A Poet

We lead our lives, and when they end, sometimes we leave a little of ourselves behind. Sometimes we leave money, a painting, sometimes we leave a kind word. And sometimes, we leave an empty space.

Dead Like Me, Pilot

you speak

of a tree that

you saw in a dream and

wept as you slept with

the wind, awoke

feeling feeble, a pen in your

hand, thread and needle and

so you begin

you left

justify just to write

righteous lies and

concisely but falsely confide

in words you have wrung from

the silk you just hung from

the clothesline that hums

as it dries

a taste of

the tongue, or

some blood from the pen that

will run like a headless

hen, the twist of its neck and

the pop of its head hits

the dirt through a

thread-less hem

you bury it there with a

bow in its hair or

some feathers or

cotton or

wool

and out sprouts a tree that

reaches for me as

I gather the leaves

that will fall

and place them in pages

of books so

outrageous, en-

slave us

in cages and chains

the words that come out bring

rain to the drought in

the roots that pump blood

through my veins

and the children will

dance in the grass at

my grave, digging

up dirt as they grow

but will they believe that

the             that I leave is

anything more than a hole?

Reviews

[victoria]

oh my a stunning poem, I love the rhyme and rhythm...all of it eloquent and exquisite, thank you for commenting on my poem which then brought me here.

[Jasmine]

I loved reading and picking up on the internal sounds in the poem - "wept as you/ slept with/ the wind, awoke"
You've combined a "modern", seemingly free form of poetry with a nursery-like, traditional rhythm. I could almost chant the poem. Having said that, I do think the flow of the last three verses is more fluid than the first three - they feel slightly jolting.
This is a great poem. I hope one day to pick up a little of your structure.

[Elizabeth]

Off the bat... Dead like me. LOVE.
Moving on-

This dances in a way. Not unlike the way light dances.
The entire third stanza is a world unto itself. I read it over and over because I just wanted to absorb it all...

And the last bit is tender and wretched and clever.
I have done that, I think, in graveyards.

The lack of punctuation is everything.

I think I'm obsessed.

[Emily B]

fierce