tiny poems by Grant Hackett
where rose stem ends
a small white stone
uneasy skies
many are the sad decisions that chain my birds to your sky
another year drifts into the house
another year hoping to be healed
as if one can abstain from new skies
from the gift of empty skies
sycamore shines like a skull
happy to be alone alive
we pull off our clothes look deep into each other
death says we were born to become water
the white rose dies unable to bleed
and the dreamer in the green curl of a wave
remains as dry as a star
and the smallest voice that can be heard
is as thin as the wall between us
and the solstice, shall it fail this year?
and how many know the solstice of ruin,
and live a brief life shivering in the sun?
in winter when thirst is past. i will try
to remember the creamy flesh of silence. made ready
without the pain of words. in peony.
past the time of blossoms.
the heart follows her children.
past sunset. past stars.
shadow. the color of sleep.
or the color of life remembering
another life.
move the stone from its place. i go blind.
peck an eternal spiral on the skin of the stone.
turn me into light.
ironweed. the holy motive of wildflower.
green begins to rain inside chrysalis. and within
rain's iron interiority, a torch.
like a bell that is about to ring. like the swim
in a midnight harbor. with the strength of arcs and arches.
spirals. path's completed. darkness flowers.
the black suit fits. like a bruised sky.
moths flee my shadow.
dusted with light.
summer sun licking firewood dry.
sweet scent. sap blood.
subtle spirit of fire.
june. the sky is voice. the lake
walks beside me. we are barefoot.
we are a poem. i did not think i was writing.
shall i find my way through summer by the map on a monarch's wing