Poetry by Linda Frye Burnham

 

Three from "Different Sides of Sleep"

*

It's what must be in water
when it sunny runs on stones
that's in your voice and eyes
A moving system set to beckon

I have wanted something
musical and lovely
something lithe
translucent and transcendent
to watch and cherish and
delight in

I have wanted what men have in women
I have wanted tree sprites
sylphs
and sirens

*

Mouthful
Truth in the gums
Whole truth
Dig in

Thrill surging down my arms and
knuckles buried deep
you make me laugh

Turn over
Let me knead the dough
Let me insert the question
The answer doesn't matter
Flesh bounces back now
doesn't it

*

You've got to open it
Remember how it's wrapped
Don't clip or slash
What's underneath the foil
is hot and running
Ripe now take it as it comes

Put down your lovely mouth
and chew the knot
for just these moments
open

For once the wrapping's gone
the giving's over

---

White Lumber

I am married
to the core in my chest.
Oak-solid, it's you.
I am at home
with this construction.

Taken over from inside,
I'm whole.
Gone the hollow ting-tang
of a creaky heart.
Your absence leaves me
still as a tree.
Your presence thumps in me
like a heavy root shaken by
the footsteps of something huge.

You, you.
Make the milk rise like sap
in my breasts.

---

Settlement

There's something running hot and deep
within the kissproof weather of our night.
A promise choked
in throats too full to sing
in arms too bold to rise.

There's reaching done and singing too
within the maddest masquerade.
But here's the fire we set.
Beneath it: tender tinder
and a devastation only seen in films on war
where everything is nothing
but a million-dollar folly.
Night falls down,
we walk away to sleep
alone no matter what.
No one will ever touch the center.
There has been ash around it
since my birth.
There will be ash around it
when I die. So white.

---

Why Thanksgiving

Of course we fear the fall.
We learn it from the trees.
Their mighty hearts are pumping fear, and
sleeping we can hear it.
This is the danger time.
Down by the rising creek
they grip the sodden clay
with frantic fingers, and
pray for no more rain.
They know this whirling ball
is mostly water
and they are only in the way.
Up on the hill they’re never still.
Their hair is always moving.
They toss in endless terror of the wind.
Fran killed them by the dozen
and the floor is
littered with their corpses, pitted
with their empty graves.
There are trees older than our mothers
and just as scared of death.
If they survive the murder season
there will be such a dance.
On Hallow’s Eve they’ll strip and whirl
as naked as a coven.
Finally in November,
tired and grateful, they lean toward sleep
their fingers crossed for luck,
for one more century.

---

The Road Is Calling
                                    —for Jill

The road is calling
The yurt is hungry
The garden is full
The swing is empty
Three cats listen in their sleep
Two dogs look out the window
Seven hearts are open
Can you find the way
Will you come back to Carolina

 

---

Poems copyright, Linda Frye Burnham — All Rights Reserved

HOME | BIOGRAPHY | WRITINGS | FAVORITE QUOTES

Copyright 2001, Linda Frye Burnham