Feeling less-than-accomplished yesterday, I looked up sunset time and determined I could summit Echo Mountain in about 45 minutes to enjoy some last light. Something in the air motivated me. And I needed an arbitrary goal. It’s also good to clean the arteries and clear the thoughts.
Right now, just now, I first imagined you,
friend for six days, or twenty years.
You came into being just this moment.
Fall into the heartbeat first heard,
and wake into the smelling salts of love.
Hold your gaze to the curling fingers—
they vine through lattices;
they window for a world
you are blind to,
where your smile is born.
Right now you came into being.
Sui generis grandfather I’ve never seen.
Out-of-nowhere mother. And on and on.
Just now, my once-dead father is seven
and on his second cup of tea.
He sprung from my crown
fully formed, my
strange boy coming home to me.
(c) Timothy Tiernan, April 19, 2017
Somewhere between lust and faith
I dwell. I pivot
on a rock, ready
to leap from granite past—
mangled bodies below,
scissored lovers above,
and no one in the know.
(c) Timothy Tiernan, June 15, 2015
Toyon and chokecherry, fresh shoots
if the rains will visit us before you do.
Else you crack our black bins, crash in,
bust glass for a look in the fridge,
and wash it all down in our too-blue pools.
While we are busy measuring money,
you are teaching timing, how to scale
tree, and outsit patience.
And what do we seem to you?
We are your drug pushers,
your AA sponsors,
your nurturers of lures,
your bait-and-switch marketers,
a whole L.A. basin of accidental killers.
The corridor of Monrovia is your final den
of thieves who have stolen you from foraging.
And you, you bungling, sweet cousins of dogs—
sniffing for pizza some fuck left out—
you believe, as much as you can believe,
that when you dine here,
you will live.
Copyright © 2015, Timothy Tiernan
Joan calls for her who died two days ago.
However foregone & down the dim driveway
of dementia she’s gone, however the glow
of senile hope that lights her putzing way——
——Whatever I say can barely be a song.
That I maybe said hello, so much as waved
on mornings when she’s in my way——the thing
is, when no one’s home, there’s someone to be saved.
And however goes her dream, we watch her
walk it through, unleashed in love to the laws
of memory: down Windfall, down Lander,
‘til the crows concur it’s evening with their caws.
That godforsaken dog was life and line.
Her grief is real. I know it just as mine.
“Flowing poetry” is poetry set to video. At least, that’s what I’ve coined for my purposes. Here’s an untitled poem I worked on in Adobe Premiere. (c) Timothy Tiernan, March 3, 2014.