Eclipse in a Dish
Poetry
Subtle Part of the Forest
In his story, My student wrote: “our parents decided to move to a more suttle part of the forest.” Yes, he misspelled the word. And he was misusing it even if he spelled it right. But I'm not taking points off. Because now I want to move To a more subtle part of the forest. A place off the path, But just off the path, A place that everyone passes But not everyone sees. A clearing bounded by pine needles and leaves. Within, giving loamy earth. The air is the mingling scents of green. Sun light rays down Defining trees Giving them their shadows. Forest dust shapes the sun shafts that shooting-star bugs plunge through.
Wires Tangle
Wires tangle Like lives Like loves. Electricity twists wires Like lies twist minds. Wires twirl into one another Like legs intertwined. Wires find each other Like the time Even on that first day You just know You'll be best friends Combined.
Autumn Glory
Leaves! I celebrate your splash of color Your delicate yellows Citrus orange Majestic Red I honor you, Because your changing hue Is the glory Of leaves dying. I will not forget your Verdant green Your spring and summer Wind dances Hushing and shushing together The brief glimpse of your Light underside. And trees I don’t blame you if You already shed your leaves. I’m tired too.
High Meadow Lane
I throw the empty drawers Onto the pile in the dumpster. I turn away from the refuse, And look up at the family home. Somehow, still, my house. With the “Sale Pending” sign in the yard. I have a key for the Realtor's lock. I enter through the back deck door Like I always did. Into the family room that I visited So many times Dad’s been gone awhile. But the ghost of his recliner Still fills its emptiness. I say hi to mom Because she’s only been gone a month. Her recliner is still there, So I can picture her better I say “Hi” again, and then I say, “But you’re not here.” I walk through the kitchen Into the dining room. We have emptied the house so totally, That the few drapes And the one cabinet hanging in its corner Glare out against blank walls I turn to the stairway. The stair treads that mom hooked With her children’s profiles on them Are still there Secured with my father’s nails. I step on the silhouettes of my siblings, Myself. Up on the landing, I lean through the door Of my sister's room. Cable cords are in a snake bundle under the windows Hemmed back by hollow space. Still my sister’s room All these years later. I turn to Still my room. It is for a little while longer. And always The persistent bed and desk Hold their space in the past. The dresser with the record player. Ghosts of my clothes sloppying the floor. For a moment I am him. Or me. The me back then. Slipping out of my sneakers Without untying them. Dreaming my way out of a hated Cage. Scribbling high school poems Laments Eulogies. Records spinning On the stereo Over and over so the grooves deepened. Typing poems, to be given to scattershot loves. Hours long phone calls with scattershot lovers. Tangling my fingers in the coiled cord. Even the great escape to college Was followed by the return at each break Head hung like a parole breaker returning to a cell. I come back to now. I shake my head. Those small turmoils Were so huge. It was hard, sure, But it was so easy. Dreams I’m still dreaming Bloomed in this room. Achievements I only glimpsed here Have been accomplished. Talking to me back then I say: “I made you proud. A lot of your dreams came true. I haven’t done all you wanted, but you know: I’m starting to believe that’s part of the point.” I’m back on the stairs Descending through emptiness. At the bottom, I cry enough to feel like I got that part done. I pause in the family room. It is already changing. Becoming not mine. Not my families. Always ours. Not yet the new families’ always. For them A space awaits.
Upstaged by figs before reading a poem
Before I start my reading the producer hands out figs.
Pays a Lot of Tension
Like a star You are distant Glistening In vast darkness. I must stand still. Look up. Gaze steadily. Impossibly try to capture seconds. But memories dim This moment’s gleaming.Continue reading
Notes on infinity
I don’t know if this is going to be a poem or article. Maybe both. I’m trying to grasp the infinite abundance of our world, our universe.
Count the pine needles
I thought of that line as I walked through the woods, looking at the yellow blanket of pine needles on the trail and under the trees. Imagine trying to count them. It made me think about the line where measurements blur into the infinite.
Look to infinity
Relentless abundance
You are standing in it
Walking on it
Throbbing with it
Infinity is the disappearing importance of measurement
Of rulers
Of defining numerals
Measure me out
a teaspoon of thyme.
But make me the same teaspoon twice
With the exact number of grains each time.
I feel like I’m capturing something that I have been after a long time. These are elusive thoughts, though, and it takes time to refine them.
Mulch
This spring I spread mulch with painterly strokes Or smeared hurriedly, abstraction in brown My canvas: Rooty humps around tree bowls Beneath blooming bush branches Along Flowering paths My palette: Earth, all the shades From mahogany to ebony. My motif: Circles and curves And deep loamy earth The contrast of browns and greens That beautifies the beautiful.
Great Pond
I am dressed for a hike in the sunlight. My gear is made for a crisp November 52 degrees. Long sleeve dry weave, Solid hiking pants.
5 minutes in it’s raining. Sure the shirt is wicking water, But it’s not made for the heavy stuff.Continue reading
Mark Bozeman 