Poetry By
Bethany Powell
Published on: 1/14/2013
In Harmony with Ghosts
I have been up the thousand steps Not for blessing, but to follow those before Who maybe in earnest prayers, maybe flippant hope Walked up these stairs since the temple was built four hundred years ago There is something sacred in their footsteps and mine On the same stone, though in such different shoes, Just as the air by a pine is sacred with its bite And the sound of a bell rings the heart, and is holy. Let me walk up this way with no expectation Just the dream of being part of this ancient place Let my knees creak and thighs burn, and my breath Rasp in my chest on that eight hundredth step, like yours.
Published on: 1/11/2013
One Morning
Tomorrow when we wake up and your fingers curl back from mine and I relearn the smell of you since I've been dreaming though we laid so close together and the sun is too eager to make us smile and runs in the window highlighting my puffy eyes and making sootmarks of your beard-roots whether you kiss me after stretching, just go start the coffee, or spend a few moments in motionless wondering, there will be a laugh waiting for us further in-- further in the day, in the year, in the life that waits before us empty stationary like a hill rolling down from our feet or up as a mountain for us to climb and I'll stare at your back, amazed. Because this tomorrow came.
Published on: 6/28/2012
Kami
There is something dark back there. It's the most hidden shrine, on a neat square of land All filled up with holy stones and walks for tourists, Where the bellrope is grimy but never too old And all the gardens are open-faced. This is not like that. Back in the wood that rambles a little wild Where there's a shortcut to the smaller bridge, Just a footworn path and a crowding of trees-- Maybe it is the most ancient. Maybe it is the most fresh, a newly built throne; You can nearly hear the slow breath of it Where at other steps to the screened tabernacles The only breath is your own, your neighbor's, the _bouzus_. It is for sure the smallest. So you see how close you can walk by without hearing it, You think of asking a classmate if they know why it is there, And you wonder just who goes to offer those fresh sugarcakes At the shrine arms-length deep and wide, on a little rise of land The most secret place, and the prettiest, and most dread.
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