Storms don’t bother him any more.
The rumble and tumble of distant thunder
brings a modest smile to his face,
and one could guess, from his inward look, its peculiar comfort.
In his mind are the blankets of his childhood bed.
Dirty grey and dark inside,
but soft and safe.
Safe with his own private sun.
Muting giants’ voices
perhaps until the morning.
Always there to hide his fearful tears.
I don’t understand your face.
Its beauty is not in my eye,
and I am the beholder.
You are statuesque,
with a long and slender neck.
It permits a gracious tilt of the head
so your excellent nose is in the air,
and you can look down it.
I am sure you must have an uncommon sense of smell,
because your chiseled lips are pursed in distaste
most of the time.
I glance by chance
and you register recognition.
Liking the attention,
then deciding on disdain.
I feign nonchalance
and check the apples for bruises.
We are both liars.
[Person] What are we?
[Other] Children
[Person] Why are we?
[Other] To grow. To love. To explore. To find.
[Person] To find what?
[Other] Your way to me.
[Person] Are there others like us?
[Other] Myriad. Legion. Uncountable.
[Person] Why have we not met them?
[Other] They will come. Some to deceive. Some to teach. Some to save.
[Person] What is our place?
[Other] A place of lovingkindness.
[Person] But where in the Universe?
[Person] Wait….I feel….I feel so strange just now.
There is a touch. A presence. A promise.
[Other] You are always with me, to the end of ends. Always in my Mind.
She gets to the kernel
The crux of the biscuit
Knows how the Gordian Knot
was defeated
Pray, let’s not unravel the onion
layer by layer
We haven’t time,
and, besides,
we know the smell
HEAR! HEAR!
Let not the gavel fall just yet.
this bitter end
more than I can chew
I shrug on a windbreaker
kick shoes out of the damn way
dramatic exit vexed by that fucking screen door
I didn’t fix
and I kick it too
adrenalized thoughts come in a billowing storm
careful what you wish for
drop the car keys on the front mat
a clean break
well I got one hand in my pocket
and the other one’s hailing a taxi cab
but actually I walk
seeking scenery into which I can blend
crazily I scan with lowered brow
graveled shoulders as they go by
while raucous weeds and dog ends
call out their derision
I once heard that a King knows what to do
and does it
but I am no king
and I never did Believe, you know
I never did
but this night
as I hunker down
ditch-bound for a smoke
is it my spirit that rises
ventriloquist of my heart
and I hear,
in my hallowed halls,
“Please.”
***
Image credit: Henri Prestes Photography (from Pinterest)
Who knew that it would hurt so much?
That mornings would sometimes feel like death,
its great hand pressing upon his chest?
That giving up would feel like a warm bed.
That going on must be bought with great courage and resolve?
The vernal equinox another slow tick in time.
A youth sees this species,
in rapt fascination, then revulsion.
Bones’ outline propels oversize pants,
held aloft with button-on suspenders.
When was THAT in style?
Hey, why do you have to pay for everything so slowly,
dumping your money on the belt?
Can’t you bring someone with you to bag those groceries?
But, the slow stooped man with suspenders has some happiness today.
The lady at the cash desk.
She’s kind and patient. Not condescending or patronizing.
She knows what it has taken for him to come here today,
and why he comes alone.
The impatient young man is aware of glances cast his way,
and indeed there are.
Some stand with him, wishing the line to move more quickly.
Others disapprove of his display.
And, maybe one or two have taken a lesson to heart.
The young man turns and goes,
as if he has just remembered something important.
A little boy of three who misplaced his mother.
And, as he grew,
a bird of shadow brought to him
a terrible knowing.
Aloneness and fear.
How to bear?
How to do?
Who will care?
Singleness incubates a strange and strong beauty,
and the bones remember its learning.
At marrow’s end they keep, in plasma, our stardust.
Revere them. Lay them well,
that a life may knit with the cosmic.
Is it okay
if we just sit by the TV
until you find sleep
(you’re always first)
Is it okay
that I lie in bed ’til lunch
that I stack the dishwasher and hang the toilet paper
the wrong way
that I say how I really feel when asked
that I want to read, rather than watch reruns and talk about the cat
…I am here. With you. With you.
Is it enough?
slant of sunrays
sky of scattered blue
begins the melt
boils down to shallow snow
leaves little lakes of slate
happy hour for fallow fields
a drink
a taste of false spring
with a hot and white knife,
poke the pillow of night
stab upwards,
eviscerate
out will tumble
the building blocks of day
Aremyfeetofftheground 