Poems by Claude AnShin Thomas

No. 21)

I taste

tears of

confusion,

I ache

at the

question

of safety,

the grasping

for fixed points,

wanting to know

what's next -

I feel it

this grasping,

in a quiet

crowd

arguing

the

silence of

of

fear,

doubt,

and disillusion

crawling

through my

bones -

I think that

today

it would

be

a

good idea

to go

for

a run.

No. 23)

I make

noises

to sit

quietly

on a black

cushion

and was visited

by image

after image

each attempting

to identify

a particular

state of

of being -

I could hear

the drums of

marching bands

at half time

with their

heads

stretched

tight

piercing the night

with a particular,

manic tension

and I could

feel the aching

of confusion

in my elbows

pinning my arms

to my side

as I watched

them all

helpless

one by one,

fade from view

surrendering

to the

illusion

of another

moment.

No. 45)

You

spoke to

me,

asked

to hear

more

directly

about the

war

that

lives on

in memory

as surely

as

the taste

of fried

bread

on a

cold winter

morning –

I will tell you

but

what can

you know

from

the night

sweats

that

soak

my dreams

in the smell

of too

fresh

blood -

mine,

mixed with

the young

and old

dead,

their intestines

hanging

out,

their genitals

now

in the wrong

place,

cut off

and

stuffed in

someones

mouth

instead of

hanging

just below

the navel

waiting to -

can you listen,

can you

step through

the ideas

you ever

had

of

sanity,

of social rightness

and listen

even when

you

want to

turn

away

or vomit,

because

I will tell

you -

and then

the

question

of love

will be

answered.

No. 49)

The youngest 

of us all 

have

experienced

danger

and

are

still hard of 

hearing

when it 

comes to 

the very 

violent tones, 

which

somehow

sound so attractive 

the moth for instance, 

always

pursues the flame 

so, what is the point, 

skin

against 

skin I guess, 

somehow

we have 

always known, 

this subtle information 

acquired by 

so many times 

exposed

to the oblivion, 

the desire, 

not to feel –

and in the end 

does it do 

any good

to reveal  

the corners.

No. 32)

Through                                             

the transference

of heavy

to

light

I hold you,

all of you -

while you

cry

and cry

and

cry,

I wonder

where

all the water

comes

from

and am

I a strong

enough swimmer

to not get

washed away

by the too

old sorrow

that doesn’t

want to 

and can’t

be

stopped -

just now

if I could

look inside,

place my

hands

all through

you.

would I

find,

war shadows

hiding 

the wounded,

or you

merging

into

arms

that have

been waiting

patiently

forever.

No. 22)

The past

can

look through

me

examining

my parts,

all the

private places,

and still

I seem

to be

not seen;

I stand in

the middle

of a crowded

ball room

in rags,

unbathed

for weeks,

my mouth

open,

my body

poised

in labors’

scream

to give

birth

to a voice,

that is

still

born -

I look again

and

again

for the path,

the word,

or the look,

that just might

offer instructions

to untangle

the crowded

thoughts

that get trapped

in the phone --

just now

in reflection

what I realize

is that

I

Just want

to

sit

on the couch

or in

a soft chair

in the corner

of your

new

office

and speak

to you

directly.

No.7)

It is a short distance          

between                                 

here and                               

somewhere else,                 

it is a                                     

short distance                     

between life and                  

death,                                    

it is a short distance          

between                                 

sanity and                             

madness --                            

only the smallest                

of steps

decide our direction -         

so many                                

misjudge,                             

slide sideways                     

and wander blindly             

for 10,000 years                 

through unlit streets,        

hell realms                          

of the                                     

ignorant                               

confused about                    

the difference                      

in taste,                                 

between apples                    

and poison,                           

dying                                     

terrible deaths                    

convinced                             

the whole time                     

that                                        

they are                                

really living.