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scarred palms, spiral slenderness of trees
by Tom GossI
thumping stones with your knuckles;
honoring with transparent dull pain
the rhythms of depression:
that unspoken illness of the eyes
where every enchantment of autumn
is raped and flooded with emptiness unasked-for
you certainly didn't wish for this,
there on your scraping knees
there on your wailing rock,
in the natural setting that
you only wish pulsed through the neurons and dendrites
that jut about in the spiral mountain tantrums of your hapless brain
let's be honest: there is a depth of night behind the pupils
of your unearthed, frosted-glass eyes
that everyone else in the room sees
only as much as they see the pale dawning
of these words late at night
in their unrestrained, long-brewed aloofness
(I am merely their vessel)
I learn a hollow sleep that fulfills my alien destiny
and every night you and her and him -
I feel you laughing and standing on my chest
as I am sleeping (mouth-breathing as I do),
drying out this throat like punishment
for all these stolen words
..... ... .. . ..... ... .. .
[time will not die; time will not die]
..... ... .. . ..... ... .. .
so I refresh what a mountain could never refresh:
not a stream
not the coldness of bare feet washed clean
below the still-forest canopy,
but useless words
and what is my synaptic response in all of this:
is it any more obvious than the
unstoppable tears and yearning for love?
I must be deaf to myself
yet listening, listening:
there must be something worth a hope of permanence
certainly her, if she would have you
as you
though you would torment her
with your depthofthegraves wakefulness
II
it is unbelievable that this is something more than pleasure
to be stuck inside this old growth tree
(mindtramplinggirth)
the music stirs this sliced soul
and the tears seems only held back
so that the poems can be finished
Ah, what a pathetic treatise on that which
should be swallowed and hidden
under old houses where perhaps fathers
did unspeakable things to their daughters
or
where one child sat alone,
there in the dark and steadily,
unnervingly ripened for the first time
as the death of a favorite pet
revealed so unfairly that he would soon be plucked too
plunging from above the circle
of this thin blue-sheathed planet
to the firm, shifting plates of an earth
with so much water and the pressure
inherent in life surviving even
at such crushing ocean depths
III
sipping from the edge of this black hole
what could be more powerful than a death poem,
pulled from your soon-stilled bones
like a Samurai warrior's blade
yet just as these words are yanked out of me,
like a sword, its language is not fit to heal
IV
still,
a hand
a hand of love
pierces me again
enjoin the joy of young animals
and the boundlessness of space
into the dusty speck
deep inside the radiating sun
that holds my wavering soul
if you don't know how much I need you this weekend
I will tell you:
it is a step onto the wind
onto the melting grace
of you, cupping the universe
just by warming the space next to mine
with Knowing
now I'll smile
as if this was the end
as if the plaintive cry
of the bereaved
could avoid, itself,
being black
as a crow
10/08/2004 Author's Note: Please check out my new book! ;)>
Posted on 10/08/2004
Copyright © 2026 Tom Goss
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Michelle Angelini on 10/08/04 at 07:10 PM Once again the impact of your words has penetrated the dark corners of my soul. The journey reflected in the stanzas isn't an easy one, but sometimes, as I'm learning now, we have to open ourselves to it and to the love we're afraid of. Excellent work, Tom, I hope this becomes a POTD. You've certainly got my vote. |
| Posted by Anita Mac on 10/12/04 at 09:08 PM I usually lose interest in longer poems, but this held me the whole way. You're an amazing poet, wonderful ith words... ~Nita |
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