Ling Poems 2003 – 2017

Before they became poems my morning pages were a permission to feel and to articulate that feeling, an admission to myself I was capable of other than numb.

Slowly they became breath, the metric of the breath literally the length it took to exhale, in words, the feeling.

Resistance gradually became habit, became a celebration. Such is the magic of Ling.

A handful of these triumphs appear in these  pages.

 

 

 

 

                        Search Out

 

A         way

back   into

this  daylight

even lamp  lit

           some-

times

wherein you all

reside.

Can tell

you’re out there,

strain to see

your vague

silhouettes.

Desire

         more of you,

in focus.

Want

to smell you,

size you up

even touch you.

Want to feel

the mark of

your footprint.

Time       has

come

         kneading

this undeparted

membrane,

hoping for break

through

maybe restless rolling

will scour

this capsule

shred                 it

perhaps

between my outstretched

fingers.

One more contrac-

tion

      and I’ll be gone

one more

     after that

this chamber

embraces         only

your

       footprints.

Arrived          again.

                 My great

urge              greets

the    marsh  stench

with  fists  clinched

into  wet salty sand,

recovering,  witness

to  endorphin   surf,

drying          slowly

in the          searing,

relentless

chill onshore wind.

                   With no

clothing  or  facility

to     survive    here:

betrayed.

Were    there   other

than       exhaustion

the     only    shelter

would     be   terror

                searching

to adapt.

I    shake   the  flies

from   the   tattered

remnants

            of my womb

and  second   guess

this contract,

this    fruit  of    my

desire.

                            [September 2013]

 

~~~~~~~~~~                 

                                       Ausborn

                      Membrane. Wall. Like a stage backdrop

And through it tears other me’s, they––

you come to me.

                           This is new, warrants

scrutiny, even celebration.

Not only my me’s but your you’s.

                                                         I

didn’t notice at first, others––commun-

ity. They’ve, you have, arrived in my in-

side space. You walk, I watch, through

that canvas tear.

                          Why have you arrived

here? In my psyche?

                                 Are you a story I’m

to write, a prompt from whoever voices

the next line in front of the curtain with

me, us?

            A part of me wants you to go a-

way, wonders if I died or am about to.

This I find disturbing when outside ar-

rives inside, never went that direction

before.

           I’d like to understand, welcome

the change but my dramatic must resist

first this surprise.

                            In this arrival for cer-

tain a story to write––a gift given––&

an urgency.

                 I, you, we’re set in our ways

we pay close attention the day the sun

sets in the east

                        in a rain storm.

                                                                                         [March 2017]

 

~~~~~~~~~~

 Attachments

 

 

By my attachments
I mean

those familiars

            I hope for

or cling to

            which I believe

 buttress or create

 safety

          well being

             comfort-

ability

by which I

walk my walk.

Find myself

                 arrived

like a clearing

in dense woods

where for just

a moment

               the high

sun angle

              overwhelms

my sight

            a flash

soft shoulder tap

reminds me

                   take

stock

of the path lost

to thick young

brush.

Blind before the open

sky

     scurries me

against

the thicket

                pries my

safely

clinched fingers

                       free

to unwind so many

                        little

 moments

                         when

 womb

              strung

my birth

               wound or spun

                               fifty year’s

macramé.

Dis-

traction

on purpose

            refusing to step

into the clearing

the price

              self mothered

safety

                      created

before imagined

horrors,

            before

the sun really shines.

                                                                                                                 [April 2005]

 

 

 


REUNION, A Long Story Short to your inbox FREE

* = required field
American born L Dalton White lives this chapter of what has been an amazing journey in a small village in the Westerwald region of Germany. Since 2007 Dalton has had the opportunity to focus on fiction. With The Book of Jake and Complicity published, he continues with several other novels. They include Playing In The Band, Crackup, The Carpenter’s Companion, and So Long As It’s A Glass.