I’ve written poetry on and off over the years, but most of them have disappeared (no real loss, of course). My poems usually come from a place of intensity. That being the case, I don’t show them to many people. Still too guarded, I guess. I only have two that I’m ready to “publish” here, and you can read them below. Both are positive in their own ways, the second more obviously than the first. I’ll let you make your own judgments about them.
Desire Presses Down
I want to burn like aching iron
scalded, screaming in agonized acquiescence
I want to be a crushed sandstone
ground down to powder, shower-thirsty and waiting
I want to be hated by demons and everyone in their social network
an object of scorn formed according to its master’s mold
I want to suffer and be broken.
Is this the fallen instinct of a fallen man?
A climber questing on glass-smooth mountains
Free from finger holds and a place to plant one’s feet?
They hated you. They hate you now.
And all our desire presses down to a point that bears the weight,
and in your wrist parts bone from bone, the flower of hate.
My God, what delight!
Tumble down in the floor
roughing round little heads.
Fingers pressed into ribs
Coaxing exultant roars
from flush-faced progeny
Who is this despair?
How can I know him when
child flight ends with arms
Wrapped around my neck?