DAvid P SEATON

poems since January 2024

Cherry blossom

April 15

I wandered down

Wheeler last week -

soft rain stumbled off

scattered heaps of raw

stringy dough, strewn and

flung like white paint out

across the street for ravens and

little birds

- dull pale gray sky, back lit from

somewhere around here,

the sort of color that in some eon

of grief actually feels

comforting, like Heaven

breathing out its own empathy,

the sound and smell of its

tears on the pavement, they tap your

shoulders to hold space for you.

Suddenly I saw it, I stopped in

the middle of the street,

diesel hum and rhythmic chimes,

a pink-blossom cherry in

full flower. Branches strained,

groaning, bending under their own

weight.

A stumpy, ugly little thing, scars

from a thousand little beatings,

singing out of its own beauty in

this luxuriant explosion of delight -

If I could ever, ever glorify God like this.

I have never noticed you

before, but you have always been here,

proclaiming the

kingdom like some silent street corner

preacher. And you

will again next year

and the year after

conversations with grief

April 8

What would it be worth -

There exists in

the undone a tender

beauty - to be laid

bare, raw, vulnerable,

distinctly unsafe,

to sit and look and

find yourself suddenly

gazing at the calm face of

grief, sacred, smiling on

you for just a moment until

you drift back

into this world again

your anger and

bitterness violently descaled

to reveal Little Sorrow

there, stunning, entirely attuned

to something

true about another world

just listening.

A season of

powerless reaction,

tossed capriciously from one

Choice to another, and I

am so fucking hurt by it

Yet in that moment I

knew grief genuine, the aroma of a

strange flower - familiar, and yet not quite

RAIN

April 2

I woke up last night to thunder,

a slow rumble that

shook the house

I stood inside and watched,

leaning out over the lip

of the bay door

as rain broke

and cut through the concrete

Water carried grain and blue-gold

crowns, motor oil and

shattered amber

glass into the shitty little stream

that cuts through the nettle and

rusted chainlink

The heavens are weeping

with me

And for a moment I turned

away from this world and

into another,

on the edge of a lake

adorned with little clouds, gazing

with Laura’s book at

walls of snowy granite,

an ibex in silhouette

Just up there

watching God

Leeches

March 25

This surly old shadow, you can

reach out and touch it - it is canegrass

leeches after a hard rain, they

grab your legs like burrs on

deer and wait for you to find them;

It is seed, covered in those

little needles, some to grow

weeds and some to grow wildflowers

and you’ll notice them

just about everywhere if you

know where to look;

They are poltergeists,

and most times we don’t

even know we’re haunted

by them

Honestly I hate

this shadow not because it is

there but because it is so

hard to ignore, and often now

I’ll hunger after

ignorance as if it were

real food

CONTAINMENT

March 21

When I was little

I poured hot, scorched oil

from the fry pan into

a little plastic cup in the sink.

Just a drop or so and

immediately it melted, disintegrated.

Stained the

composite and melted

a bit of the rubber baffle in the drain.

I scrubbed away

to clean the mess

but I couldn’t undo

it and I was

afraid my mom

would be furious

and if that happened time and

again, I might be

tempted to believe my story

was no more than a

weaponized burden,

A toddler screaming in

the morning

or at the very least, that

there’s no such thing

as tin cans

STAINED GLASS

March 16

I spoke with a friend today.

Her words were to reach,

like the old saint, into the

sullen abyss of the heart

and touch with gentle grace the

robes of Christ

Sunday Morning

March 10

This morning I woke

up hurting again,

a sorrow too rich for words,

and in such a

dichotomy of experience

I chose to hold it

while sunlight slowly sifted a

path through the

stained glass, and the gabled

ceiling began to give a

warm, coastal hum

while the bustle of birds

who yesterday danced around in the

rain now woke singing

their typical morning hymns

to mark the advent of

budding leaves and

daffodils

And in the same hand I held it

Wednesday prayer

March 6

My prayer is that

you would make my

heart feel safe, safe

enough to see

the stuff it is

made of, little

by little, as I

feel as if I

cannot afford

to believe any

worse of myself

in my current

moment - it would

kill me, kill me

to lose my life,

to take up my

cross. The truth is

I’m just afraid,

I’m afraid to

trust that I’m worth

it to you

And I feel so

afraid to die,

die to all the

things that occupy

the shrine in my heart

Will you, like them,

look up, see me,

and leave me?

Will you?

HOPELESS

March 1

I’m not sure why I

let myself fall in

love the way I do

there’s just too much

romance when

you go looking for it,

even in melancholy,

like

I wish we had kept up

after Chattanooga

I wish we had just

ran off

Jo mentioned you yesterday

and suddenly my body forgot

it was bruised

and I listened to your playlists again

and wondered if I

ever crossed your mind

I AM DEAF

February 24

Somewhere up there

there’s a screen, a silky blanket

that muffles each

real, immanent sound

or emotion from

my inmost being -

So much it muffles

that I can hardly

hear or feel at

all it seems, left

with the pithy,

washed remnants

of a true thought

filtered down, the

scaly flakes that

break off like crumbs

from the whole and

by some drunken

bumbling, make it

through the woven

threads, the hateful

jumbled threads of

that fucking screen,

and fall by some

chance into my hand.

Only when that screen

fades I feel God.

Or no, perhaps

I feel like god.

I am so, so

fucking deaf.

What a thought: that

I could hear God

unfiltered. It

is painfully

silly - the notion

of seeking after

God, like an ancient

explorer, looking

only more

inward

towels

February 20

On shitty white tile,

sitting among bits of lint

and grime, there beneath the sink

I’ve kept a pile of towels.

Five or six of them maybe

and they’ve been there for weeks.

I just put them in the shower

when guests come over

I have to stand completely

off balance, leaning forward

a little to wash my hands

or brush my teeth

I’m not sure why I don’t

just put them in the wash -

I suppose that would just

defeat the whole purpose

somehow I never get around to it

POWER

February 5

Do I dare cut this

last line that harbors

me to misery, the terrible thing

that steeps like black tea

a heart of hatred -

that I myself hate,

pride and bitterness,

exonerating

myself, and holding

her accountable

to all residing

pain and brokenness,

the hurt my heart is

still bound to for some

mysterious reason.

Honestly I feel

like my heart hates

her now and cannot

be brought to forgive

of its own accord.

So I find myself

sitting on this steel

brace, ninety barrels

of wit above me,

wishing she’d just tap

me on the shoulder

and apologize,

apologize for

everything she did

so terribly wrong

and free me from the

bind that encloses

my heart in rusted

iron and dull lead -

pride and bitterness

And yet I feel as

if I must again

let go of it, let go

of that last line that

feels a lot like power

but is probably just

good old fashioned

hatred in a hat

What a guise is it:

to feel hatred like

it’s the last remaining

source of power you hold

when it just kills and

kills and is in fact

the last remaining

power over you

It’s probably just

time to forgive her

Wheeler

January 30

There’s a wall of dull monochrome

set behind the webs of woody

fingers and unkempt hair

The dead looking mess is

actually quite alive even

without its summer coat,

and it gently shivers with each little gust.

The wind carries with it aromas of

butter from the French bakery

down the street and

detergent exhaust and steam

from the cleaners

There’s a timeless bustle to Wheeler

that flickers like old film

between different eras

and feels, even amidst the

monochrome, death, and idling

diesel engines, kind of like poetry

noise

January 29

Soft lit, dim low lights leave

their amber film on wood and leather,

shit coffee and toast a bit overdone

It’s calm for now and yet

I’m anxious about something

outside the day’s impending noise -

That I’ve drowned

out all this vibration with my own

thoughts or sense of self

SHUT IT ALL OUT

TRUST ONLY ME and

me only

that the truest I ever feel is wrapped

up in the realization that I don’t hear

God’s noise over my own

And I realize I fucking hate it

that I’ve dared even to do it

self and pride and shame and fear

My king, Self Soothing,

you have dared

me to stop seeking

and yet I’m seeking

and seeking

and seeking

Camel crush

January 25

Jon said a thing about writing

and now the humid air that

dances through the bay door and

makes the concrete sweat

and carries with it the

smoke from Adam’s camel crush

suddenly feels

romantic

perfect perhaps

as if I no longer needed a girl or

the moon even

to make me smile at

a familiar sensation

half forgotten -

wonder and stupid romance,

veiled in beautiful old ordinary