And, because one of my most cherished memories involves listening to this song on the radio while my Dad drove me home from the park one summer evening…
Poetry and Prose. Written by Miles Tsue over the summer, in Canada and at Cazadero.
I write poetry too. Here is some, to whet your appetite for words…
The Darker Side of You
It is pitch black out there,
When young men drop like rain
And the dew of yesterday’s fears
Gathers on the soil of your grandmother’s garden.
Inside the City, the light
Shines eternally, and so I see—
I can tell in your eyes
That Solace in silence cannot quench
Of an eternity’s worth of longing.
It only indicts your crumbling heart more.
It is pitch black out here
Out in the frigid wind,
In your melting heart, like wax
On a lit, forgotten-about candle stick,
Blows my fears away when
I see it.
It isn’t posturing—it is likely the most beautiful
Thing I’ve ever seen
The grass grows quicker, and I
can’t wait for you
to look at me
The world is the mother that abandoned you.
I want my heart to stop beating.
It is a malaise of time.
When the clock ticks, I feel
A grimy taste down my throat.
My vision blurs like a drunk man’s.
When the clock chimes the hour,
Sound as if they alert us
That the end of time is near.
Outside, there lives a lizard
Made of stone.
He sits quietly atop a chair, looking at me.
I don’t think he likes the light
And keeps blinking his epicanthal folds.
— (May 29th, 2016)
The Darker Side of Her
She lays on his bed, ashen-faced,
Smoking cheap cigarettes. Sober as the night sky,
Quiet as a mountain,
And tears lay suspended,
Mired in her eyes.
It is pitch black out there.
But I stand outside her bedroom window,
And I remember when men would drop like rain
On black pavement,
On their knees, prostrate
In front of her, just so
They could have a chance
To go and have coffee with the woman
Who laughed and loved at everything.
‘Yes’ was a sacred word for them,
The mere sound of the sibilance,
Like a snake hissing,
Gave them chills.
When she walked,
They turned into little toy poodles.
Now I realize
That shadows followed her
wherever she went,
Gravity of the moon
Pulled her in,
Pulled the seeing eye
Closer to the primordial,
And all were drawn to her
Like the gravity of the sun.
—(May 30th, 2016)
Tenderness Dies (June 6th, 2016)
Things broken on a shelf.
Tender nostalgias. A mug cracked in two.
The dog ambles into the kitchen,
Sniffs around, leaves unsatisfied.
Memories broken, exorcised at
The final stage of denial to rescue the last
Whispers of vanity.
The little girl who walks home from school
Feels lighter than he
Who picks up the fragments of his crinkled-up life.
She is too young to feel lonely.
She sits and braids her hair, thinking
How very adult it would be, to be bitter.
The Boy looks in the Mirror (June 10th, 2106)
And sees beams
light seeping through
As dew in Spring
Vibrant was the ring
Of daffodils blooming in the field
Echoes of the night that lightened his heart.
An old haven (June 17th, 2106)
Sun, dew, mist parting
She—that day of passion—
Spring had blossomed full,
the growing grass,
the dew melting on the blades,
and your glance
Parting. Sunlight dappled over grass,
That familiar meadow glade
seemed different then
We were safe and warm
Worldly tortures veiled and unknown
But in time, your troubled mind
Sought food which was
scarce, but glowing brightly
like a gem gleaming in the light,
could feed a whole village
Your milky skin trembled
Gusts of wind made your shirt dance
Sitting as always on the block of granite,
where we sat before, when memory and time melted
into one stew of buttery bliss
Where sun, moon, rain, stars, shooting stars
became friends with us, shared their
loving hospitality with us
I left to visit the glade again,
saw the imprint of your fingers
brushed over the rock a thousand-thousand times
Later, I saw the imprints of feet in the sand
Which disappeared in the wind, later
One among the crowd (June 21st, 2016)
lemons, aviator shades
of sunny days at the park,
at the chess table
with the white king in mate.
My breath, solid, turgid,
coming in spurts
sends a sighing song
on little zephyrs.
A friend among the crowd,
She is engaged
In animate conversation,
gracefully, like a fern tree
dancing with the breeze.
My feet take me closer to her, but they are
so far away,
and my feet so heavy,
I cannot judge
consciousness from desire.
In fact, as I walk,
These two things meld
Together into a
Confused mental alloy.
(an older man who had played black before leaving)
Spoke of these things aforementioned.
He told me stories about
Chasing tequila down
With lemon wedges—
about cruising down Main Street
winking at girls walking by—
about his swallowing his wife’s
future engagement ring
to protect it from a jealous friend—
and about sitting alone by a creek,
thinking of nothing but water.
And, his dog.
The sun sailed resplendent between
two tall maple trunks,
leaves fanning over them
like masts on an ocean-galleon.
The sun twinkled and flitted coyly between the leaves…
Then grass smelled nice…
The crowd passed by…
A kid ran and ran and ran in circles…
My friend (I won’t tell you her name)
had looked back before
disappearing over the hill.
I almost caught her eye. I stood in
the middle of the park, in the middle of the road, idle, thinking
while the cheery sun
Reflections (June 21st, 2106)
Reflections of a pair of sunglasses
remind us that the world
looks back at us.
It sees what affects its
rolling hills and waters
and never looks away.
The waters of the sound
wink back at us.
The fingers of the tide
tickle our feet,
telling us little gossips.
and the birds and squirrels
flutter, twitter, shriek
in agitation and fancy.
Earth spins too quickly, sometimes.
I see as much love in a bunch
of falling fruit
as I do with the touch of
passionate lovers on a bench.
I hear as much melody in the humming whale
as the rumbling of the symphony orchestra.
So many earthen lovers
on the most spiritual of mothers,
the birthplace of the most wonderful coitus of the