Resolute

Ghosts land planes at Resolute
over and over and over again
nothing will change / ghosts land
planes at Resolute / an exercise
asks questions / the fog swirls
widdershins and congeals / asks
why / why would / why wouldn’t
the memory be as pure as ice.

The Third and Fourth Generations

There sits the vase which arrived
in a beaten trunk, now on the teak
end table, along with a photo where
the background mountains shimmer
in miraculous sunshine and the only
flying things are an arrow of geese
impaling the north. In the foreground,
a  young woman tightly grips the
handlebars of a well-worn bicycle.

The less visible mementos of
a former life are the words
and stories which repeat
and repeat, like a movie I can’t
stop watching, even though
I know that it will all end badly
again and again, a wrong note
in a long song.  And yet, mesmerized,
I watch the cobra coil, slowly
dance the air and strike.  The first
sharp taste of venom in the blood
is as comforting as a bedtime song.
I know all the words, can sing along
without a single worry or thought.

Sometimes I crave nothing but silence,
a walk along a nearly forgotten path,
where woods and meadows are quilted
to the earth and the sun hangs, 
like a diver, during that first instant
of  separation from the diving board,
frozen just before the plunge,
before every sharp perception melts
in the deepening dusk and the world
is a place that I can no longer recognize,
reborn, triumphant over memory.

Crossroads Again

There’s a road we
walk down, seems
every day, as constant
as milk being delivered
to the milk box each
morning in the suburbs
where — well it doesn’t
matter, it was childhood
and we were caterpillars
shedding skins as often
as the sun would set
on a snow-covered street.

Ages ago we were,
different.

I can’t go back to
the stalactites
hop-scotching through
all that you
walked through.

It took me years to
learn there’s a difference
between the past
and the next step down
a road, wind and rain
whistling and dancing
into a tomorrow you
never acknowledge.

A separation of goodbyes,
well met at an intersection,
don’t drag me back once
I’ve started another journey.

I can’t.

Kidjo 2

dance and sing
the clouds move in
a tree stands
still the wind seeks
redemption song trills
a bird a sky
in the seeking eye
to be yourself
and that is enough

How I Filled The Emptiness

There was never a brother
or a sister, any sound that
reached me.  The minutes
were a parade of events
marching to someone else’s
drum.  Oh, I learned the
drumbeat, it slithered out
of someone else’s past,
their memories, their
dreams.  This is my vision
against  yours.  Do you
remember what it was
like to escape?  Do you
remember the thrill
which has turned into
a recrimination when
I experience your feelings?

Tomorrow

Life is a time line.
Don’t ever think it’s
anything else.  Don’t
imagine in rainbows,
or arrivals.  Don’t
construct lasting
structures.  Don’t
expect.  The world
is a bag of experiences.
Don’t imagine.  One
minute turns into
the next.  Each breath
is a step, each event
a footnote.  Don’t
ever think.  Time is
quicksand and your
footsteps span
lily pads crossing
imagination.