Poem: Chains

Chains

Rusted, they no longer hold you,
no longer bind you to the past, straining
like Atlas holding a world not
of your making,

no longer wrapped around you
like a death embrace, false protection,
false love, false truth. No,
they are now

museum pieces, and you wonder
how you made them, what
madness caused you to forge each link,
one by slow one, what

blindness could not see the binding
was not theirs,
but yours and you laugh
even as you forge new links. 

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The picture was taken in Rupert, VT. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: How I See It

How I see it. 

In my eyes
you are younger,
smoother of skin,
wiser,
far more interesting,
thinner,
smarter,
stronger, more
desirable,
and more powerful
than you will ever believe.

This is not blindness.
This is love,
and it is more true than truth.

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This is both a love poem, and a poem about how God sees us. Finding a picture to do both was hard, so in the end, I picked something that is simply a picture, not meant to illustrate the poem, per se. This shot is of the window sill of the house I lived in while in Virginia. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: The Utter Uselessness of Facts

The Utter Uselessness of Facts

I can remember the facts too clearly,
the quiet afterwards, after
the truth had been spoken
and settled over the room
like death, like a plaque of silent locusts
pausing before the feast,
my heart still, not beating, afraid
to break the silence, afraid
that continuing it's metronomic dance
would give the truth shape, and presence and power, sure
that speaking would dress it in mourning
and parade it around like a manic wrath.

And so, time stopped.
Life stopped.
Love stopped, and

truth, rearranging itself like clouds
on a March wind,
shape shifting with each new word,
each new revelation,
leaving you not bitter,
but breathless
at the utter uselessness of facts.

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The picture is of the window in my kitchen, which somehow made me think of Emily Dickinson. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: A Confluence of Lies

A Confluence of Lies

You close your book,
aware of history being rewritten
not by the victors,
but by imagination,
fear, disbelief, lenses

driven by every mind's ability
to lie to ourselves more effectively
than others lie to us,

a confluence of lies.
like a river swollen in spring,
carrying us to the sea
of our own choosing.

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The picture was taken in Williamsburg. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: The Art of Self Exposure

The Art of Self Exposure

It is slow,
a deathly climb,
a tightrope dance
in darkness

with the dawn slithering
towards you, each moment
reveling your truest
beauty, your truest

fear,

until you stand,
sun reflecting off your soul
in a place where
you will remain frozen forever, or

where
you leap into the abyss
for the audience to see

all.

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This poem was written after reading this article on "The Art of Self Exposure" on the Oprah web site.

The picture was taken at Carowinds, near Charlotte, NC, on a recent trip with my son's middle school band. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: of Broken Barns

Of Broken Barns

You enter the clearing and see the small barn,
it's slate roof sagging,
it's walls twisted,
each window gazing in different directions,
a building so twisted,

so worn with age
and battered by the cold New England winds,
so broken by time's cruelty,
that it has no right to stand, and yet

it does, shelter still
from rain and snow,
it's black potbelly stove holds fire
and heat, like love,

always fueled from within,
a warmth belied
by the broken exterior
that is all you see,

unless you look past peeled paint,
beyond the half rotted clapboard,
past all appearances,
and in.

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This wonderful little barn, all warped and sagging, is one of my favorite buildings in Dorset, Vermont. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom