breath only reminds me

       I am closer to my last.

  I ponder old people lost in their minds

         and children with no futures;

and I think my nation has decided, we no longer

  will stand to be counted.

 I think...

     ...maybe it is more than one summer

that is dying.

 

I have been told,

    some tears are prayers.

But I no longer feel the presence

of anything but my own thoughts

    in mine.

How does one return to the sacred?

 

I long to split this skin open

      with my own hand,

to escape its smothering confines

    to become larger than my limitation

more than my Self

      Live three times at once,

blaze my comet across this world's sky.

    I would catalog dreams in ounces

if I thought the process had merit;

 but this knife appears too dull for cutting-

       my words are too short

to reach an audience,

       and they die lonely deaths each day;

like this summer coming to close.

 

I can see this desire's demise

    in each crumbling road repaired

a little less each year,

    and in every wise elderly matron

      left by neighbors

to wither away in the loneliness

   of the obsolete,

  her pleas for a single listener

patted away by gentle but firm hands

   "there there- just drink your tea,

           we'll come back tomorrow."

 

And when I am honest

   while counting heartbeats,

in the still terror of the night

     the decayed sickly sweet

      smell of uselessness

is the scent on the winter breeze,

            and it scares me

     into sadness.

  

      

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[Mark]

Having read all four elements of this series, am now sitting here slackjawed, trying to process the depth of the sorrow-blended-with-hope, the lostness-frosted-with-inspiration, which you have had pushed remorselessly out of your self in them. Cannot even process the emotions flowing over and through me just now. You Rock, Rachael...

[Poetic Beauty]

This was done with great care. I always been come sad when the summer starts to come to a close. Winter reminds me of death with all the green gone and the white snow covering every thing. You have made clear strong statements in this poem that go beyond a summer end and you held my attention completely. Deep thoughts and emotions poured into each line.

[Larry Dyson]

do not confuse a time of healing for a time of uselessness...both are required to hone your blade to the cutters edge...the final strokes made by a rock hard quary stone and strength of muscle.the question of returning to the sacred is answered already by the asking of the question...follow your heart motive.

[Ed Hart]

if it had to be said, i don't think it could have been better said...this is beautifully written

[emmajoy]

Tragically brilliant from start to finish, so many phrases exposed by meaning, by heart .. a series of troubled thoughts, taut emotions .. a lack of direction, too much of the past. If i read the poet's words again, would it help to dilute some of the underlying loneliness, the apparent hopeliness?