Unfortunately, this page won’t for some reason allow formatting. Therefore, this poetry lacks not only stanzas but format (indentations and spacing — the double spacing of each line irritates me to no end). I debated whether or not to put it here because of that, and I hope that not too much is lost as you read, though form completes a poem. This poetry is not recent, but by leaving it here I hope to inspire myself to try more. I’ve never been totally comfortable with poetry but others have thought it all right. Hopefully, you feel the same.

Sour Grapes

(for Annie Dillard)

When I spoke to Annie last

my head went numb —

this is what happens

(I think)

when years of faith

melt

like wax without wicks,

a stench heavy, thick

like incense, nothing left but

ashes at my feet and

on my forehead,

gritty on my shaking fingers.

Take of this body, drink

Christ with a cork, she said;

How can you believe it’s Him

When all you taste is sour grapes?

.

Exp. 96 NOV 01

The day he said he loved me

I cried; bud passion bloomed

softly, scarlet like the peonies

I grew under the windowsill.

And though I never knew when

the flowers died, I watched his

love for me turn rancid — a

stench like forgotten butter

in a fridge of chilled memories,

where I know he kept what

poisoned me. When I expired

he cleaned it out, replaced

the old with new stock — fresh

products give him pleasure.

I watch him savour them like

a wine-taster who swirls the

liquid in his mouth then spits,

already grasping a new glass.

If he could feel me now

it would be my icy

fingers wrapped around his

kissed neck, and after I revelled

in his humiliating, undignified demise,

I would unplug his fridge and

put him in it to rot, marked forever

on his sallow forehead with

an expiry date from months before.

.

Danse Macabre

Black trees like

charred skeletons dance —

burnt marionettes

in a sinister wind that

whistles with haunting timbre

an ominous tune.

In the twilight

of black November

they wave grotesquely,

swaying trance-like,

silhouettes against a

foreboding sky smeared

with charcoal clouds.

The candle in my window

flickers; I watch, again

alone. Not a simple whisper

in my ear; it is the limbs

that rattle, clacking;

bony digits reach: hungry

sticks of skinny beggars.

Death sticks to blades

of grass like clinging

grasshoppers, seeps under

windows and oozes along walls;

thief-like clouds creep and

slither to smother the unsuspecting moon.

.

Windstorm

From the moment

I step outside

what chance have I,

meagre as I am; you

torment me into submission:

feet trip, hair flies into stinging

eyes. You beat and bend,

destroy and whip —

sometimes I awake because

you’re shrieking in my ear.

I am powerless before you —

you’ve won the battle every time —

on days like this I wait for you

to quit your manic frenzy. Then

I emerge unscathed, hair

neat, no stinging burn of red

upon my cheeks. But then I watch

beat another — like some

omnipotent god gone bad,

you are the universal bully.

.

Break

Bare feet burrow deeper

Finding cool, dark dirt,

Bringing momentary relief from

Dry, dusty earth in soiled socks.

Sweat beads and trickles,

Tickling; a damp stained shirt

Swipes the grime, thick

And salty on parched lips.

Raw blisters burn on tender

Weary hands that clutch

The smooth wood of the hoe;

My fingers ache to straighten.

Insects drone and buzz;

No trees for miles, it seems,

And the outhouse is way

At the end of my row.

I lean, wilting, toilworn,

Back aching, to cry in the

Middle of nowhere, somewhere

In the stench of tomatoes.