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Rhys Matthew Poem
fragile rice papers
cling to a thrashed wicker wall
and silent gazes
kanji-stained blots become buds
some bloom into ureshii
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1. "Ureshii" means happiness (Japanese).
2. Formerly titled Minamisanriku's List.
Copyright © Rhys Matthew | Year Posted 2011
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Rhys Matthew Poem
At
first
a fib
nothing more
or that’s what he thought
but one economical truth
wasn’t enough, so his spinnerets spun some fresh lines
one needs fairly few words to speak the pure truth, but many more so to hold up a lie
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N.B.: dedicated to my two of my favorite Italians, who share a "growing" propensity.
and maybe Sylvio Berlusconi, too.
Copyright © Rhys Matthew | Year Posted 2011
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Rhys Matthew Poem
The mourning sun struggled to shine
over the good earth
longing for uprooted seeds,
O-Lan’s second bamboo shoot
harvested far too soon.
The eighth page of
my American newspaper
casually mentions
Sixty Million
Missing,
as is our rage.
Silent choruses
of Asia's daughters
during this thirty-year long
monsoon of tears
cry out in unison:
Was gender our only crime,
or was it the cruelty of order?
(to form an even
more perfect union,
one child-no second chance,
second child-no first chance.)
Inhuman actuaries
compute the
fair market value of
rare Punjabi jewels as
the opportunity cost
of their ultimate dowries,
while surplus men pine.
O blind new world
proud of its
amniotic intelligence,
so unaware of the
consequences of
unnatural selection,
last night I dreamt
Heaven’s narrow gates
welcoming millions
scarcely born,
its vast expanse
unable to contain
our aggregate guilt,
the billions of us who
remain.
Copyright © Rhys Matthew | Year Posted 2011
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Rhys Matthew Poem
An old tennis ball
near your resting head
waits patiently for a sign, biding its time.
Sunday’s sleek playground rocket
is Monday's slumbering sentry
dog-tired from yesterday’s triumphs.
Rescue dogs rummaged
Trade Center rubble undaunted by danger
Nine-Eleven just another reason to please,
and a pound's little penitent
cramped in a Salt Lake City kennelbox
waited patiently for a sign, biding her time
to save a family,
to be our unsuspecting guide,
a seeing eye through which we see life anew:
We taught you to sit
and obey our commands; you teach us
the secrets of dog-grace,
to judge not,
and how you would lay down your life
without first having to find your inner dog.
We filled your bowl
with tapwater to lap, and in turn
you pour out your undying loyalty.
We gave you a mat
in the corner, and for that
you ask for no greater privilege than
to guard our house
with your own precious life,
shark-eyed friend.
They say Dogwood
takes seven years to bloom.
You would have waited that long for us
wouldn’t you, our floppy-eared pal?
Go get the ball, girl! Time to play!
Copyright © Rhys Matthew | Year Posted 2011
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Rhys Matthew Poem
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘
This rain will not stop
its relentless reproach,
a slow erosion of soul.
A weeping dark well
of syncopated
teardrops tap, tap
again and again,
and again.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘
Through a blurred window,
an opaque view into
seasons of sorrows,
melancholy dreams
felt yet not fleeting.
Life's brackish silt
in a rivulet drains,
into deeper darker
swirling drains.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘
Wood rots from rain
and time's insidious attack,
whose immutable end
is our self-same
passage and fate.
After its ravage
remains inexorable pain,
and this unrelenting
existential rain.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘
[ed. note -- just experimenting.]
Copyright © Rhys Matthew | Year Posted 2012
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Rhys Matthew Poem
I met Mary Oliver the other day,
next to Starbucks in that store
where softcovers surely number
well into the mid-to-high six digits.
Ours was a chance encounter,
as neither of us would travel in
any of the same circles and my
disparate world is far from hers.
There was no particular reason
why I should pause on my worn path
to Real Estate, the Journal
tucked too close to my heart.
or why her poems, selected
me to stop and stray, but
life seems capricious that way
or in this case, perhaps just
proof of a merciful God
who knew I had forgotten
the frog’s slide off a lily pad
and the quiet undulating ripple
his first stroke made that day
near a content summer bank
of my parents’ old mill pond
or that 12-year old’s simple joy
under a clear crystalline night
setting up his new telescope and
peering into the splendor of heaven,
all that lost time not knowing
or frankly even caring, exactly
how many light years exist
between us and Sirius.
And as I slowly turned her pages
she loaned me her prism to see
anew wild geese and goldenrod,
egrets and forgotten war heroes and
the truth of holding on and letting go,
when deep down this delightful tingle
fluttered up quite unexpectedly
before the corners of my mouth
turned up in a smile I could not stop
Someday, I’d like to meet Ms. Oliver
to thank her for so many generous gifts.
In the meantime, I will very carefully,
but probably clumsily, untie the ribbons
of each precious gift not wanting
to be certain of its contents too soon.
Copyright © Rhys Matthew | Year Posted 2011
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Rhys Matthew Poem
north
rises,
creative
bursts of glory
Napoleon’s dream of faroff campaigns
chaotic scribbling, flamboyant plans at
the speed of light
all night long,
unused
sleep
south’s
freefall,
energies
once great, abate
under inescapable gravity,
black hole of suicide-ideation
predicted, this
nightfall of
Jekyll’s
mood
dip
into
the sugar
addicted brain,
amitalkingtoofastforyouagain?
justdon’tcarewhattheysay--screw the Xanax
i’d rather feel
anything
than be
numb
Copyright © Rhys Matthew | Year Posted 2011
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Rhys Matthew Poem
Coffeehouse aromas
suffuse senses, dissolving
any semblance
of time.
Unsolved problems
melt away in a
conscious uncaring,
and the day slips, unnoticed.
Deep in a forest
serene daydreams pour
gently over a secret waterfall
into a moss-fringed pool,
a peaceful place.
My calm immersed,
I hear only the
soft, slow whisper
and smooth syllables of
a single word.
Quiescent
Copyright © Rhys Matthew | Year Posted 2011
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Rhys Matthew Poem
The lawyer
who could eat your lunch
ate his quickly
on a cold outdoor bench,
when a revealing breeze
introduced the pungent odor
of his new neighbor.
The steely-haired vagrant’s
rumpled visage
acknowledged by
a right honorable disdain,
he quickly opined
one loses the ability
to sense one’s own stench
after days of pissing.
He wondered about
days in his cruel world,
full of encounters
with untrustworthy adversaries,
manipulative lies to get needed cash,
cutthroat tactics and
rummaging through receptacles
of worthless papers.
And he imagined what the
dreary evening’s routine
must be like --
riding the last Metro,
shuffling into his shelter,
getting quietly buzzed,
and not hearing from the family
who gave up on him
a long time ago.
On the emptied park bench
a rather cheerful transient
grabbed food scraps left by the lawyer who,
after a well-considered reflection,
seemed very much
alone.
Copyright © Rhys Matthew | Year Posted 2011
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Rhys Matthew Poem
i think that the nascent new poet
would do well to get rid of his ego
and ignore the pompous refrain of his pride
who demands that “where I go, there we go”
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writer's note: just stripping my ego, one poem at a time.
Copyright © Rhys Matthew | Year Posted 2011
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