cleehorn · 6 years ago
Text
in my garage
In my garage are these pieces I take with me from house to house
My mother's gliding rocker      against which she'd thrown her head back, laughing at Seinfeld      falling to pieces like she eventually did      the cushions long gone, stuffing lost           like the breasts they cut from her      screws come loose, and an armrest missing      a broken frame, my fragile mother It sits and nobody sits on it
My grandmother's wedding gown      petite and ivory silk on a virgin      the lace too yellowed to recover           as were the whites of her eyes      some buttons absent, having protested against my adolescent body      hung and exposed in its thin plastic sheath           surely going the way of her body in whatever she is buried Don't remember when it fit me, or when I last sat in her lap
Skis the color of a winter cloud      heaving with snow      adorned by cornflower swirls that circled turns with grace      dulling and scratched, accruing damage           as incrementally as did our marriage      stored and out of practice Inside of them, memories of your patience
Blue felt moving blankets      borrowed from good neighbors who made us laugh in summer      having just wrapped my half of our material life           folded and empty now I should've put one around me, save the cold brutality of separation
These things      for which I no longer have use      whose plastic and wood and fabric hang on the soul           on a traveler through hell
CLH 2015
6 notes · View notes
cleehorn · 6 years ago
Text
forgiving in yellows
lover, where was that place again,      the apartment      where it always rained our spirits, wrought the same,      as they swam through dusty twilight,      heady, resting on my nose
in repose i spied      between strands of hair      your long legs, turning on toes your eyes, electrified,      while you broke time      shrouding windows
that apartment where the light was      forgiving in yellows,      your eyes and mine, heady, our spirits rose      a slick of consciousness,      river-heavy, they wind gathering them into my arms to find only a pile of throws
you laughed about something      in time with the rain           hustlin’      like the light in blue eyes you murmured something electric and made space      as you chose and i thought, how kind
3 notes · View notes
cleehorn · 6 years ago
Text
day 29
dear diary,
i’m trying to stay present.  i’m trying to be aware of all the things happening right now.  as though i’m suspended in a different point in time with every breath, more than with every breath.  each point singular.  i’ll never repeat any of these moments.  they are distinct.  but they are connected.  but only focus on right now.  like that breeze, or that bird, or that cricket.  feel the sun, and now the shade, and then the sun again.  
i doubt myself.  is the warmth i feel on my face not already 8 minutes old?  the starlight millions of years stale?  does the pain in my heart come from so deep in my trove of moments?  how can i still see it?  how can i still feel it?
focus on the right now.  and let it slip through my fingers, and concentrate, and let it go, and be nothing but now, and think nothing but now.  and forget about the source; just be.
1 note · View note
cleehorn · 6 years ago
Text
into the woods
Joel Headley, my lantern-led lover      back seat in a canoe   striking out for health and      good journalism majestic memoir for health      and all else took a back seat   city pleading         receding   your lantern leading you      deeply into the woods and rifle and knife   Mr. Headley, your letters   are misleading   good journalism breaks my heart your memory eternal   and teasing      for good health      I love your words But mostly I love what they’re about
CLH
1 note · View note
cleehorn · 6 years ago
Photo
Tumblr media
Call and answer poetry. This was the answer.
2 notes · View notes
cleehorn · 6 years ago
Text
spaces
are you as delighted as i am by what grows in the spaces by what blooms in tight places inside of what was expected to be something else where there is death something new and i never allowed for spaces wanted tightness and embraces fill my lungs and no traces yet here i am holding spaces for you
6 notes · View notes
cleehorn · 6 years ago
Text
the answer
carrying in their bodies the answer of suffering of death
ambassadors delivering a message we hadn’t asked for made no inquiry about
floating in the dirty air descend to defense they bring along the answer
and we’ll know it at the last minute all made clear when the b  o tt   o   m s    e t              t       l   e             s
and the birds flee a last time before it comes, we’ll know
as they circle, perfect hung thirst driving ours and they’ll feed us  the answer
the death of the old in their bodies in ours
0 notes
cleehorn · 6 years ago
Text
polyappendage dreams
how ambitious is our Mother or persistent
see the vine splinter the post stone walls stupefied by youthful oaks
see a crèche of young mosquitos       softly against invisible matter      a blurry singularity      hovering in unison      recreating in their boundary the living lung expires; they resume
that the lake should shrink and freeze that the rain should make it swell anew
how tenacious is the wild to be wild
see a lean, sweaty body taking rest beneath only invisible stars
see the craggy brow of the wild      ridge against invisible matter      a climax of thoughtfulness      dividing beside stillness      populated by polyappendage dreams the diaphragm snaps; it barely flinches
go ahead and build, she whispers so resolute in her vibrations that shake us all to life, to death.
0 notes
cleehorn · 6 years ago
Text
In both places
Old trees
So old and wide
So tall their bottoms are pulled away from the ground in their skyward stretch
The shoulders of their roots, and the caverns in their trunks
One opens itself to me
I lie in, rolling on my back
The cavern embraces me
Eyes closed I push back, pretending you and your spaces
And for a moment I’m in your bed, belly down
Your perfect body fitting itself behind mine
Arms on arms
And the water rushes by
In both places
2 notes · View notes
cleehorn · 6 years ago
Text
By the
Rolled over by the waving seedhead
Touched lightly by the breath of June
Made brighter by the light of thousands
I stood beneath a crescent moon
Pulled inward by the spinning giant
Made holy by the sweet festoon
Turned empty by the world around me
I stood beneath a crescent moon
3 notes · View notes
cleehorn · 7 years ago
Text
Repair
My mind assailed my heart,      and my heart beat back my thought. Nothing could be found      in the fugue of violence brought, and the tension twixt the two      warped all the progress wrought from civil, dumb control,      and unnatural patience taught. Here, then my body bends;  flexibility hope mends.
Yet fear made brittle bones,      so the framework of resolve was a fragile skeleton      of decisions that would solve a series of mistakes      that from path hath led me off. Delicately I would step,      hoping to find sin absolved. Unhappy trio I did make; body, mind and heart all break.
The three of us pressed on,      one tormented by the other, fain to hold the blame,      while the solemn truth we smother. Yet an angel in my ear      said, “The unrequiting Lover, the one who made you whole,      has set you all asunder.” We stopped dancing, weapons drawn, to take in a newborn dawn.
My mind drew in a breath      as if to focus sharpen, and a soft’ning of my heart      as if to fine words hearken. One party in forgiveness      and in brotherhood did mark him, and thus the two aligned,      a new humble journey starting. Caught in revolving plight: that which divided did unite.
In reverent observation      my body found delight, to witness heart and mind      emerge from chilly, hopeless night, freshly bound in common goal      having bathed in dawn’s bent light. I pushed my shoulders back,      the horizon in my sight. What’s beyond I don’t yet know, but happy, three of us, we go. CLH
4 notes · View notes
cleehorn · 7 years ago
Text
72
Desire, though thou my old companion art,      And oft so clings to my pure Love that I      One from the other scarcely can descry, While each doth blow the fire of my heart, Now from thy fellowship I needs must part:      Venus is taught with Dian’s wings to fly;      I must no more in thy sweet passions lie; Virtue’s gold now must head my Cupid’s dart.      Service and honor, wonder with delight, Fear to offend, will worthy to appear, Care shining in mine eyes, faith in my sprite: These things are left me by my only dear;   ��  But thou, Desire, because thou wouldst have all,      Now banished art.  But yet alas how shall?
Astrophil and Stella, Sir Philip Sidney
1 note · View note
cleehorn · 7 years ago
Photo
Tumblr media
at Greenfield Center, New York
0 notes
cleehorn · 7 years ago
Text
the night is still the night
at least the night is still the night if i am caught between the brook racing by the field building globes throwing it’s papery rustle from beyond the trees and the piano inside deep and sweetly pulling at my daughter’s heart her hands uniting beats and strings i see the space where it blends snow become warm by the glow from my windows and the sky made big by tiny far stars
at least the night is still the night and the owls beg tales of each other despite the branches curling with snow their dark plumage a shock against squalls that fall like a curtain bleeding white in the air before reaching the ground obscuring everything all the way down
when the night is still the night i can make my breath whole again and round my dog runs, dark against the ground sprung like the tension of a baby’s laugh and i can count on tracks in the snow seducing his nose at least
the night is still the night and my feet slide under covers as the light surrenders and yawns i come home to your arms and my dreams can’t compete all i need is my foot against your calf no matter the day when the night is still the night
3 notes · View notes
cleehorn · 7 years ago
Quote
Of course I’ll hurt you. Of course you’ll hurt me. Of course we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring, means accepting the risk of winter. To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence…
Antoine de Saint Exupéry, The Little Prince (via books-n-quotes)
3K notes · View notes
cleehorn · 7 years ago
Text
woman
today I saw a woman taking a picture of her own paintings hanging in the Community Art Center.  She recently switched to acrylics and hates it.  Though as a medium, it is more forgiving than water colors.
today I saw a wedding in Congress Park, and a crowd gathered around the guests.  At first, you could only hear the violinist and see the group’s anticipation.  At the third chorus, the bride emerged from behind the garden wall.
today I saw a woman parallel parking her SUV while another SUV passed.  It was full of 20 year old guys who yelled out, “Nice job, asshole!” A line of cars had been growing behind her, and she had short hair and a smile.
3 notes · View notes
cleehorn · 7 years ago
Text
drying up with time
Ideas, bad ones, landed in her mind like spores, charging her faculties with their nursery until they were ripe and ready to explode with consequence. Impulsivity festered inside of her, scratching at the underside of her skin. She grasped the weapon she’d recently found, the space inside, the movement from then to then. It was heavy and awkward, but when holding it, when attending to time, she found that the spores withered, some drying up entirely.
1 note · View note