Cyndi Dawson

The Passing of Things

'You sit to have waves rush to your open hands
and you're surprised as cities grow there...'
-Jim Carroll (from To a Poetess)

Blue light in the mirror;
A reflection of sorts.
Of razor words resting,
and melancholy tongue.
This, my loss for words.
Everything has changed,
in this generation game
played out. Flashbacks of
blue, and my eyes--
ribboned, tied like parcels.
My bouquet for you.
My requiem. For you.
Events transpire and yet...
the stillness of softness;
the fragility of us
leaves me wanting...
Why does it surprise to
learn of the passing of things?
Oh, this loss for words--
damn it! I so wanted to
say something worthy....
but all I hold is this--
Blue as your eyes, this light.
It ever so slowly settles,
then disappears, as all things do.

Two am in America

It is two am in America.

Your television set is now white noise

drowning out sounds of

white hooded aliens burning

corn fed crosses on a lawn

Somewhere in the Midwest

The smell of gasoline

emasculates their alien hard ons

It is two am in a

mid western town

In America

A man with brown skin

looks out his window

His children are awakened by

the pitch of a scream

White hooded aliens drooling

broken homed saliva

cheer these flames

and bore the imprint of their

Christ symbol into ground

at two am some anonymous

town some anonymous town

some milk drinking community

in the Mid West in

Alien territory and it is

two am in America....

Where was Mine?

So what? Leaves blew. I was bundled in soft fleece
umbrella tightly wound
Dead centre of patio table
a sure sign your smile had altered, stitched
as it were
The crows. Everywhere.
Telephone wires filled with them.
Everything comes to some remnant of self,
we say...
Everything gasps for last gulps of before
to become refugee in newer seasons, falling leaves and all.
You became a fugitive within your own skin, even now.
You shake thunderous rage as storms grow luminous
in your eyes
brewing winds, warning signs.
There. Had I seen.
This world tells us move on but we stall. We fight.
We hold trunk of tree white knuckled revealing shadowed
desperation
not to let go.
So what? Stiff crimson leaves blew:
cold wrapped around. Us.
Time is cruel as frost
Yet we engage it.
I pull loose threads from your blue lips
tug upwards for one full smile
(trees are small in comparison)
Around us worlds reach for survival.
Isn't that what living things do?
What we do, too?
I reached for your smile
it hung there like a crescent from one single thread.
Winds roared, then descended down. Willing to kill.
Where was my crescent, I wondered...
Where was mine?

2009