St. Louis

Not always,
but often you’ll find
gardens of shadows
on regretful French streets
a herd of chimneys
in the distance
the smell of a funeral
boiling in the sun.
Again and again this sky
shows me some new emptiness.
My own eyes obscure it.
Looking out the open vestibule,
from Frontenac towers,
Masonry Pillars,
bagpipe plains,
smokestacks of Soulard;
The town is a million splendid views
No one is allowed to see.
The evening will be haunted
by abandoned warehouses
toothless, back-alley grins
amber tiger-lily dances
on the sidewalks
prowlers loud and alone
the empty pubs and pizzerias.
Life passes from stall to stall
flush the blood with the ash
like it was never there
and pray to god
or whomever is there
it will pass by morning.
Take the woman and her babycart
Circling the poorly lit pond,
The fish follow her.
To the south an exchange of smiles.
Take two old men
muttering of miracles,
wheezing in the night.

Wake

We stand in a barren grassless
plot of soil gaping
before a hole where my grandmother
lays. Our brown hands
toss dirt and trinkets into the hole
for the Great Spirit to carry into the sky.
We take turns shoveling the dirt,
sweating, passing
the shovel onto someone else.

Cub Fur

The cubs meander
In and out of the den
Like halfway hermits
Never stepping far
From their dank sanctuary
Sniffing and pawing fresh soil
Canvassing the nearby dale
That is the world in their eyes
Starry, strategizing;
Retreating docile
To the comfort of dark
At the slightest wind
of what they deem danger.
In cold nights they bundle
A sprawled heap of limbs,
Knit with heads and paws
Their fur as yet unfrayed,
Swaying with their breath.

This is the first poem I turned into the poetry workshop I'm taking right now. It was vaguely designed to be an inaugural poem for Obama but it doesn't have to be read that way. Take it in the context of someone with very little power speaking to someone with an enormous deal of power.

Our Swords

If we were to slip
On our own swords
Will you be waiting

If we were to dive
In our empty pool
Will you be ten feet under

If we thrash and grope
And choke on our voices
Will you spin me savior

When our dreams turn sour
For the misty moon
Will you too be asleep

Caught in the funnel
Of the buildings you lay
Will you be flying alone

What colors will spring
From the beaming omnibus
the three-ring circus
We call you and I

If you were to help us
If we were to fall
Will we tell the difference

Fate

Fasten your seat belt
For all is lost
We have dreamt our Dreams
And sung our Songs
And none can ward our fate
A simple thing it was
And what remains...
A simple prize
A piece of the puzzle
Not worth a moment of our lives
But advancing yet inside
Another hope bestirs my mind
The fate of all our lovers
The fate of all our friends
Collecting fragments of our fate
Together in this stretch of time
Lost with each other
on the same wild ride