STILL WATERS
As the surface of a lake or
pond must be still to reflect
a perfect image of the full moon
rising from behind the hill,
so must the surface of the
poet’s mind be still before he
or she can create and share
an arresting reflection of reality
in a few lines of poetry.
As for me, I contend
beautiful eyes are
beautiful eyes
and her touch is
more than I’d planned.
Golden rule of love save me
Golden rule of love do not evade me
Wherever I go
Come save me
For I have yet to experience
The golden glory
Of your soul
Whatever I do
Come save me
Even in our distance apart
Do not misconstrue
My open love for you
My open heart for you
Hoping my promises for you
Comes true
I put your picture
In my locket, so dear
Savor your presence
In my mind near
Pray to God
the smallest opening
to earth’s inner music
just as it falls
into silence
something in me
keeps trying to answer
(title is from Lee Sharkey’s poem “Equations”.)
All my friends are getting married
and the only thing I can think to write
on the inside of their cards
is Good Luck. Just a neutral wish
with no positive or negative
emotions attached. I won’t add
that I Googled it and studies show
people who marry after the age of 28
are less likely to get divorced.
It will make me the bitter friend,
not the smart one. So I sign
“Congratulations!”
Love,
Sam
I love Bernard Waber’s old picture book
about a street cat named Scat who spends
her days looking for food and her nights
seeking shelter. Other more fortunate cats
have nothing more on their minds
than going to sleep on downy pillows.
Since 1979, income inequality in Kentucky
has grown significantly: Income for the wealthiest
1 percent rose by 60 percent and dropped
3 percent for everyone else,
thanks to low education attainment rates.
In the book, a little girl and her mother
take Scat to their house, give her dinner and a bed
with a pillow, and they name her Gwendolyn.
Not all street cats are so lucky.
Messengers
Your name comes from a Greek word
best translated as Messenger.
It is an uncommon name for a female
& you are a woman,
deserving of poetry.
I know your secret
as well you know mine.
I thought of you today at 2:55
in the morning.
I was consumed by you,
consumed by a wish
to touch you.
As poet I may write feelings
or truth void of emotion
& of love.
Outside my window,
I hear night birds singing,
in love with twilight,
intimate with darkness.
I realize that they are messengers
of their own making.
Sometimes
I’m the grey
Rumbling sky
Ruining everyone’s plans
Sometimes
I’m the rainbow
Shining through
although it should be June 3 still Jackie, isn’t that your name? From drum class? Did I misunderstand? You look as if I intrude— paying bar tab, a moment stretched into a universe a lonely bar in Lexington, playing Grateful Dead re-memory the curly-haired dude with his arm around her. Your breath smells sour— yet, finally at home at the corner of a bar universe found in lights stamped into poured concrete bar, poured shots of whiskey, poured into our ride. You cannot find your way. I nudge you, Jackie. Jackie. Left or right? You poured yourself out. Thanks, guys. You wave. Like we are a ride. Friends. Not the strangers who shared our ride. And I wonder. What if it wasn’t us? How many other rides home? Lost. Four white paper bar napkins scrawled in ink from a plastic pen found somehow from bottom of my back pack the one I take to real shows, not just to a bar in town to see a local band.
