Monday, Dinnertime
again the rain sounds
cardinal and redwing speak
dove shivers silent
I’ve been thinking a lot about love lately. One of my best friends just got engaged and we’ve been talking about how she knew that he was her partner for life. Her answer, simple and honestly vague, is that something deep inside her just knew. There’s no common factor that can explain why sometimes we feel romantic chemistry and sometimes we don’t. There’s no trick to lining up that connection. I’ve always been someone that feels it right away and in my experience, no matter how much time I spend with a person doesn’t change whether or not that spark is there. I do believe that love is a decision, ultimately, but its foundation is built upon that invisible force that draws you to each other. It’s frustrating when chemistry just misses or when bad timing prevents the heart from sensing it. There are no set paths to falling in love and that exploration, that heartbreak, that discovery, that journey is why we write.
(found poetry redacted from She’s in Prison, by Leanne Rebecca, blog post 13 June 2015)
simple as The Flintstones,
smart like The Jetsons, and
cool as Top Cat,
but without
that background
scrolling
and scrolling
and scrolling
so that he keeps kicking his feet
but he’s standing still
while the rest of the world
changes
without him
Penis and Scrotum
What must it be like
to have a penis and scrotum–
the engine of desire–
attached to your body
just hanging there
at the center of everything
open and exposed
wrinkled and tender
vulnerable to bumps and bangs–
the feet of small children
climbing your frame–
to have so much of your life
controlled by its demands?
Poem 15, June 15
After you drink vodka
After you drink vodka & cranberry, you glow,
you look young, no stress lines, no crow’s feet.
I tell you so & you smile.
The poem in that smile, styled
like daffodils in snow, calling up to greet
sunshine, excites me, I’m stung
with the venom of poetry.
I marvel in the moment. The symmetry
of man & poet emerges, thinking & feeling strung
like laundry along a line, towels, shirts, a sheet,
quicken my pulse. My naked emotions run wild;
fueled by your dissolute & mild,
classic beauty. If I had hoped to be discrete,
you drink vodka & cranberry & I hoe a short row.
after a baptism and a funeral
the parish priest in his undershirt
making a sandwich
