Posts tagged Judgment

Poem: Lost Laughing


Dominique Larntz * November 21, 2012


Lost Laughing

As I peer through the cattails
of the competition
to see another situation
where I was left holding
a saddle I crafted
heavy enough to fit the buffalo
that I watched turn into a monarch butterfly,
here is how I cared for myself.

I reminded myself of the seeds inside me
that grow wild when watered,
that take over plots of my soul
like spilled ink takes over
a poem on a page.

Perhaps one day I will be able
to compete skillfully but for now
I can retreat from society’s
mechanisms of disappointment

and appointment—oh keep me away
from winning, too—those of us who
lose attachingly win with the same animal.

I will put these seeds back
into the rock tumbler of my journey.
I’ll wait for the smooth reflection to form.

When I am ready, those seeds will not be
quivers I can use in some Olympic feat
but worry stones in my pockets.

Poem: Be Quiet


November 8, 2012 * Dominique Larntz


Be Quiet

Be with me without thinking
through what I should do.

Be quiet about your
superior view.

From your judgments,
icy stalactites and stalagmites arise
where moments ago
breath and water flowed.

I am surrounded by a society of judges
that turn conversations into caves
instead of skies.

People judge because they are
only one step removed
from the subject of their sentences.

Would it be too close
to say you are afraid to look
as vulnerable as I appear?

Be still, create space—

for as ugly as you think I am,
you with your unkind eyebrows
and the knots in your fists,
my heart is filled with love for you

as weak as you perceive that to be
it connects with you like nature
eventually overturns destruction
when you judge her irrelevant.

Poem: Dharma Antidote


Dominique Larntz * July 2, 2012


Her body cradles the sorrow
in a canyon so deep
you can’t hear a quarter drop
when you let it go over the edge.

She’s been saying it’s fine
for you spin words of delusion
that swaddle her up to her throat
like a spider’s web.

Her body can’t heal any more
unless she follows the path
of rest and peace and joy,
taking every nap she desires.

Her nerves need a bath of love
and the culture is a river polluted
by overstimulation, by addicts
rushing to destruction.

Her cells weep in blood, the only
language they have, calling for life
to be lived, enjoyed, cherished,
preserved, flowed, balanced, loved.

Poem: Shopping Cart Obsession


Dominique Larntz * June 18, 2012


We might use cars like shopping carts,
picking one up a block away,
returning it after one use,
using it only when needed,
needing it only when hauling
bigger things,

Poem: The Witness


Dominique Larntz * June 17, 2012

The Witness

After this time of feeling
bruised by judgments,
it is enough that the woman
on the front porch of Kellers Farm Store
slouching on the plastic chair,
muttering into her cell phone,
maybe talking to her dad
on this father’s day morning,
paying no attention to me,
saw me return the cart
on my frail hip,
in my complete way,
pushing it into the others
as if I had never used it—
instead of leave it as a guidepost
to the ghost of my car.

It’s enough that she saw–
and not my husband
or mother or step-kids
and especially not
my unknown father
whom I’ll never shop for
and who will never know
if I have character or integrity or
if I do any small thing
to make the world more
navigable for others.

Poem: Pre-Posthumous


Dominique Larntz * May 27, 2012


When I am gone and there
are trash bags full of silly things
I kept in drawers like band buttons
from when I was a fan at sixteen, things
I thought about tossing twenty times
and glues I wanted to try to bind
books with, I hope you can find
time to read my secret stash
of poems too.

I hope in addition to clucking
about my many abnormally
large faults, looking into them
like you would gaze at yourself
distorted in a carnival mirror,
and shaking your head about
how if I had just done this or that
I might have had a different fate,
you might recall that within
my many mistakes,
I loved you.

Poem: What Do I Fight For


Dominique Larntz * May 23, 2012

What do I fight for?

Yesterday I heard
a news broadcast
and my body responded–
arched blood pressure
and clenched muscles.
I am self-aware
enough now to feel it
and that is something
spectacular to me.

Previously, I just ignored
my physiological response,
played the part, did my job,
assignments, projects, tasks,
and one could say my blood,
my body, was automated,
programmed to pretend
to ignore itself.

I am slow and mellow,
you see,
in a fast world.

In a fast world,
messages arrive in bulk
in milliseconds
and slow processors
get inundated
and when we say stop
stop stop stop and stop
we are told we
are thin-skinned
and before we
can process that
we are usually
insulted again,
and again.

Fast world, what would
the headline read
if you stopped
and accepted me
just as I am?

Poem: Needling


Dominique Larntz * January 23, 2012


Let us be free of being
fooled by form
as we fumble a frown
down onto the fate
that has been
plated before us.

That frown–our judgment–is
the very tool we learn with.
The bias cuts will stretch but
you may need to drape the pieces there
for days before you adorn them.

If you go with the long and cross grains
your movement will depend
completely on the weave.

So if you wish to stretch
beyond your judgments
try cutting on the bias
by finding the edge
and creating a new fold
before getting snippy.

Poem: The Hero’s Welcome


Dominique Larntz * January 7 * “Love Letters To My Body”

The Hero’s Welcome

When you are a little older
you may also be sad to look back
and find you have been judged
for extending a helping hand
during an evening’s walk
to a woman who has driven herself
kilometers too far
onto the twisting road
with all the signs that read
“Watch for falling rocks”
in either direction.

It has crushed us,
and it may do the same
to you, to help pull her awkwardly
through the unsteady window
from underneath her
boulder-topped car just
before a tons piece of granite
takes one more topple-turn
that would have crushed
her body completely
had you not wandered along
at the precise moment you did,
and to have her fix her gaze upon you
and instead of thanking you,
or thanking life,
or even exhaling,
she will tell you you can’t set her down,
can’t let go of her hand,
can’t call anyone for help,
that you must carry her with you,
and she will say,
as if she is joking,
I have to wonder
if you know
what you are doing.

She will ignore
the piece of the mountain
crushing the place where
her fragile body
was imprisoned
a moment ago.

She focuses only on
your aptitude and confidence
in your rescue role,
as if you are auditioning
for all future heroism
and the important thing
is your individual prowess
and not this beautiful

Go to Top