The Birds’ Song
I think you
must be the
Soul
reason the
birds don’t
lose their song
The loaf is split,
The wine, poured;
Remember
Time and eternity will intersect
In ways you least suspect,
In rare moments when veils part
And for a quivering instant, you will know
You have glimpsed something that is real,
Some transcendent life;
And yet as you reach to touch it—
As you will reach to touch me—
It will resolve again into Itself,
And only this will be left:
Memory, and wonder,
And the hard questions—
Im so sorry, that I let it go this far.
Today its June and its raining hard,
and it reminds me of this time last year,
when i first met you and we got caught up
in the rain, in your car, in the theatre-
it was hard to breathe then,
and its still hard to breathe now
without tracing your tattoos.
Along with 300 others,
I read essays in a room
the size of a hangar,
essays explaining the interplay
of emotion and propriety
in The Adventures of Peregrine Pickles.
We filed red folders
like autumn leaves
signaling our success.
After seven days of shop talk,
banana breaks, yoga, and rambling,
we said goodbye
to the deep Missouri.
Lord.
If there was ever a time
to break open some blessings,
to shower me with grace,
to show me You are really there
watching over me,
this is that time!
When the music
barely rolls off my tongue
and only falls into my ears,
when the bread is tasteless
and the chalice is empty on arrival,
it feels like it is Your foot
digging into my side
breaking ribs
rather than You taking them.
Twenty eight years and counting,
I’ll never claim to be a saint
but I was at least hoping
that I would have something to show
by now.
Yet even in motions, I’m still here
waiting for you to touch me.
If this is yet another unanswered prayer,
at least I’m used to disappointment.
But I like to believe
I’ve seen the road to Heaven,
and if You can help take out the blocks
along the way, then I can finally say
I will be forever yours.
Just called a nice restaurant to make reservations
Well, maybe “nice” isn’t the best word
Called their main number
Got a recording to call “Lauren” at a different number
Called the second number
Was not given a “Lauren” option
Was asked to leave a voicemail message
Left a message
Have not heard back.
They are probably very busy today
Maybe Lauren no longer works there
Or what if my number on caller ID triggered a profile they don’t like?
Could I be on a “no-fly” list for fancy restaurants?
I’ve eaten there a few times
Maybe they didn’t like the way I was dressed.
Well, I’ll show them
I’ll go to another restaurant and get a doggy bag
Then I’ll park right out front and eat my dinner in the car
I’m sure they’ll see me
Yep, I know how to get even.
There are few poems—
if any—about rhubarb,
a fruit
which is not a fruit,
that stands alone
in the garden,
rising above poisonous leaves,
though seldom alone
on our plates.
And there is not,
to my knowledge
a Rhubarb Moon.
If there were, perhaps we could
kill all the critics—
stewards against cloying sweetness
in poetry—champagne doux
after the effervescence
is gone.
The moon, after all,
is made of rock,
its history preserved on its surface,
craters of hardened lava
from volcanoes long cooled.
I thought poems were suppose to rhyme
Like Moon, June and Turpentine
Full of promises, full of hope
Chantilly Lace and French milled soap
Tho some free verse can be real fine
An doesn’t necessarily have to rhyme
They cause to ponder, muse and think
About beauty, lovers, loss and drink
Today a lot of poems seem to fill a place
Of angst and anger and just bad taste
Dog crap smelling and pussy juice
Nothing pretty – just plain puce
Jobless poets and nameless faces
Writing of shit and pissy places
So many penises – can’t be chance
Once upon a time they stayed in pants
And breasts and cunts – pussy galore
Are words and phrases I just abhor.
Masturbation, once a vice
Now written freely for spice and dice
I just come from a different generation
Things were quiet, not a manifestation
That’s just me – That’s all I’ll say
No one really does care anyway
Just my opinion, called as such
can’t say a lot
most times not much.
a smallest voice might cry
don’t stand unmoving outside
i yearn to touch and to be touched
like waving grain across the plains
the spring burr oak may always uncurl
and should some why completely weep
through haves of give or of sleep
draw closer to me, closer to me a million times
with my greatest desire—show me hope
for a benign universe
lifting the valley of the sea
in my shining here lifetime
First ideas from: http://happinessishereblog.com/2016/01/comfort-is-always-ok/ posted on FB by my daughter
Then the poem pulled some innocent phrases from: “my father moved through dooms of love” e.e. cummings, poets.org —a perennial post.
