giving up on random thoughts
to the pancake
that sits there
untouched
unloved
i will eat you.
Old runner
chases youth
passes familiar trees
bearing new rings
old runner cannot see
Old runner watches
youth sprinting in the distance
and loses sight of speedy blurs
when the trail bends
beneath the sunlit canopy
old runner seeks in late morning miles
Old runner quickens pace
to race youth
only
youth disappears
under highway bridge shadows
growing darker when horns blare from above
old runner hears these in the distance
and wishes they were closer
Old runner’s skin glistens
with salty sweet sweat
resting on her body
streaking fresh tanned skin
from work
that was once not labor
and served as rebirth
for old runner
Old runner’s breath slows steady
knowing that the youth ahead
is quick
and old runner
can no longer be
Old runner
now the tall sage
with extra rings
lining her eyes
near the corners of her mouth
on her finger
on the trail that
youth
hers now theirs
runs
I made it through my first lexpomo.
My sun-size anxiety from day one is only
a candle flame today.
The good news is I didn’t succumb to madness.
I’ve heard that has happened to some poets.
In ten years with the old washington wordsmiths
I averaged one poem a year.
June 2019, 15-16. Who knew?
Or at least I’ve tried to present them as poems.
Still have a lot to learn and this was a good place for that.
Insight: I now see poetry as this vast field
that can’t help but express itself.
As you and me and all things that be.
That may have been my first rhyming line.
Best part, getting to know you all a little bit.
Thank you for putting your poems out there.
I believe when we open our minds and hearts
blessings can’t help but find a way in.
May you all be well, happy, peaceful, and safe.
Thanks, Don
The first mowing of the year floats a hint
of sweet fescue and wild onion my way, turns
the yard into green velveteen. I am lazing
on my weathered wooden swing, strung
between two mulberry trees. Here, at the edge
of our property, rivulets of violets and tiny
white wildflowers crisscross the grass. I sway
right above their low-growing grace and watch
a honey bee tiptoe over the yellow meadow
of a dandelion, culling the nectar. It flies off, raising
my gaze to the latticework of tenderly budded
branches draped around me. Through this natural
screen, redbud blossoms flicker their rose hues.
Flash of sun, unblemished backsplash of blue sky.
All this color, its brilliant indifference, measures
me: I am just a drop of pale imperfection.
An officer boards
Gripping gun handle.
Passeport, mercì.
Passeport, mercì.
Clears five rows
Two minutes.
In front of me,
A wedding-mehndied hand
Lifts a green passport;
Officer flips every page,
Radios,
Holds her picture next to
Her lifted chin.
She adjusts hijab.
She has been here before.
He radios.
She explains
In immaculate French.
She has been here before.
Eight minutes
Before he clears her,
Flinging the passport at her lap,
Moving on to me.
He flips one page,
merci.
It is my first time here.
I cannot translate the words
That need to be spoken,
Especially not
Mercì, but
In every language
Reverberates
Shameful silence.
What I like to do is open my eyes slowly take in gallons of warm
aromatic air in small swallows stretch my unburdened neck and
shoulders touch the candles with my breath until they can take
no more turn on the overhead light and wait drawing in
the quiet of these bookshelves this altar marinating in these
positive vibes thinking not of a browned rotting clementine or
the sludge and slurry floating in the national mall or gunpowder
or broken rainbows or half-sized burial plots or hollow mannequins
in a governor’s mansion or murdered flamingos or an overabundance
of ocean or cigarettes or lost limbs but instead of the excitement
my dog feels as I come home from work my son’s brightly dyed
hair bouncing as he tells me his dreams of go-karts and video games
birthday fundraisers homemade greeting cards in crayon
Amanda’s head on my shoulder the smell of deciduous trees
and slow-cooking barbeque every kind of sky acrylic paint
under my fingernails regular heartbeats the ability to open
my eyes I think of these warm embers living in my chest
I touch my palms to the carpet and exhale and open the door
to the rest of the world filled with what it takes to carry on
If you love raw
onions I won’t judge,
but I despise them & while I
will savor tender stir-fried
onions if there’s an uncooked
Vidalia in my tossed
salad I will pluck them
out. If you are a superfan of Toby
Keith or Billy Joel you can
find good company but it won’t
be me. I savor Paul Simon, Norah
Jones, Aretha. More lover than
hater, but I have a list
& I’m proud. No convertibles,
or hazelnut coffee. Never liver,
brussel sprouts or a popsicle
on wooden stick. I am
reverent before a mouthful
of shrimp linguine with extra
garlic, when the crunch
of a red grape is tight
& flavorful. Many people adore
late sunset, but I’m nuts
about the first minutes
of sunrise. I abhor
endings so you can cross
off dressy funerals, but folding
warm towels is magnificent. When
I detect shreds of raw Spanish
onion on my muffuletta, or find
it minced & hiding like a stinging
bee in my egg salad, my darling
favorites return – if only to my
imagination – to sing the wild
bliss of choice & preference.
Undaunted, I write
Some Rilke readers see
his poetry about love
as his own flaws exposed,
his failure as a lover.
Some readers define his lover
as one of two supposed
people cut off from love
around them. In his poetry,
neither can thus know
what love is. Being in love,
as poet, with the process
of writing as Rilke was, art
was his ever saving part-
ner in the tedium of less
emotions. I have been in love,
hopelessly so.
In my heart, love
has been as beautiful as a meadow
of wild flowers of many colors,
reliably moving in a prevailing wind.
There is a certain sort of beauty in wildness
and weed, an unstructured, “come what may” attitude
of a garden untended. An overwhelming greenness,
even when much of the green is weeds.
An unspoiled look of a vine overtaking
a bench, and the unexpected surprise
of blueberries, popping out of the jungle.
The lack of need for everything to be in its right place
could be interpreted as relaxing, I suppose.
But there’s another side, as well. A side
where a created world calls for order,
a garden calls to be maintained. The weeds
jar your conscience, once you know
what they’ve done, establishing
themselves in good soil, so nothing else can grow.
A trained eye soon can only see wasted potential,
the opportunity missed, for a thriving,
fruitful garden. A hand with a green thumb itches
to get to work, cutting back weeds, planting
flowers, restoring the beauty
of a tended garden.
We cleared the table quickly,
her knitting untouched,
as we settled in our places
against the tiled kitchen wall,
I a teenager, she my age now,
waiting for the Italian-dubbed
teleromanzo, Dallas.
We watched silently until–
I forget who we watched kissing–
my grandmother said wistfully,
che dolcezza!* Better
than the meals she prepared,
the siesta confidences she invited,
the many sweaters she knit,
I remember her appreciation
and longing.
*what sweetness
