Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Happiness Begrudges An Interview - A poem

Happiness Begrudges An Interview

Before you ask
It is cold out
I will not be staying,
not with you like this,
having to be
like a doll for you
to dress up and parade
down one street after another.

No! I will not
be doing that again,
nor will I
be handing out
to my house.

If you want
to find me,
you’ll have to stop
all that incessant chatter,
call and then listen,
call and then listen…

Any questions?

Saturday, January 22, 2011

When You Wake To - A poem

When You Wake To

the neighbor’s dog half awake and whining again

the middle of the night fog


mice that don’t really care what they are waking to, only
that they can
move through the darkness

of their little worlds, locate
a bite of bread or something
to chew on every now and then.


a heartbeat, yours, your lover's,
the merger of the two


a rustling in the trash can
near the foot of the mattress,
giving rise to thoughts
that maybe the midnight snack
wasn’t the best idea

a hard rain
the neighbor’s toilet running:
competition at 3am


tiny feet fleecing the fiberglass
behind the sheet-rock

thoughts of your vow not to kill
as you take a shoe
slam hard, once,
on the wall,
hoping that whatever falls
takes with it the rain

Sunday, January 16, 2011

if you’re longing for a clear answer to your questions- a poem

if you’re longing for a clear answer to your questions

to be sure
the Mississippi is too busy
making its way down south
to stop and tell you

to be sure,
it’s too busy being itself
to warn you of the myriad of ways

just turn away –
under the pines behind you,
how those mangy feral cats
lift their legs without a trace of shame,
spray the trunks of the trees
with hot urine, and then claw
at the bottoms
as if to signal
to the world
that they have finished
what they came to do.

surely there is nothing else,
don’t you think

as the wind burns the tips
of your ears,
of your heart

and the river
so seemingly still,
long and fabulously ordered,
breathing in every cloud,
fallen branch,
and ray of sun

taking you along for the ride,
whether you like it or not.

Saturday, January 8, 2011



i have a way of
meddling, figuring,
picking up red leaves
and trying to return them
to the trees.

take the stories of birth
and death, how they’re
blown out by a language
so fixed and nostalgic
it barely touches the ground.

with every breath, another
string of busy body consonants
annexing the space
between my ears.

with every hurried step,
another string of boorish vowels
slopping up the land
i claim to love.

is it any wonder why
you feel so all alone?
looking as you do
with those timid, brown eyes,
at every passing

bare branch, believing
this one could be it,
the one, trying
on your tippy toes
to touch the bark, confirm
what never needed to be.

How Many Tears

How Many Tears

How many tears must I shed
before you see this life
for exactly what it is?

Endless white mountains
blocking every step;
the heart cannot beat
fast enough
to make a fire

Time has never been
an enemy,
but too often you have chosen
to make it so.

The ice on the river
barely goes below the surface;
even the pressure
of a single foot could break it,
if only you’d step forward.

There’s nothing lost
in crying, so long as
it’s let to stain you,
through the skin
straight to the marrow
without stopping
in front of mirrors.

How many tears must I shed
before you see this life
for exactly what it is?

A lone crow calling
from a barren tree;
the midnight moon
melting the snow
before these very eyes.
Creative Commons License
Creative Writing the Dharma by nathan thompson is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at