Tag Archives: poetry

Poetry

The Apple

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Remember that apple? The one in the story? It’s not what you think it is. Some stories say that it was from the Tree of Knowledge, but that was the greatest deception of all. It was from the Tree of Belief. The sin of man was not to know more, but to abandon faith and believe that he knows more. It is to turn away from God, and believe our own truths. It’s why we make unjustifiable rules, and write Books, and start wars, and judge others, and pull triggers, and to not take responsibility that we were there pulling the trigger, too. We made it seem like a good idea.

We believe hard, because that original sin still controls us. We Believe that our religion is superior, that homosexuality is a sin, that others are dangerous, that women are inferior, that the Bible is true, that we should be in control, that violence is an answer, that guns keep us safe, that anyone deserves to die.

Today, it is hard for me to have faith that we can move past this original sin. Do you want to see the face of God or the face of Christ? Then put your Book away. Live among people who hate you and want you to die. Feed them, anyway. Give them health care, anyway. Listen to their sadness, anyway. Welcome them to your home, anyway. Accept their inheritance as children of Creation, anyway. Pray for them, anyway.

What? Don’t have the courage for that? Not what God calls you to do? Still believe in laws and rules and Books? Then maybe there’s some apple stuck in your throat.

Poetry

Air and Space

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I looked around expecting to see light,
But we were doing that dance
Where we talk about poetry,
Or at least what we believe
About the meaning of words
That we toss for fun,
But also for the blood they draw.

The glass was half empty,
But now it has evaporated,
While we argued about
Air and space,
And that thing between us
That we both asked for
But didn’t really want.

I take a sip and choke on the dry,
But I had to prove to myself
That it still tasted like a kiss you once tossed,
Instead of the words you always know
Will leave a mark,
On tender skin,
Where no one else can see.

But I do not have a blameless tongue,
For I know the taste of your tears,
Even though you think I never saw them,
Even though I think I never drew them,
But we both know
It is a daily occurrence
And I have not yet asked forgiveness.

But air and space will not protect us
Because they are not a shield
But a distance that could lose it all,
So I will lay down my darts
And offer something softer
For you to pierce
With words
or kisses.

Poetry

Summer Mist

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The summer mist pours into the valley just as the sun sets, smelling strong of the alfalfa freshly cut in the next field, paving oil, down on the route, and the last of the season’s lilac blooms from bushes that escaped my great grandmother’s garden, 50 years ago, combining so the air is thick enough I can drink it, sweet, gulp at a time, until I’m intoxicated, and floating and believing the world is alright, and buried in that is the heavy smell of you, the summer sweat in your pits that I can just track, whether it’s actually there, memory, or just a hope, so I follow the trail down to the shed in the back of your house, where you lie underneath the truck again using baling wire to hold the exhaust into the muffler, even though this hasn’t worked the last three times, but it’s fascinating because you’re so much smarter than that, you keep doing the same thing even though it doesn’t work, just as I am, approaching you in this state of desire and inebriation, and we both know your handiwork will unravel in a matter of a few days, once you’re on those rough road from your house to mine, just as I know my work this evening will unravel in seconds before you even become aware it happened.
You always get aroused when you work on your car, and while you’re under, I see only your lower half, with patches of sweat soaking through your T-shirt and jeans, and as usual, your Carharts can barely restrain the force of your excitement, and sometimes, you don’t even try to contain it, and work unzipped, and occasionally commando, like you’ve done for years, and for years, I’ve been mesmerized by the power and possibility in that open fly, like an open invitation, even though I know it would all go away if I even gave you a second look, and I cannot bear the thought of not falling under your intoxicating spell, again. 
The heat of this space draws my sweat, too, slicking my forehead and swamping my pits, and making my fingers slippery enough I cannot hold the splash of your expletives or the dribble of your day to day story, but I can grasp the occasionally spurt of your Mountain Dew words of friendship and bro-hood as you recount our glorious past and contemplate our mutual future, which I doubt with fevered anticipation, as you tell me all the ways we are the perfect compadres, except the part where I really want to hold you in this place, and in those places, down there, where you would surely feel the need to wash me away, out of your way, and back into the dense summer mist. 
I walk home, alone, lit only by sparkled starlight illuminating the summer mist turned morning dew, fallen from its ethereal place of dreams and desires to be regrounded with the unforgiving truth of the earth under my retreating soles. 

Poetry

The well

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Hallelujah, The well is not dry.
Hallelujah, The well is not dry.

I can still hear the sound of water trickling through its subterranean course, a flow gentle and soothing and it calls out to me, in a whisper I can almost feel.

Daily, I drop a small stone, clean and smooth, carefully selected to ensure that the water stays sweet. After my count, always one second too long, I hear it take its refreshing dive and can almost taste its effervescent immersion.

Occasionally, I feel the cool zephyr of the cavern air bearing the spring’s humidity like the breath of an unrequited lover’s apologetic kiss.

Day by day, I reach as hard as I can, almost unhinging my shoulder to dip my cup. It is almost there. So close that the bottom of my cup is coated with the opalescence of mist, as it is cooled from its proximity to the stream.

And every night, I pray that the well finally becomes dust, so that this desiccating, parching hope will take its leave, and at last I can sleep, wrapped in my own darkness,  free from its pitying light.

Humor, Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

Themes and variations on “if a tree falls in the woods, does it make a sound?”

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In four acts

Atto Primo

When a tree falls in the woods, does it make a sound?
if there’s no ear to take it in, and not a soul around.
Is there any ruckus when the tallest branches hit.
Frankly, dear, I have to say, I just don’t give a shit.

Instead there is another way my wondering mind is leaning.
What I really want to know is does it have a meaning?
I’m sure it does to some poor owl whose home the tree destroys
But to someone half a mile away, it’s simply background noise.

Now, Trees are not my main concern, as much as I love birds,
But here’s what keeps me up, some nights: my desperate, needy words.
my thoughts disgorged on every page, and I don’t have much choice.
It seems from deep inside of me they want to have a voice.

And since this voice is my wracked soul, they cry out to be heard.
And seek a willing audience to love them word for word.
Sometimes the way they nag me, till I’m sleepless, is a curse.
They want to tell their story in some tortured metered verse.

And every bit of simile or metaphor or rhyme
Demand to have that fret upon the stage in their own time.
Some day, they will stop asking to assure them they are good.
And then, they’ll be content to fall in silence in the wood

Atto Secondo

If a tree falls in the woods, and no one’s there to hear it, does it make a sound?
Yes. Duh.

Atto Terzo

If a tree falls in the woods, and we are not really hearing it, does it make a sound?
It sounds like the tear, falling from my cheek, that you didn’t see.
It sounds like the cat purring in that extra 2 inches between us in the bed, that we don’t discuss.
It is the sound of that repeated slam of the door, that we refuse to acknowledge.
It is that sigh of “here we go again.”

It makes the sound of that constant debate between us as we use our theories and grand abstractions to pretend we are addressing the fundamental sound of this splinter between us, but ultimately, we are only arguing the semantics of what it means to listen.

Atto Quarto

If a tree falls in the woods does it make a sound?
The towering oak once proud and tall, with auburn mantle crowned.
And in its budding prime, it broadly spread its springtime pollen,
How sad it feels to see the way the mighty tree has fallen.

But does this toppling really make a sound upon this stage?
It does, he says, as he zips up, “it happens to guys your age.”

Fini

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

Respiratory Therapy

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I dreamed I was breathing, but awoke, suddenly, to realize that I was not. My breath was caught on last night’s good bye kiss, which I suddenly realized meant more than just “see you later.” It made my air clench in my throat, and I was getting faint.

I was able to cough it clear, as far as my lips, where i could taste your 11 dollar a case beer, and that half cigarette, you swore you’d quit. I finally spit it out and was clear for a moment.

I was finally able to inhale deeply and feel the cold air of my bedroom move into my chest, and show me how it will feel without you. I could smell the soap that you bought at the street fair, this summer, and haven’t used in months, I breathed deeply and it became warmer, inside, like you had returned.

This breath is practiced. it is habitual and happens without my realization. It comes from so deep inside, that it is part of me, but it is not mine. Someday, I will breathe normally, again. You will not be the oxygen, and will not gasp in your absence. I will not exhale my desire, and be confounded by the inability to inhale your response.

Some day, this breath will be my own.

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

Essence

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I miss your charm, your effervescence,
Your easy smile’s luminescence
I love that our love’s coalescence,
Is such a blessing at its essence.
But even your bright incandescence
leaves just a fading phosphorescence

So, in my anxious convalescence,
From a bout of adolescence,
I feared my thoughtless acquiescence
Had caused our union’s obsolescence.

But now that Im back in your presence,
I cheer the worry’s evanescence.
I feel your caring heart’s incessence.
It sings of your love’s omnipresence.

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek, Trigger warning

Princess T

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T-time passed and then the crash
Her only lovers paid her cash
She wore a tattered wedding gown,
The dust of snow, her glistening crown.

She chose, this time, to change her life.
To leave the drugs, the johns, the knife.
Better than her pimp could give,
Like royalty, she dreamed to live.

She walked the caverns ‘neath the town,
And wore her best inverted frown.
She begged for change, and got enough
To cross the gate with all her stuff.

She practiced for her grandest dance,
And crossed the platform in a trance.
The carriage raced to meet the bride,
and that is how the princess died.

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

Scars on the Sky

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There are scars on the sky
There are stories in those scars
Going home, leaving home
Vacation, deployment
There are tears and there is excitement
There is chatter and annoyance,
Loss and beginnings.

A new grandmother, anxiously trying to learn to knit before the child is too old to wear her handiwork.
A woman still shaking from the pat down, because it was just like the game her older brother used to make her play.
A salesman almost completely focused on his PowerPoint, trying to shut out the thoughts that, if he doesn’t make his quarter, she will actually leave.
A college student, heading off to his first study abroad, with eight extra sets of batteries for his camera, and a map from his older brother that shows the best places to get high.
An ex boyfriend, going home from the funeral, where he wasn’t welcome, still wonders if he could have changed it.
An almost child, going to a place he can’t pronounce, to wear sand camo and an assault rifle, to meet new people to fear.
An elderly woman, on her third cocktail, fights back a tear as she remembers her daughter’s parting words.
A young woman excitedly shows her engagement ring to the gentleman next to her, who just received divorce papers.
A bride and groom on a honeymoon paid for by his parents, because he doesn’t want her to realize he’s lost his job, until after the trip.
An AVP who blames the airline for not automatically upgrading him to first class, but fears it’s because his expense account was cut off.
The copilot, who has once again decided this is his last time he will fly with intoxicated.

There are scars on the sky,
Lit by the morning sun,
and in a day, they will have faded
and been replaced a dozen times.
Each one contains a hundred scars.
Those may never fade.

Poetry, This work copyright 2014 Thomas Kreek

Prairie wind

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The wind makes its own decisions. Like any farmer on generations of loess, those decisions are very similar from year-to-year, but always they adapt to the current conditions. Occasionally it loses its temper, and scatters sod and silo, board and batten. Force of nature becomes force majeure. But it soon regains its composure, and goes back to moving soil from farm to farm to shed to house and vibrating in the gutters and corrugated.

The wind makes its own decisions. On those faces that etch the prairie with plow and hoe, the wind carves the same lines that it does in the unprotected earth at the edge of the field. Wind and sun burn indistinguishably except for the pattern they make. Wind, horizontal, sun vertical. Face, head. Draw the tear, dry the tear.

The wind makes its own decisions. It is always coming and leaving at the same time. It has travelled hundreds of miles with no interference, bending the wheat and slashing the corn. It is never static, never staying. Its direction is not predictable, but it can always be felt. It stalls and waits in lee or copse, or behind the house or in the barn, and then it’s cool and its movement feels like a caress, instead of a slap.

The wind makes its own decisions, and I have made mine. Now that wind sings of a place I am from. The sound is only in my ear as a whisper, and the daily grit in my eyes cleared many tears ago. But it calls to me, at night. I can taste the fields behind my home, and hear the weeds rustle over 5 generations of my family’s graves. But it is not the wind that drove me away. The wind and I are friends. It found me and sang me to sleep. It invited me to climb high into the elms to feel its gentleness rock me back and forth. It brought me flowers, and the smell of huge silos of corn and the cotton candy of the county fair.

The wind makes its own decisions, and it has made me its companion, and I left with it. Prevailing from the west, my only choice was to head east, so that some of that grit and fragrance and bluster came from home, though now it mixes with sea and maple and ice and hemlock.