Support
Like stepping-stones
Only got me to this edge
Now my choice to turn and hedge
Or jump, free fall, with fear and all
Into that descending mist
Disguised and hissing
Pools or jagged rocks below
Either way I choose to go
Embraced by soft splashing
Or quick hit crunching
Fleshy floating, bone and stone
Either way this leap is mine
And I’ll be flying for a time
— April Resnick
Oparkaa Waterfall Painting, by Linda Phelps
Today I wear a bracelet
Which is twelve years old
I wear it this day every year
For memories and lessons that it holds
It was made for us in gratitude
For being there and holding up
The families of the ones who died
That somber day in Washington
Crafted of our country’s colors
They once were bright without a mark
Each year those colors fade a bit
And the beads become more scarred
At first I made an effort
To keep it quite pristine
But on this day I realize
Value is not in keeping clean
The dirt and scratches simply show
Twelve years of life we’ve lived
We are not defined by cracks and tears
But by what of ourselves we give
My bracelet, you’ll be on my wrist
On this very day each year
Until one of us lets go that thread
Life well worn out for those not here
— April Resnick
My bracelet
So I climbed atop my writing desk,
Sat still and quiet for a while,
Not in front or underneath,
To stop the verses running wild.
There was an air duct next to me,
Attempting quite to suck me in,
I felt myself lean toward it,
Wanting to squeeze between the vents.
Desirous craving is not helpful,
Many cloistered men have preached,
If I succeed and quell my passion,
Then what compels creative reach?
So I stay balanced with my books and pens,
Attention there under my nose,
Still I allow imagination leeway,
Sometimes I follow where it goes.
– April Resnick
Because I sat on my writing desk again today.
Between the cool whips of wind
When life tousles my hair
Raises bumps on my arms
Carries scents of the seasons
And stirs the stuff about me
There are stale stagnant spaces
Moments of waning, waiting
Wanting to add something
But these minutes are full already
And letting that heavy nothing
Hang in the air, alone
Is hardest of all
— April Resnick
Waiting for the Wind, by Drew Hartel
While silent
There was an itch
To the left of my chin
It opened my mouth
And crawled right in
Over bone and tooth
Down bumpy gum
Under and around
My swollen tongue
Tasting of an empty tin
Nothing there except
Echoes and gin
It was time to get up
Spit and speak again
— April Resnick
Still-Life with a Skull, by Philippe de Champaigne
I forgot
Why I stopped mid-step
Turned from my task
And walked into this room
It feels like it must have been vital
But the particulars now escape
Me standing here confused
Blank
Do you remember
What we were discussing
When I started, changed direction
Looked away and leapt
I have heard
That it is the passing through a threshold
Which muffles our memory
So now what
Return through the doorway
From whence I came
Start over again
Or sit and wait
–April Resnick
Forgotten Memories, by Aja
All of us have weaknesses
Whether they are actually real or not
The things we think about ourselves
During dark days of idle thought
A monster that we sometimes feed
When we start to compare
Ourselves to what we think should be
Or to the other undead standing there
Today that creature came to life
Crawled through my gut onto the screen
With echoed words he quite disturbed
His demons sent to spew on me
So I sit and feel the nausea while
Tentacles of failure squeeze my skin
Until it occurs, we sometimes use words
To push poltergeists away and into “them”
I am not afraid to exorcise my self
In full view for everyone to see
Because I am aware we all go there
This horror house is occupied by “we”
And the truth is it’s only scary
When we feel alone and in the dark
We could turn on the lights, to spite the night
Revealing all our humble human scars
No more monsters, no more demons
No more spewing on each other
Let us simply discuss this human muss
No ghastly ghosts here, but one another
— April Resnick
Haunted, by Anthony Schectman
There is a tiny peanut in my brain
That rattles in its shell
A lone marble in a Ball jar
Even in my stillness
It continues a circular track
With crisp whirring
Winding itself down
It might come to rest if my skull is long enough still
But I think
The laws of physics argue against it
Each languishing toss of my head
Searching for comfort
Sets that peanut back in motion
Through the labyrinth of my tissue
A loud cracking echoes as it clinks against my cranium
Oh that it would grow roots
Be still
I would pull it from my wormy earth
Grind it down to smear on my morning toast
To be satisfied
And done with it
–April Resnick
When I take myself too seriously
I become way too full of shit
And spend all my time clinching
To hold in every stodgy bit
Perhaps it’s time to squat and let it rip
Let my ass hang in the wind
Forget the swipe and have a wipe
Relieve myself and giggle once again
— April Resnick
A donkey painted by Dieter Marzinger,
A South African artist who paints with his mouth.
http://www.mouthonly.com
Tonight
I find myself choosing
Between a tough fight
And a soft relinquishing
I have no fear of sweat and blood
Especially my own
I have blinked away salt and sting before
Tasted that sanguine tincture on my tongue
Just as I have gritted and grinned
Guffawed even at the shattering
Of my own sanity
While I shook it off
And got to the business
Of setting it back into place
With a quick jerk and a wince
Harder still is stepping back
And letting his fist fly just beyond me
Leaving only a slight breeze
Which carries with it a faint scent of sweat
And deflated fury
To keep my swollen gaze downward
And let myself listen, for an instant
To shocked silence
A moment of pure possibility
While we wait
To see what I will choose next
Tonight I find myself
–April Resnick
Boxing-2, by Kalel Koven
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