They’re already putting out purple mums
in the nurseries, like displaying
Christmas trees before Thanksgiving.
Like everyone else, they’ve given up
on summer. No one goes to the pool
or puts a boat in the water,
air too heavy to breathe, spirits
sodden, weighed down by a season
past its prime.
This is a day depleted by summer
with autumn not quite here,
a forlorn, abandoned time of year,
the tail-end of summer, spirit-less,
it lingers. We’re ready for back
to school.
With so much go
The doctors say to look out for the day
You will no longer be yourself.
I am to report it immediately
To see what can be done to negotiate
The terrible inevitable.
The doctors say you need a champion
One day, you may no longer advocate for you.
I am to wait and see, keep tight watch
So that the beginning of the end can be caught
Before you are no longer yourself.
The doctors say I may feel the urge to leave
and should help put a plan in place
But we are already us.
We have never been yourself.
Today, you are a dancer.
I am your support socks, hiding on the shelf.
I have memorized the shape of you.
If tomorrow, you are a bear
Then I am a mosquito, tucked beneath your fur.
I will raise a bump to the memory of you.
even beneath a barren tree
may the grass grow tall.
though thy neighbor’s harvest
be great, small is the heart of
the envious.
as each child hath but
one father and mother,
so too hath each parent.
as the stars in the clear night sky,
so too the corridors of the heart.
as thou wast made in passion,
so too are all things made.
there are but two urges–
to create; to destroy.
seeketh not answers,
nor questions–seeketh only
that which is good.
take not from another’s heart,
lest thou be willing to fill
the void.
if thou but master
thy tongue, thy hands–
then only shalt thou master
thy world.
In this overspray
that cools my face
arms, and my bare feet,
I finish reading Heine’s:
yes these are the very eyes
in German, translating
the lines
in English as I did:
her very lips,
her very voice
her most beautiful arms
embracing her lover,
his head on her breasts,
and him feeling
dull
morose.
I reflect on those lines,
remembering the empty canvas
on my easel in search of art.
In this overspray,
I picture a tan
naked body,
a young German woman,
standing mid-thigh deep
in cool water,
a boat, stationary,
a red plastic bottle
of bubble soap
in her left hand,
her right hand,
dipping the wand in,
carefree,
full of joy,
and radiant.
if done correctly
there is a civil propriety
to the rendering of chaos.
a certain decorum
to cracking wide
the skull of your oppressor.
in this light,
i’m is a god;
the disobedience of abeyance.
Driving by you have to look up, up eyes
Sweeping through a tunnel of trees, past
The gate to where it stands, alone buffeted
By wind, hail, ice, heat, cold and tragedy.
No one knew the latest owner well, he
Kept his own counsel, never seemed to
Stray much beyond his well-kept fences.
Didn’t spend Sunday at church or croquet
Cars didn’t turn in his drive, one truck, his
Was all anybody saw come and go. Some
Of the church ladies took him some welcome
Cake and a casserole. Didn’t break the ice.
They whispered he was not unkind, just busy
And they didn’t linger long enough to chat.
Trails of tales sprang from that visit, none
Of which spread a single grain of truth. Said
He had piercing eyes, bushy hair, uncut, a beard,
Wearing clothes so worn the threads were poor
At hiding a scarred knee and battered arm.
Men at the store, told it straighter, held his liquor.
Spoke little, one to listen, paid his bill not warm.
Folks coulda tried some harder had they a glimmer
He would shoot himself late one morning before dinner.
Tales were told, mysteries never unfold, stark, cold.
House stayed empty and at the last burned that winter.
Tree tunnel grew so thick, memory seemed to fade,
The shame not so easy to bury at close of day.
Neighbors clucked together about the way
Poor man so alone, had none to help, they say.
with sandpaper and solder
