Poems—Dan Raphael

Dan Raphael’s chapbook How’d This Tree Get In? will be published in spring of 2025 by Ravenna Press. His full-length book, In the Wordshed, came out from Last Word Press in ’22. More recent poems appear in Umbrella Factory, Concision, Brief Wilderness, Disturb the Universe and Unlikely Stories. Most Wednesdays dan writes and records a current events poem for The KBOO Evening News.

Catching Breath

 

today the atmosphere’s inhaling instead of exhaling

who can tell

who else sees the fricative shimmer where

wind and sunlight cross, more passing through

than merger, photons and dust molecules

reacting in their ways, a matter of choice and spin

various frequencies of momentum and coherence

light getting more access than wind these winter times

unlike summer when we prefer shade and a cooling breeze

when we have a choice, not stuck out in the open

when the wind is trying to escape, the sun unburdened 

of shadows and responsibility 

as people in summer are more likely to shed than blossom

in winter we forget that not all light is heat

that so little of the spectrum of molecular motion

is within our perceptions and plans

More Mirrors Than Rooms

the ghost in the mirror can only be cleared away

by a memory solvent, like alcohol or television

the scent of garlic is to me what molding apples

were to schiller—time to clean the desk,

time to give erasers free rein and take a double-shot

of white out. 

                        what’s the difference between

a hunger for something and a thirst for it,

between a full plate and an overflowing glass?

that burning smell could be so many things—

a burger, a cigar, thousands of trees.

they haven’t yet discovered another planet with trees

or a green star. 

                              when my mouth is glued shut 

I’ll de-callus my fingers and plunge my hands 

in the deepest bowl I have--maybe this time 

I’ll short circuit the keyboard and get a language 

so guttural my stomach will want to dance

 more than my feet

 just coz the glass is transparent

doesn’t mean I know what’s in it

I fill the microwave with vegetables and fruit

turn it on frantic, and run through whatever’s 

in my way out

Still Waiting

what does any of this have to say

two tiny sounds, tender exhalations

could it ever be cold enough

between one hand ticking

rain at the speed of light, evaporation too easy a choice

what good would a third leg do me

activating some glandular

how to interpret

                               this getting closer

one warm column when cold all about

moving by countless subtle expansions and contracts

as if movement on the map is paralleled on asphalt

night street day trees houses with numbers

if the key fits open it

it’s one thing to levitate, but then to move forward

never closer than clouds

an instant corner, fully connected

night isn’t darkness but sleep, day can be too atomized

colder without me, skins like candles

only part of the wheel is within our perception

my gyroscope matches neither my body nor friction’s terrain

optional handles, unexpected insulation

didn’t think my hand could get away

the floor stood up, I’d intended to fan out

Unboundaries

if a door falls still locked, a shattered curtain,

the switch is off either way, 

the key I stroke isn’t the letter I get, 

the mailman is only here to take 

my water is tithed by the church of the city I don’t live in, 

finally the mountain east of here is being repainted, 

not bike lanes but lanes for the four-legged. 

grafting streetlights onto flowering rootstock

every yard in my block has at least 5 crow feathers in it,

since the squirrels got electricity acorns are rolling 

under their own power as others refuse to fall

the weather is waiting for enough of us to choose our costumes

to plan a path of least insistence, 

exercising our habits to increase their appetites, 

like a half-hour sandwich, a weightless moment 

I can’t approach slowly enough to not alarm  

trying to match shadow to shape, casting an eye like a hook 

baited with half a question, I want to trade this body 

for one not dependent on noise and outside chemistry 

the clock’s been at 11:11 since I woke up, 

my breakfast bowl didn’t fill itself overnight, 

whether lazy, rebellious or just needing a change—

find something else to eat off of, and the table softly agrees

I’m wearing shortcut shoes and gloves the color of my ceilings

I knock on the inside of my door but no one’s out there to open it

Behind Whose Eyes

it’s the feeling like I get up from my chair

take a couple steps away, turn around

and see I’m still in that chair.

maybe I’m wearing the shirt I wore 3 days ago.

how many shirts have I worn in this chair over these decades

where haven’t I stood, what air haven’t I gone through

inhaled & ex-ed. 

my body when every moment could be a déjà vu

when every echo makes another echo

silence is just a different form of expression

if a body is like a house which room is my head

can my lungs warm and cool air

I am a mobile home, foundation-less

I thought I was looking out the window

but I was seeing through the eyes of the crow

who often sits on the wire 20 feet in front of my window

facing out—if he turned to face me the visual echoes

could be tsunamic, next stop on a random monorail

when the crow flies away it takes a second 

to realize my wings are hands again

so many more displacements than space and time

like the bible misrepresenting creation—saying god made one earth

but earthlings have made countless gods

as we sleep at night because the stars would make us too hungry

while the sun is only there as a manifestation of our needs

a bell curve is just a different view of a circle

where the crest of the wave is now, but my wave

just one of billions on this ocean planet

sometimes building in synchronicity

usually flattening each other out with cross-purposes

thinking we’re heading toward the shore when there is no shore

as the puddle inside me is always wanting to get out

and join the ocean world, my bones of compressed time

my organs various territorial claims on the water of me

circulation with its own agendas, whether spinning turbines,

irrigating alleys, or giving others drink and safety.

I am a factory and a restaurant, a fresh green city 

and a square foot of depleted soil

every breath a wish, every heartbeat potentially

as bright and self-consuming as the alleged center of the earth

one immeasurable train with thousands of doors

you never know which or how many will open

or who and what are waiting to get in