The River East Writers

After the Dinner Party

2009-02-08T17:43:00.000-08:00

You two sit at the table late, each, now and then,
Twirling a near-empty wine glass to watch the last red
Liquid climb up the crystalline spin to the last moment when
Centrifugality fails: with nothing now said

What is left to say when the last logs sag and wink?
The dark outside is streaked with the casual snowflake Of winter's demise, all guests long gone home, and you think
Of others who never again can come to partake

Of food, wine, laughter, and philosophy -
Though tonight one guest has quoted a killing phrase we owe
To a lost one whose grin, in eternal atrophy,
Now in dark celebrates some last unworded jest none can know.

Now a chair scrapes, sudden, on tiles, and one of you
Moves soundless, as in hypnotic certainty,
The length of table. Stands there a moment or two,
Then sits, reaches out a hand, open and empty.

How long it seems till a hand finds that hand there laid,
While ash, still glowing, crumbles, and silence is such
That the crumbling of ash is audible. Now naught's left unsaid
Of the old heart-concerns, the last, tonight, which

Had been of the absent children, whose bright gaze
Over-arches the future's horizon, in the mist of your prayers.
The last log is black, while ash beneath displays
No last glow. You snuff candles. Soon the old stairs

Will creak with your grave and synchronized tread as each mounts
To a briefness of light, then true weight of darkness, and then
That heart-dimness in which neither joy nor sorrow counts.
Even so, one hand gropes out for another, again.

Epiphany

2009-02-08T17:36:00.000-08:00

While you're gazing in the mirror all the names change.
It will all be all right, you've said, when push comes to shove
And the snow's sheer mortal diamond will have left us
Its legacy of watergallop and what-have-you: it will be
A question of reflection, not this heartlessness of lightbreak,
The horrid jag edge of shadow.
Take, for instance, this morning:
Beneath the ice-clamp of Casperkill Creek you saw clear water
Run into its own life against the odds, making (the way things
Will) a fresh start. Just as a raucous, high-minded, truth-telling
Matter-of-fact congregation of crows comes tumbing.

Little Puddles, Spring Bucket, the Earth Awash

2009-02-08T17:28:00.000-08:00

with bees, green tea leaves and sassafras,
garden mint so pungent the shut window
can't shut it out ---we lie there, bathed in sweet wet breath of angels
who envy our lips' blessed rush of flesh
on flesh they must turn their eyes from in pain of their own want of a body
we step out of when making love,
vessel we hover above in spent moments, so sweetly deep we've thrashed to come
out this other side, flushed and astonished
to have plucked ourselves free of want: pink and hardy weed whose roots sprout
among puddles on breast and belly
and thigh---tomorrow's lubricious blossom

Braided Nights

2008-11-27T13:07:00.000-08:00

Nights
Thousands sleeping side by side
Our bodies imprint curves
Polishing skins surface
Like a canoe hewn from rough logs
Whittled smooth with time

The day's distractions dissipate under covers
Breathing rhythms dance
A soft tango together
As night deepens and
Dreams float unfettered
Through serene, cool bedroom air

In early morning
If old grief ambushes us
We turn to one another
Elongating to comfort
Sensuous and somnolent
Hesitant to depart such familiar land
As our shared bed

Small Town Hangover

2008-11-27T10:50:00.000-08:00

Small Town Hangover

Hey let's ditch this place
Walk through campus to empty streets
Past closed stores where debris blows along the curbs

No need for talk
Three a.m. makes close company
Let's stink up the streets with our tequila stench
Sweet sour sweat
Stalking headache cures like feral cats stalk mice

Yeah a sign of life
Ungodly early some baker bakes bread for this town
And its yeasty cloud covers the cool air
As couples share beds in dark bedrooms
Two snuggling warm bakery buns
Not hung-over like us
No stomachs turn churning
Other townies are not in bed at all
They watch our street steps from a dirty curtain
Pushed slightly aside
Mouthing curses at us 'careless college kids'

Let's keep trudging down the night alleys
Greenly lit and suspended for three more hours
When these fine folks will face the day
Just as we turn home to vomit and sleep
Waiting for the next party

Welcome...

2008-08-25T18:15:00.001-07:00

to the River East Writers blog!

Here we shall let inspiration flow and write what we really mean.

- TZP