Category Archives: Writing

Almost Everything

I’ve found out
how little I can live with
in the aftermath
of a shared life
that was full
of accumulations
possessions
baggage
clutter
stuff
piled high enough
to interfere
with my peace of mind
and going from room to room
I choose only those things
I can’t live without
and to my surprise
what I can live without
is almost everything.

 

 

 

 

 

DeMaris
4-30-17

Melting 

He says he loves me
whatever that means–
could be
on his bucket list
to fall
for a girl
who could seduce him
with words–
but now
he’s in too deep
to take it back
since he knows
I’m willing to turn myself
inside out
to please him
and to prove that every
accommodation
I make for him
is just the tip
of an iceberg
he alone is melting.

 

 

DeMaris
4-16-17

Photo by Ansel Adams

Your Name

I know one day
I’ll be buried
under these memories
instead of your body
draped so casually
over mine
because I’m running
out of excuses
for why I need
the entire Sunday
afternoon to do
what could be done
on any other day
in half the time—
and those lies I tell
are so flimsy
and weakened
by my love for you
that it’s just
a matter of time
before I’ll come clean
with a confession—
and your name will
be so heavy
down in my heart
I don’t know how
I’ll lift it into my voice
without breaking.

 

 

 

 

DeMaris
4-4-17

“The Lovers” by Rene Magritte, 1928

Justification

You are candy
and decadence
and everything
I shouldn’t have
because you are
bad for me and
I’m bad for you
even though we
feel right in the
bright afternoon
laying together
without words
and without any
need to speak or
ask questions or
try to make sense
of what we are
doing by coming
here again to get
away from what
our lives mean
in the absence of
each other, which
is what most lives
mean—which is
to say it’s a kind
of duty we want
to get away from
for a short time
and we happen to
be perfect for each
other if you can
look at it that way.

 

 

 

 

DeMaris
4-1-17

“Hylas and the Nymphs” John William Waterhouse, 1896

 

 

Another Sunday Afternoon

You were already hanging on
by a thread today
when you answered the phone
with as much normal in your voice
as you could muster
and you listened to your spouse
explain the need for something
unneeded
and you don’t have the patience
or the desire
to pay attention anymore
to what amounts to gibberish
after the mad money
goes up in smoke every afternoon
so you hung up the phone
and packed your bag
and wished upon a star
you could be gone when he gets home
but you just sit on the bed
with the keys in your shaking hands
because you know
you have nowhere else to go.

 

 

 

 

 

 

DeMaris
3-26-17

“Repose” by John Singer Sargent, 1911

 

 

First Encounter

Funny
how the mind
finds as much
excitement
in memory
as it does
in the infinite hope
of daydreams—

thrilling
as it is
to imagine
what’s to come,
what encounters
we have
to look
forward to—

it’s the
memory
of my navel
becoming
a cup
for your pleasure
that makes me
smile and pause—

and I stop
whatever it is
that needs
to be done
so I can slip
beneath you
once again
when I close my eyes.

 

 

 

 

DeMaris
3-9-17

Duane Michals, 1969 “The Young Girl’s Dream”

The Dawn of Man

The stick.

How long did it lie on the ground
before some freshly-human being
picked it up and reached into the tree
with an astonishing new arm—
straight and long with an accurate aim?

The fruit fell down.

How long before it caught on—
until everyone else saw the sense in it?
The way it made life a little easier
and a little more fun.

Was it unintentional,
that first violent contact?
The stick coming down accidentally
on the head of a brother—
the fruit rolling away
from the splatter of blood.

Such an event
must have ignited some pre-fire temper
that swelled into an agonizing grunt—
and though there were no words yet for apologies,
it was clear what kind of pain was possible
with this new tool.

Imagine, now, the others—
open mouthed, slowly backing away
from the one who made the accidental blow.
And when his reason told him to show them the culprit,
the perpetrator raised his stick above his head.

When they shrank to the ground
and covered their heads,
he felt a rush of control
and was the first to realize,
before language could explain it,
that fear was a kind of power
which would never be improved.

 

 

 

DeMaris
7-24-11