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---
type: post
title: Asertu
date: 2018-10-07
categories:
- Poem
- Esperanto
---
<pre class="verse">
Disvolvu mian haŭton el mia karno
Verŝu mian sangon el mi kiel vino
Prenu mian vivon, tenu ĝin sub via lango:
Amara pilolo por gustumi
Bruligu min, entombigu min poste
Loku ŝtonon super kie mi kuŝas
Lasu tempo manĝi vian memorojn pri mi
Lasta peceto por gustumi
</pre>

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---
date: 2015-10-14
type: post
title: Being Transgender
categories:
- Poem
tags:
- Gender
- Transition
---
<pre class="verse">
You get to explain gender to all of your friends &mdash;
And all of your family &mdash;
And maybe once more to be sure &mdash;
And random strangers &mdash;
And maybe, like, doctors and nurses who should probably know better;
You get to explain to your partner that nothing has changed &mdash;
And that you were always this way &mdash;
And that really, honestly, nothing has changed &mdash;
And that this has no effect on your love for them &mdash;
And I promise;
You will get to come out again &mdash;
And explain that it wasn't that being gay wasn't enough &mdash;
And explain that it has nothing to do with who you like &mdash;
And explain that that shouldn't matter &mdash;
And &mdash; oh right, this means you might be straight after all;
You get to go through that awkward period of growing your hair out &mdash;
And learning how to ask for a more feminine haircut &mdash;
And trying a curling iron for the first time &mdash;
And figuring out how to eat noodles without also eating your hair &mdash;
And the worries that you're just trying to be rebellious;
You get to worry whether you're maybe just trying to be rebellious &mdash;
And whether or not you might just be faking it &mdash;
And whether you're really Trans Enough or not &mdash;
And whether you're maybe just appropriating femininity &mdash;
And whether or not passing really matters to you anyway;
You get to dress up in your best clothes &mdash;
And your best makeup &mdash;
And worry that your shoes are too masculine &mdash;
And have your hair game on point &mdash;
And convince the doc that you deserve those patches and pills;
You get to go through puberty again &mdash;
And it will be weirder this time around &mdash;
And your skin will grow soft &mdash;
And you'll get more sensitive to temperature changes &mdash;
And &mdash; YEOWCH! That's a new sensation;
You will cry a lot &mdash;
And bite your tongue often &mdash;
And lower your gaze &mdash;
And learn to take up less space &mdash;
And talk softer;
And your dogs will still love you.
</pre>

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---
category:
- Poem
ratings: G
date: 2018-01-31
type: post
tags:
- Poetry
- Furry
title: Beneath her coat was a whole identity
---
<pre class="verse">
Beneath her coat was a whole identity:
A subtle form of ideas under soft fur,
A constantly shifting mass of meaning...
And somehow, she pulled it off.
She would go for days without shedding a thing,
And then, as if a bottle rolling off a counter,
She would shatter, sending shards of self flying,
And then we'd all see.
Then we'd all see the terror, the joy,
Then we'd all see the grief at nothing,
Then we'd all hear her say,
"I'm not built for a life with death in it."
And slowly, she'd pick herself back up
And find a brand new way to piece herself together
And build herself a brand new smile
And brush out her coat once more.
</pre>
*First-place winner of the [Typewriter Emergencies Poetry Contest](https://www.typewriteremergencies.com/single-post/2018/02/13/Beneath-her-coat-was-a-whole-identity---1st-Place-Winner).*

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---
date: 2017-06-03
type: post
title: Bruise Vision
categories:
- Poem
ratings: G
tags:
- Poetry
- Mental Health
---
<style>
.row {
display: block;
vertical-align: top;
}
.col-md-4 {
width: 30%;
display: inline-block;
vertical-align: top;
padding: 0.5rem;
}
.text-right {
text-align: right;
}
.col-md-8 {
width: 60%;
display: inline-block;
vertical-align: top;
padding: 0.5rem;
}
@media only screen and (max-width: 500px) {
.col-md-4, .col-md-8 {
width: 100%;
display: block;
}
}
</style>
<div class="row">
<div class="col-md-4 text-right">
<h3>I</h3>
<p><em>Geese Level:</em><br />
Unnerving</p>
<p><em>Expect:</em><br />
Anxiety</p>
</div>
<pre class="col-md-8 verse">
A hundred geese overhead —
A thousand —
A million —
Heady scent of premonition.
Acrid tang of ill omens.
Portents.
Too much meaning
In too small a space.
</pre>
</div>
<div class="row">
<div class="col-md-4 text-right">
<h3>II</h3>
<p><em>Geese Level:</em><br />
Noise-Cancelling Headphones</p>
<p><em>Expect:</em><br />
auditory aberrations</p>
</div>
<pre class="col-md-8 verse">
Geese are a byproduct of laminar shear stress
Of two layers of phantasmagorical
Newtonian fluids,
Which is why they’re often seen on a plane.
A thin, sort-of Truth
From a sort of thin layer
geese chromatography.
</pre>
</div>
<div class="row">
<div class="col-md-4 text-right">
<h3>III</h3>
<p><em>Geese Level:</em><br />
Eldrich</p>
<p><em>Expect:</em><br />
red tint to vision; hot flashes</p>
</div>
<pre class="col-md-8 verse">
As the dove bears the olive branch,
so to the goose bears the wand
that withers all it touches.
A wand of nightshade,
Core of tainted silver.
A wand of obscure origin,
The goose surely stole it.
Malice begets malice.
</pre>
</div>
<div class="row">
<div class="col-md-4 text-right">
<h3>IV</h3>
<p><em>Geese Level:</em><br />
Beyond Comprehension</p>
<p><em>Expect:</em><br />
confusion; nausea; sweating; racing pulse</p>
</div>
<pre class="col-md-8 verse">
We know not the transgression,
the origin -
We know not the punishment,
only the terror.
</pre>
</div>
<div class="row">
<div class="col-md-4 text-right">
<h3>V</h3>
<p><em>Geese Level:</em><br />
Excruciating</p>
<p><em>Expect:</em><br />
pounding heart; tunnel vision; racing thoughts; black outs;
blood pouring from ears</p>
</div>
<pre class="col-md-8 verse">
Geas
Wing
Dark
Horizon
</pre>
</div>
<div class="row">
<div class="col-md-4 text-right">
<h3>VI</h3>
<p><em>Geese Level:</em><br />
Terrifying</p>
<p><em>Expect:</em><br />
tinnitus; piloerection; shortness of breath; uneven gait</p>
</div>
<pre class="col-md-8 verse">
I’d rather owls.
Owls, as though geese were turned inside out,
made less evil.
Still portentous,
Still momentous,
Just less terrifying.
Owls are okay.
I can think about owls.
</pre>
</div>
<div class="row">
<div class="col-md-4 text-right">
<h3>VII</h3>
<p><em>Geese Level:</em><br />
Uncomfortable</p>
<p><em>Expect:</em><br />
subdermal itching; formication</p>
</div>
<pre class="col-md-8 verse">
Life within a comfortable grid.
Parallel lines
Interrupting narrowing circles
Of birds in flight.
Travel in straight lines.
Turn at right angles.
Trace the roof of your mouth
With wet tongue.
I’m not afraid of geese anymore
Because I can step on them now.
I’m big enough.
</pre>
</div>
<div class="row">
<div class="col-md-4 text-right">
<h3>VIII</h3>
<p><em>Geese Level:</em><br />
Birds</p>
<p><em>Expect:</em><br />
birds</p>
</div>
<pre class="col-md-8 verse">
Ritual thinking
Driven by geese —
By lines, by grids, by food —
By numbers and neat delineation.
And I’m left with questions:
Why are they so portentous?
Why the anxiety?
Or maybe:
Did I take my meds this morning?
Failing that,
Can I just have the comfort of prayer
Or the ecstasy of signs
Without the bleak paranoia
Over circling birds?
</pre>
</div>

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---
categories:
- Poem
ratings: Rated G
date: 2017-08-14
type: post
tags:
- Poetry
title: Every time I fall
---
<pre class="verse">
Every time I fall,
The ground tells me I'm in love.
"'Cause love is
All low," it says.
"And loves is
Places."
And I always argue,
That love is all people.
That love is dogs,
And cats.
And love is
Emotions.
But every time I fall,
The ground tells me I'm in love.
That gravity is
Some awkward embrace,
And love is
Permanence.
And I always argue,
That love is temporary.
That that's
The beauty,
And permanence
Misses the point.
And every time I fall,
The ground tells me I'm in love.
And every single time,
I keep coming back.
</pre>

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---
categories:
- Poem
ratings: Rated G
date: 2018-07-08
type: post
tags:
- Poetry
- Gender
title: Fair and Square
---
<pre class="verse">
I bought my name fair and square;
Bespoke, built from whole cloth.
I wrote it again and again,
Savoring every J,
Skipping every fifth tittle,
Until it felt right,
Like sitting inside and watching the snow fall
Through the window
Or finding the perfect way that branches in two trees
Line up with each other
Or when the windshield wipers move
In time with your music.
I built myself fair and square
With hands raw from coarse identity.
I kneaded and pressed and squeezed,
Savoring every curve,
Skipping every tenth day,
Until it all felt right,
Like the sweet smell of pine bark
Rubbed between fingers
Or the whisper of maple leaves
Under hurrying paws
Or the perfect overlap of new buds
Already sticky with sap.
</pre>

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---
categories:
- Poem
ratings: G
description: A longer piece to go with this lovely painting by Julian Norwood (https://www.patreon.com/Cadmiumtea), which I commissioned for the end of an era. The image of transformation is from a recurring dream.
img: growth-header.jpg
type: post
date: 2018-07-01
tags:
- Poetry
- Gender
- Transition
- About furry
title: Growth
ogimg: /assets/img/growth.jpg
---
![Growth](/assets/img/growth.jpg)
<small>"Growth" by <a href="https://www.patreon.com/Cadmiumtea">Julian Norwood</a></small>
-----
<pre class="verse">
Used to be you and I daily would walk
through the fields out back of the house and talk
for hours, spilling words and emotions.
These walks were our daily devotions
to each other over the years.
The fields, dotted with ponds, were our space.
We tramped those trails strung like lace
along shores and through tall grass,
murmuring now like winds, chattering now like brass
in some changeful duet.
You'd tell me about the geese in the sky,
would watch me stand still and not ask why
the birds scared me to pieces,
even as we dodged around their feces
littering the trails.
You'd put up with my fickle interests,
running with me, or stopping to see what arrests
my attention. You'd follow all of my changes
and change along with me through all the ranges
of our shared experience.
You'd tell me of your meditation,
I'd talk of my fears of stagnation.
You'd always smile so kindly to me,
and I'd always feel so free
in our companionship.
And over time, those walks got slower,
shorter, less frequent, or over
far too soon, though no less meaningful
as we spent our time together in cheerful
conversation or kind quiet.
We each seemed to be going our separate ways,
with me branching out, exploring different lays
of different lands, and you turning inwards,
exploring lines of thought you never put in words,
at least not that you told me.
And then one day, we once more went out walking
and though it took a while, you got to talking.
You told me of how you sat, quiet and alone,
waiting for the time you might turn to stone
and be completely still at last.
You told me how as you sat, the room lengthened,
curved around, turned on you --- strengthened,
it seemed, by your very presence ---
and amid all of that gathered pleasance,
bit you in half.
You told me how, as part of you died
in that moment, the rest of you spied,
it seemed, on this very ending.
You told me you thought that this rending
was the end of something big.
I listened in silence. What could I say?
The things you were telling me, walking that day
were strangely shaped and didn't make sense.
Or if they did, they did so around corners as pretense,
perhaps, subtext, allusion, metaphor.
You were right, though, I could hear it in your voice.
There was finality, there, which spoke of a choice
already made. Endings were writ on your face,
your hands, and your steps --- your very pace
spoke of completion.
I replied to that sense rather than your words.
"While you look up to the geese and see only birds,
I see omens and my doom spelled in vees.
You speak of rooms and cleaving, but please,
tell me, are you leaving?"
We'd long since stopped, there by the pond,
and your smile was, yes, sad, but still fond
as you settled down wordlessly to your knees,
took a slow breath, looked out to the trees,
and closed your eyes.
Beginnings are such delicate times
and I very nearly missed it, no chimes
to announce the hour of your leaving.
As it was, there was no time for believing
or not in the next moments.
Your fingers crawled beneath the soil
and sprouted roots, flesh starting to roil.
Coarse bark spiraled up your wrists and arms,
Spelling subtle incantations and charms
to the chaos of growth.
You bowed your head and from your crown
sprouted a tender shoot covered in fine down,
soon followed by crenelated leaves and fine stems.
The pace was fast, implacable, and leaves like gems
soon arched skyward.
You sprouted and grew, taking root
in one smooth motion, fixed and mute.
Your clothing fell away, rotting in fast-time.
Naked now, you sat still, committing one last crime
of indecency.
Your face, your face! In your face was such peace
as I'd never seen, even as you gave up this lease
on life, echoed also in my heart of hearts.
I did not cry out, nor even speak, witnessing such arts
as your final display showed.
Soon, you were consumed, transformed as a whole.
Your head a crown of leaves, your heart a bole
bored in rough bark and sturdy wood,
your fingers, knees, and toes stood
as thirsty roots.
I stood a while by the tree that was you,
then sat at your roots and thought of all I knew
about time, transformation, death and change.
I thought about you, your life, your emotional range,
your gentle apotheosis.
Then I walked home, quiet and numb.
No, not numb, per se, but perhaps dumb.
Dumb of words, dumb of emotions. Quiet.
I expected turmoil, some internal riot,
I got nullity.
Who, after all, if I cried out,
would hear my wordless shout
among the still trees and rustling leaves?
Who hears? Who cares? Who perceives
this non-grief?
You, my friend, are still there.
I walk the fields every day, passing where
you changed into something new.
I marvel at you, at how you grew
into something wholly different.
Used to be you and I daily would walk
through the fields out back of the house and talk.
Now, it's just me, alone, quiet, thinking
of you by the shore, forever drinking
of sweet water.
</pre>

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---
categories:
- Poem
- Haiku
type: post
title: Collected Haiku
---
<pre class="verse">
Arctic fox's den
adorned with flowers and snow
garden in winter
</pre>
-----
<pre class="verse">
A measure of grain
and a measure of water &mdash;
spring's own time and heat
Air carries the scent
of myriads of lives spent
on summer's warm breath
Crumb and density,
warmth buried beneath crisp crust &mdash;
autumn's crackling leaves.
Loves and loaves and loaves
baked for comfort in the cold &mdash;
winter calls for stores.
</pre>
-----
<pre class="verse">
Leaves fall, grass withers,
and I step back to witness
winter's frozen form.
Half an hour's silence,
body relaxing slowly,
letting springtime in.
A season to stretch,
then one to learn everything &mdash;
summer's exploring.
What will autumn bring?
Maturity? Strength? Wisdom?
Dry heat and cool nights?
</pre>
------
<pre class="verse">
And I walk until
all I can hear is the wind
among the fir trees.
Summer breezes bear away
all the choices of years past.
</pre>
-----
<pre class="verse">
Drink deep of death-thoughts
as the day dies with a yawn &mdash;
the year starts to fade.
</pre>

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---
categories:
- Poem
ratings: G
date: 2017-02-20
type: post
tags:
- Poetry
title: Heligoland
---
<pre class="verse">
Too many wine-dark seas need daily traversal,
And here the shipping forecast calls for rain.
The shipping forecast! What a load of bollocks.
You can listen from start to finish
And not hear a single word about how a day will feel.
Or maybe it's a pale, tired, steganography:
Moderate, becoming poor, violent storm 11.
Burning up, drowning, torn by wind, and all I can manage
is to tell you southwest gale 8 to storm 10.
I can point at the moon, exhausted, bored, decaying,
And hope you don't stare blankly at my finger.
</pre>
*Thanks to P.R.*

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---
categories:
- Poem
tags:
- Poetry
title: I should note
date: 2004-04-08
type: post
---
<pre class="verse">
The undersides
off gray
of clouds
drift
while I
on the path
stand
above
where the crow flies
me.
Off
with purple
gray, I
wandering
ponder, should
in a perfect
were there such a thing
world
be a
though the word is plain
color with it's own
to name
as they say
creates
word.
It soothes.
</pre>

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---
tags:
- Poetry
- Romance
type: post
title: Unimportant verse about important people
categories:
- Poem
---
<pre class="verse">
I see your past in cross-processed film,
in blown-out colors and over-saturation.
You told me all about it, told me grand stories:
you were going to go back in time and save the world.
I see your past in yellows and browns,
in umber and sienna and amber, in a younger sun.
You sat and told me how &mdash; and you were always sitting &mdash;
you thought past-you dreamt of a future less complicated than today.
I see your past through film-grain and vignette,
with a thick white border, space on the bottom to write.
You told me how you learned so many imperfect things,
in so many less than ideal ways, always at inopportune times.
I see your past in architectural drawings of unrealized buildings,
in paperback covers reaching towards heaven, in trillions of words.
You figured past you dreamt of, not perfection,
but a world unconstrained by so many failures.
I see your past with no me in it,
and wonder if past-you dreamt of us.
</pre>
-----
<pre class="verse">
Resuscitating ancient coins in class, we learned,
takes a toothbrush and olive oil.
Slow, steady strokes across, around...
soft bristles dislodging soil
one speck at a time.
But no one that day was nearly as blessed,
seeing a coin shine through
at the end, full relief brightly expressed,
as I was to see you smile.
</pre>
-----
<pre class="verse">
When you arrive,
the whole world gets slow.
Sluggish, amber-colored air
mellows lively conversations.
Everyone stops, marvels,
turns eagerly toward you;
and there are no complaints
about warming our faces in the sun.
</pre>
-----
<pre class="verse">
We fit together in the strangest ways
and seem to seek new seams to savor.
Such joins are hardly perfect,
thread tugging fabric unevenly
unless it's reinforced over and over again.
We seem to seek new seams to savor,
and, weak though they are,
revel in the imperfect unevenness of joining.
</pre>
-----
<pre class="verse">
"Comrade" would I call you,
and "brave," and "fierce" and "true".
"Lovely" have I called you,
and hope but to live up to
the example which you set for me.
So, comrade, onward, ever onward.
I know I cannot hope to offer
much but word on cloying word,
dull rhymes I strain to proffer:
small flowers, small gifts, camaraderie.
</pre>
-----
<pre class="verse">
Complementary, clashing anxieties.
Dull clamor of intersecting feelings.
Need, desire, craving, jealousy.
Worry, fear, care, prayerful fretting.
Love, lust, friendship, a need to share.
Emotions on emotions on emotions,
and, often, comfortable silence.
</pre>
-----
<pre class="verse">
I chose your name.
To defend, it means. To help.
I admit, having chosen it,
that I chose it to defend you.
When I picked you up by the scruff,
Dragged you off to that place
I hoped we could call ours,
I expected that we'd
simply find a way to survive.
I never expected love,
and rejoice every day in that surprise.
I chose to collar you.
I admit it was an experiment,
I submit to most, but not my partners;
until then I'd never owned, claimed.
It felt vulgar, at first,
greedy, jealous, possessive.
Through you I learned the joy of possession,
the love and trust and exactness of terms.
Owner, partner, love,
and pup, partner, love.
My beautiful, my own.
I'll hand you off some day.
I'm a less than ideal owner
in so many terrible ways:
I owe you more than you owe me.
I'll gather your leash up,
I'll let you keep your tag,
I'll bow, I'll kiss you one last time,
and I'll bless you and your new keeper.
And I'll never stop loving you.
And I'll never stop loving you.
And I'll never stop loving you.
</pre>
-----
<pre class="verse">
You, for whom a heart means all feeling &mdash;
You, for whom yeah is an expletive &mdash;
You, for whom even computers sing &mdash;
You, for whom every tangle invites disentangling &mdash;
You, for whom even <strong>I</strong> will rub feet &mdash;
You, for whom shop always follows flop &mdash;
You, for whom words form a squall-line &mdash;
You, for whom I guess I &mdash;
You, for whom &mdash;
You, for whom even &mdash;
You, for whom I reach &mdash;
You, for whom my shit day leads straight to lets talk &mdash;
You, for whom I curate my week's feelings &mdash;
You, for whom I wait by the month &mdash;
You, for whom I structure my year &mdash;
You, for whom understanding of me seems always in grasp &mdash;
You, for whom my struggles provide no obstacle &mdash;
You and I, from whom us.
</pre>
-----
<pre class="verse">
Tightly wound springs
Of very carefully
Not touching.
Secret words
To be said
With confidence.
Rules.
Prohibitions.
Limits.
Discussions planned,
Side-channels arranged,
Whiskey purchased.
And now anxiety
Over what it means
And how to work it.
Is it worth it for
Long-standing questions
To be answered?
To invite disaster
For sake of knowledge
And further dreams?
Maybe the answer
Is that tired refrain:
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
And now we're
Awaiting weeks
Of careful touches.
</pre>
-----
<pre class="verse">
I could never tell you
that you feel too much.
That you feel too hard,
or that your feelings
overwhelm and overtake you.
I could never tell you
how beautiful that is.
That I wish I could feel those things,
that I wish I could feel that way.
All I can tell you
is how beautiful you are
when you feel love.
</pre>
-----
<pre class="verse">
<em>Yit'gadal v'yit'kadash sh'mei raba</em>
Would that I had the faith
To pray daily.
Eleven months to let you go,
And an amen to end the sorrow.
</pre>
-----
<pre class="verse">
When a light so far above me shines down,
I lose my footing, stop, look around,
and for once, see my way lit before me.
Through you,
I learn how I move.
Through you,
I see how I act.
Through you,
I judge myself.
When a light so far above me shines down,
I turn my face to the warmth and bask,
drawing strength, assured in my steps.
Through you,
I recognize my failings.
Through you,
I understand my strengths.
Through you,
I gain perspective.
When a light so far above me shines down,
I reach toward it and grasp at what I can,
hoping I might somehow gain my own luster.
Through you,
I find my place.
Through you,
I gain surety.
Through you,
I learn who I am.
When a light so far above me shines down,
and I fail to shine myself,
I hope only to reflect what I can.
</pre>
-----
<pre class="verse">
Every time I seek to change
my life, myself, my love, my name,
every time I try and broaden my range
in this shitty, all-encompassing game,
I hesitate.
With every change in my life
comes the terror of maybe losing you
of maybe being caught in strife
over such insecurities as few
have escaped unscathed.
That you love me still
reaffirms so many of my choices,
and I set about with a will,
ignoring querulous voices
in favor of your calm laugh.
</pre>
-----
<pre class="verse">
Between our houses,
there is a simple fence -
not a chasm, not a wall.
Chain-link, waist high,
bedecked with sweet-pea
and set about with violets.
Something we can tend,
something to feel good about,
something between us
other than nothing.
</pre>
-----
<pre class="verse">
I will swallow my love for you.
I will swallow my love.
I will swallow my love for you
And relish the magnesium flare,
Rejoice in immolation,
Cherish the autolysis
Of secret cells.
I will swallow my love for you.
I will swallow my love.
</pre>
-----
<pre class="verse">
I live my life in eternal terror
of the completeness of your own.
I take up so little space
and impinge upon it so gently,
I only hope that there is space enough
for a 'dear' here and a 'lovely' there.
If beauty is at the edge of the terrifying,
I live my life in eternal terror.
</pre>
-----
<pre class="verse">
Cover me, crush me, compress me.
Squeeze me down until I fit in your pocket.
Let me jangle among your keys,
or slip between bills in your wallet.
Forget me, let me fray, let me fall apart.
And, some day, pull me free,
dust me off, flatten me out,
and tell me that you love me.
</pre>
-----
<pre class="verse">
Every day, I learn to say "I love you"
in a whole new way.
And every day, I fall short
of being understood.
</pre>

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---
tags:
- Poetry
- Mental Health
type: post
title: Kiun ŝi povas ŝati?
date: 2019-03-27
categories:
- Poem
- Esperanto
---
<pre class="verse">
Kiun ŝi povus ŝati?
Kiun ŝi povus ami?
Ŝi demandis al Ŝi mem:
Kiel ŝi volus diri
Kial ŝi tiom zorgas?
"Vi devas ŝati vi mem,
Vi devas ami vi mem."
Ri respondis al ŝi tiam.
"Vi ne devas diri
Kial vi tiom zorgas."
"Mi neniam priparolas
Miajn multajn zorgojn."
Ri daŭrigis trankvile.
"Finfine, mi neniam diras,
Ke mi ploras por mi mem."
"Ve, mi ĉiam pripensas
Viajn belajn vortojn."
Ŝi respondis larm'plene.
"Finfine, mi neniam diras,
Ke mi ploras por vi ankaŭ."
</pre>

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---
categories:
- Poem
ratings: G
date: 2017-02-12
type: post
tags:
- Poetry
- Family
title: Meaning &amp; Self
---
<pre class="verse">
There's some duality between sources of meaning,
Between the types of stories we use to back identity.
It's not quite good &amp; bad or light &amp; dark,
Though I'm not yet sure just how to define it.
Dad used to punish the dogs
by locking then in the basement.
If he was really mad,
he'd toss then down there by the scruff.
Mom moved me &amp; her dogs to a new house &mdash;
moved us three days early during the divorce.
Her dog punched my ex stepdad in the crotch the night before,
the nut-shot to end all nut-shots, &amp; our time there.
Few things make me feel as deeply about life as parenthood,
even if it's just me caring for my dogs.
Some reminders of that are intense enough to be raw, painful,
salt in the wounds of mortality, maybe, or the ache of maternal love.
The meaning behind the story of me &amp; my dogs
comes with a story of its own, or maybe several.
It's bound up in stories to come,
&amp; these stories nest infinitely deep.
Remembering that &amp; shaping that,
It's a part of making the meaning in my life.
This isn't better against worse,
it's not mom against dad.
It's not a dichotomy at all, really,
now that I think about it.
It's something subtler, comfortably complex, a topic of its own.
I guess it's just meaning &amp; self.
</pre>

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---
tags:
- Poetry
type: post
title: Numeno
date: 2018-09-28
categories:
- Poem
- Esperanto
---
<pre class="verse">
Inter ĝuo kaj timo
Estas loko de tro da signifo.
Apud kompreno, ekster saĝo,
Tamen ĝi tutampleksas.
Mi kompareble malgrandas
Kaj ĝi tro granda estas.
Nekomprenebla
Nekontestebla,
Senmova kaj ĉiam ŝanĝiĝema.
</pre>

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---
categories:
- Poem
title: Pale She
type: post
date: 2020-11-17
tags:
- Gender
- Mental health
- haiku
---
<pre class="verse">
Her eye turns inward,
vision dims and movement stills
as winter claims her.
Thoughts like leaves fall slow,
hesitate, drift, rustle, sigh.
Frost-rimed remnants rot.
Some paler she asks:
do you see the sky through me?
Do I frame its mien?
That pale she lacks words.
She does not speak, cannot speak
without the wind's hum.
Still she asks, all breath,
am I invisible yet?
Does snow tend steel skies?
And when her breath fails,
dark branches write on the clouds:
Summer is a dream.
Paler still, she cracks.
Dreams, also, of ax and fire,
false springs to thaw hands.
Silent now, demands:
there must be an end, there must be.
Spring, silence, or fire.
No one answers her.
She stands stark against flat skies,
ice claims bark, claims wood.
Darkness comes heavy.
Sleep for now, sleep forever,
midwinter cares not.
Neither, now, does she.
How could pale wood think of whens?
Of thaws and green things?
The sun tells her lies:
Melting snow will feed your roots,
Seasons imply change.
She does not listen.
Pale she does not believe him:
Brother sun's too quick.
Brother sun tolls days,
and pale she has no more need
for hours with seasons.
Brother sun's movements
are breaths to her: days blink slow
when spring is a dream.
Sister moon speaks now:
follow me, set time by me ---
my months are guideposts.
Pale she sleeps, sleeps still.
Waking her may have listened.
Endless winter calms.
She invites cold in.
Water, crystallized, freezes;
cells lyse, die in droves.
If spring never comes,
pale she supposes, that's fine.
Winter is for dreams.
She'll dream, or she won't.
She'll carry on or she won't.
Cold has claimed heartwood.
No one perceives her.
She becomes terrain's wild hair,
a forgiven sin.
Would she wake for saws?
For axes with keen-edged blades?
Would she even care?
And still the sun sets.
And still the moon waxes, wanes.
And still seasons change.
Should pale she not wake,
venerate her mute demise.
Cut her down, cord her.
A new life in fire,
for pale she gives heat in death.
Let this be her spring.
</pre>

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---
categories:
- Poem
ratings: G
date: 2017-02-12
type: post
tags:
- Poetry
- Romanticism
- Flower language
title: Completed poems from "Missives"
---
<pre class="verse">
Though the flow'r may bloom ere long
and night recede unto the dawn,
so yet may love's embrace grow fond
and still be spoilt upon the wan.
Brave are you and wield your smile:
A cudgel, tool, a keen-edged blade.
You are not wan, love is not spoilt;
thus I be slain and love not fade.
Have I any need for flow'rs?
For nights, for dawns, for words or breath?
With so keen and fond a blade,
There's naught to fear in life or death.
So slay, then slay! For now, I care not how,
I need for naught but that which love allow.
</pre>
-----
<pre class="verse">
Though every climax approach a denouement
And every dawn a night,
Every moment worth sharing
May be worth stealing.
Were it with you,
Delay, then, the morn.
When every touch lingers as if forever
And yet seems to pass too soon,
Hearts reach out to hearts,
To seek, to aim, to keep.
Were it with you,
Delay, then, the morn.
Surely it's cruelty that need begets need begets need,
And yet need may bring pleasure.
Pleasure may hurt, ache, burn,
May steal hours of night.
Were it with you,
Delay, then, the morn.
</pre>
-----
<pre class="verse">
I reach for the ewer of water,
I hope to quench the heat.
I beg for yet another serving,
I hope to fill my need.
The water -- cool -- cools not
Without thy merry presence.
The food fills, passes, is gone --
Yet leaves me empty, yearning.
Though the heart may quicken --
Though the tongue may lap --
I shall sup no greater meal
Than thy gift entrancing.
</pre>
-----
<pre class="verse">
On reading letters late received,
I felt within: the fox --
Yelping, yowling now, crying needfully --
Myself, a craving beast.
You find me at a disadvantage --
Panting and aswish --
Would that distance be traversed as easily
As hearts t'wards yearning hearts!
</pre>
-----
<pre class="verse">
A rose, single, now blooming
may indeed bless the stem,
yet are not roses clipp'd and shown?
Undoubted 'tis a blessing to them
who receive such a gift!
Yet now unmade is the flow'r
which adorns thy mantle with its grace
and withers, however slowly, by the hour,
until 'tis faded to nothing and dust,
though some scent remain forever amidst the must.
A rose, single, now blooming
is perhaps best left on the stem,
its beauty to be admired amidst the growth.
Surely 'tis better to long for that gem,
than witness beauty wilt and dry!
Yet now one must long indeed, must burn,
Must yearn forever for that grace.
To watch that growth, to explore stem's turn,
day by day would destroy, weakening one by the hour,
A rose, single, now blooming, forever holds all pow'r.
</pre>

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---
category:
- Poem
ratings: G
date: 2018-05-20
post: post
tags:
- Poetry
- Gender
- Surgery
title: Post-op images
---
<pre class="verse">
Saturday is for mechanics.
Sunday is for terror.
Monday is for acceptance.
Tuesday is for purging.
Wednesday is for anxiety.
Thursday is for sleep.
<hr />
When I am asleep
The world changes around me.
In spring, I am changed.
<hr />
I'm no good at images, only words,
and yet for days after surgery,
as anesthesia and countless
milligrams, milliliters, millions of
drugs leave my system,
I'm lousy with visions,
each lousy with meaning.
I lay in bed, unable to move,
struggling to keep my eyes open;
I know that if I close them,
I'll be lost, I'll be lost, I'll be
mired in waking dreams,
coherent visions with all the logic
of that paler side of consciousness.
Perhaps the veil here
is still too thin and vague,
the pool too clear, the monsters too scary
too lean, too mean, too hungry, or
perhaps I was too close to death
to come away totally unscathed,
too close to completely survive.
It's as though, laying here,
stinking of hospital,
I'm seeing emotions play out,
Scene after scene, scene after scene,
anxiety shown in heaps of discarded entrails,
hope in the ceaseless ratcheting of gears,
determination in the marching of feet.
If I were an artist, perhaps
I could hope to touch these images,
but as it is, every word falls short,
too vague, too inexact, too tight to
hope to explain something so vast
by the very act of attempting to reproduce;
I can only hint from the margins.
That poetry can accomplish what prose cannot
in its economy of motion
is attractive to me, here in recovery -
so tired, so tired, so tired - so
maybe I can hope to express the dire import
of these visions dancing behind closed lids,
or at least remind myself on rereading.
Even now, a week out,
I'm starting to lose touch with the visions,
I can almost touch them if I squint,
lie real still, don't move now, but
even then, a shadow of the substance...
I'm starting to consign to memory
that which was probably memory to begin with.
<hr />
It is two hundred miles between what I expect and what I want.
Two hundred long strides that seem impassible from one direction,
and from the other a day's short drive.
It is nine and a half hours between question and answer.
A half hour of jazz, nine hours of sleep, a scant second of perspective,
and I can only traverse in one direction
It is eleven inches between who I was and who I am.
Ten of those inches are pain, the eleventh is numb,
There's pleasure to be had in there, I'm promised.
It is twelve years between what I want and what I get:
Ten years of remembering who I will become, two years running,
Eight days dreaming.
<hr />
What have you changed?
<em>My mind</em>
What changed you?
<em>Nothing</em>
What became of it?
<em>I am not who I was</em>
What have you changed?
<em>My name</em>
What changed you?
<em>The word</em>
What became of it?
<em>I am called who I am</em>
What have you changed?
<em>My looks</em>
What changed you?
<em>The light</em>
What became of it?
<em>I am seen as I am</em>
What have you changed?
<em>My chemistry</em>
What changed you?
<em>The substance</em>
What became of it?
<em>My form is my own</em>
What have you changed?
<em>My body</em>
What changed you?
<em>The knife</em>
What became of it?
<em>I am shaped how I am</em>
What have you changed?
<em>Nothing</em>
What changed you?
<em>I was accepted</em>
What became of it?
<em>I accepted myself</em>
What have you changed?
<em>Everything</em>
What changed you?
<em>Everything</em>
What became of it?
<em>I became who I am</em>
</pre>

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---
title: Rush
type: post
date: 2019-06-18
categories:
- Poem
tags:
- Death
---
<pre class="verse">
A flash of coppery sweetness,
A clearing of the sinuses,
A burst of unnamed colors,
A rush of creativity, of wonder,
Velvety softness, a low hum,
And then the wave recedes.
</pre>

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---
category:
- Poem
ratings: G
date: 2018-04-01
type: post
tags:
- Gender
- Poetry
title: Somehow, she's me
---
<pre class="verse">
Her hair is tied with a ribbon
Saying "This is not for you."
She wears a pendant of stamped brass
Saying "Non sum qualis eram."
"I have been a hero since birth,"
She tells herself,
As though that will somehow
Explain her scars.
She pierced her own ears,
But did a shit job of it.
Her tattoos tease around
the edges of her identity.
Her bones are ley-lines,
She tells herself,
Strung with symbols
Heady with meaning.
She has a certain "fuck you" inflected
"Je ne sais quoi" about her.
Her clothes bespeak
carefully constructed laziness.
"I've got my own style,"
She tells herself,
While doing all she can
To not be seen.
She studied order through science
and found it chaotic.
She studied chaos through music
and found it inviable.
"I'll work with words."
She tells herself
She'll write a book,
Or publish stories.
She wanted to be a bus driver
when she grew up.
Then a linguist, then a biologist,
Then a composer, a conductor.
She never wanted to be
What she became;
The irony of which
Is not lost on her.
</pre>

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---
categories:
- Poem
ratings: G
date: 2015-03-06
type: post
tags:
- Animals
- Poetry
title: The Dogs Assure Me
---
<pre class="verse">
The dogs assure me:
There are volumes of meaning &mdash;
Life and death &mdash;
And time;
Past, present, future &mdash;
In the scent of a rotting fish left after the flood,
Or a trace of scat,
Or the coyote, long passed,
But not everyone reads poetry.
I'm not so lucky, all told:
The rich scent of meaning &mdash;
Heady, intoxicating &mdash;
Rises only from words
And the way you rest your hands on the table.
</pre>
-----
*Published in Civilized Beasts 2016*

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---
category:
- Poem
ratings: G
date: 2016-05-04
type: post
tags:
- Mental Health
- Poetry
title: There is too much fire in me
---
<pre class="verse">
There is too much fire in me to be described by the soldering iron's tip.
If I were to draw that across my flesh,
it would all spill out at once.
I'd melt, eaten whole by flames,
and flow into a pool of molten silver.
I would be borne up through the clouds,
and grow lighter by the second.
Sublimation would claim me then,
atoms would scatter, diffuse.
All that energy poured to the air around me,
an imperceptible increase in temperature.
Particle would excite particle
  until I'm felt only as warmth on your face.
But even that would not be enough.
</pre>

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---
tags:
- Poetry
type: post
title: Twitter Haiku Collab
categories:
- Poem
- Haiku
- Collaboration
date: 2018-06-16
---
### [Makyo](https://twitter.com/makyo_writes/status/1008078803225042945)
<pre class="verse">
Seven flies circle,
Trimmers chatter down the block:
The hum of summer.
I listen, silent, waiting,
Breathing in sun and out shade.
</pre>
### [Dwale](https://twitter.com/ThornAppleCider/status/1008368609683369984)
<pre class="verse">
Scent of cinnamon
Light slips over the mountain
Cirrus clouds blushing.
</pre>
### [Mog](https://twitter.com/Mog_K_Moogle/status/1008434362256371718)
<pre class="verse">
Warm wind from the west
Sunlight pours across the plains
Cicadas singing
Four-hundred miles from home
This western land not my own
</pre>
### [Makyo](https://twitter.com/makyo_writes/status/1009131881021837312)
<pre class="verse">
Fig leaves like fingers
paw feebly through still hot air
and come up with naught.
Too early for fruit to droop,
we must wait past midsummer.
</pre>
### [Dwale](https://twitter.com/ThornAppleCider/status/1009137826250625029)
<pre class="verse">
Blackbird headed south
Down to the hawks and kudzu
Six months 'til winter
</pre>
### [CM Averin](https://twitter.com/averincm/status/1009307822738161664)
<pre class="verse">
Redbud and dogwood
feathers bursting from leaf-wait
in the deep of here
underneath cut mountaintops
up and down flooded culverts
</pre>
### [Tarith Averin](https://twitter.com/tarithaverin/status/1009877999217307653)
<pre class="verse">
A light sighing sound,
Wind slipping through leaf and wing,
The heat's brief respite.
</pre>
### [Rayah](https://twitter.com/Rayahbunny/status/1009879693372411907)
<pre class="verse">
A storm is coming
My ears perk at the crashing
It is almost here
The end of a season near
Fresh rain pours from the heavens
</pre>

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---
category:
- Poem
ratings: G
date: 2016-11-14
type: post
tags:
- Poetry
title: When I fall, I will remain whole
---
<pre class="verse">
I keep hoping that, one day,
I'll spring palladial from the bole of a tree.
Fully formed, sexless,
Conceived without desire or intent.
My body will be virginal and clean,
My mind fresh, my soul at ease.
The tree, behind me, will stand crooked,
Bole seeping until time and air dry sap.
I will be a flat expanse of green, made up of new cells.
Everything will work together, a smoothly running machine.
I keep hoping to, one day,
Function with unity, unflagging.
Organized and purposeful,
Intent only on fulfillment.
My vision will be clear and unclouded,
My will affirming, strong, and sure.
And when I fall, I will remain whole,
Confident that I lived well and unapologetic.
</pre>