Nonsense

I am the person who writes the nonsense into life.

The flower petals crumbling into sand.
Laugh if you will.

I am the person who writes the nonsense into life.
The corners waiting to be turned
Emptying to floods.

As much as life builds itself up and lays a path,
It wants these trippings.

It is not death, this nonsense.

These places where I fall down, fall into the flood, the flower fades from blue to purple bruised and crumbles into sand.
Where it all falls out beneath my feet.

You are longing for a story, Terrence.

But I am the person writes the nonsense into life.

The hard work of not falling asleep when you want to, when the moon falls through the window and glides down the wall.

Do you know, Terrence, the way to fall asleep then,
During the long night?

Do you still want a story, Terrence?

There is no heart of the matter.
No long, fated path.
No distant mountain we move toward.
No white peak to conquer.
No story that is anything but nonsense.

I am the person who writes the nonsense into life.

Does death even finish it?

Tell me, Terrence,
Do you know anyone who is dead who has seen the puzzle put together?

Try this, Terrence.
Try writing the nonsense into your own life.

You may find that you already have.

Tell me about the clouds that you watched
From the roof as it rained.
Your wet shirt.
The squelching of your shoes coming back
Down the stairs.

How you knew the ending.
How you knew the empty apartment you came down to.
How you sat in your wet clothes
And wrote the nonsense
Into the empty room.

– Copyright Kay Winter

Advertisements

May

A story on a blank page
one page as blank as the last.
A few words only,
“last night the lights”
and a sketch of a bridge.

Skip the usual turn
and travel into the darkness
one darkness as dark as the last.
A few stars only
above the treeline.

Keep to the the right of the cemetery
until you find the bridge
where the sun will rise
in May over the lilacs
and the pale new leaves
of the willow
are green and bending.

Copyright Kay Winter

We Weep in the Darkness

We weep in the darkness
Believing in our aloneness
We feel the pull
The call
To the dark
Not knowing
The light is just underneath
Also
Beaconing to us
Waiting to embrace us
To brush away our tears
To let us know
We aren’t alone
Asking us
To open our eyes
And see
See the beauty that lies in our heart
Even if it seems so broken
So unfixable
There is beauty still
There is love
There is joy
No matter how torn
No matter how shattered it may seem
The light
The love
Are always there

Copyright Don MacLeod

Over and Over

I write the same two poems

 

over and over.

 

One is called

 

“I’m in Love.”

 

The other is called

 

“I Hate Myself.”

 

They take turns,

 

rotate,

 

in my head and heart,

 

by the season,

 

or the weekend,

 

or from one moment

 

to the next.

 

Sunrise.

 

Sunset.

 

I’m sick of myself

 

and

 

I love you.

Lucky

It eats me up from the inside out.

It burns a hole in my stomach and

 

leaks poison into my bloodstream.

It boils and distills in my brain,

 

becomes a potent and powerful wave.

It absorbs the good energy and

 

burns it black,

a big bang in my heart.

 

Do you have one of these?

Doesn’t everyone?

In the Mirror

In the mirror I see a man
I ask who is this man
But I know
I know this man very well
But I don’t
He is new to me
As he is every day
He changes
He never is the same
New thoughts change him
Old thoughts leave him
And change him
His heart is broken one day
And full the next
Or broken one hour
And full the next
There is always joy
Always
A freedom I don’t see very often
I like this person
And I feel for him as well
Love has not escaped him
It’s there in his face
Laughter has also been a good friend
It too sits there
I never know who I will see
When I look in the mirror

copyright Don MacLeod

The End of the World

Today feels like the end of the world, so

I’m pretending that I’m high.

It’s easier that way.

I refuse reality. I will not play along.

 

The boulevard is smeared with piles of Oreo ice cream.

A river flows on the edge of the street and

10 year old boys race popsicle sticks.

My dad’s truck splashes by, almost hits us.

 

My dad doesn’t wave because

there’s work to be done.

There’s always something to do,

even while the world is dying.