Posts for June 20, 2020 (page 2)

I picked these for you 
mamma
a bitty bouquet
Clover flower,
dandilion,
forget-me-nots
tied together
with a leaf and 
heartstrings
just so.

My parents
raised me
to understand
I could never
know the
hardships
someone else
was facing
and just because
I had never had
an experience
myself,
it didn’t mean
it wasn’t real or
hadn’t happened
to another person.

We draw lines
for ourselves
and set boundaries,
lines we toe
along the edge
of who we are.
Sometimes
it takes a person
who’s life is
completely
different
from your own
to teach you
what truly
matters,
but you have
to pay attention.

Bourbon makes
me brave,
emboldened
with the sweet
warmth of alcohol,
I am ready
to take my stand
and walk the
course
of this path
I have
veered into.

A group of Goonies

Sitting on blankets

In an empty parking lot

Hour old popcorn

And music playing

Fireworks flying

The night is young

And so are we

The Pogues live on

Looking for the treasure

We call happiness

We both saw each other as warm bodies
Until we weren’t
Until it wasn’t
Until I was the warm body and he was suddenly the deaf
unable to hear
Eventually I turned cold
He could hear again
Maybe it was selective all along?
Vocabulary deficiency 
The word “no”

I took an evening walk. The air, thick. Humid and warm despite the lagging sun. Saw my first fireflies of the season and a row of wildflowers amongst the stately homes on Third Street. I actually let out a sound of glee upon seeing them. Even though I was alone. I have been frequenting Second Street as of late, skipping the left on Third. So the aforementioned wildflowers surprised me. What would my life be like if I did not care for architecture? If I did not stop to photograph flowers? If I could accept ordinary? Would I be happier? I’ve started stealing flowers. Meaning I, every so often, pick a flower. Not one in a private yard. I’ve only taken them from public spaces so far. I don’t plan to venture onto someone’s lawn and pick one. So I think I’m good. I don’t think I’ve crossed any lines of decency. Today I realized I am alright. Oh, I suppose I knew it already. But the reminder was pleasant. I am me and that is a positive. I do not need to alter my ways. There is a power in being oneself. Not as in acting like oneself but in the actual being. Me. The flower stealing lover of architecture and art and flowers and the color pink. Meaning pink flowers and pink houses and Basquiat paintings which feature pink. The me which has to create something even if only for myself. The me who needs an evening walk and while walking considers all the thoughts which linger. Leftover from the week. The longest day offers more time to evaluate. Contemplate. Rest. In the realization only the present affords.

you used the sea as metaphor,
of course it was the only way
to speak of tides too strong to fight,
of passions that roll in in waves.

you pictured me upon the shore,
i saw myself an island stranded.
you saw me from the ship you’d crafted,
i was standing empty handed.

you scanned the shoreline with your scope,
squinted at me through the mist.
i saw but didn’t dare to hope
to be understood inside a kiss.

you jumped over the side, i saw you
swimming with your heart in hand.
i wished to, like a lighthouse, guide you,
pull you safely onto sand.

but my warm heart’s a spinning compass, 
perhaps less light than siren song.
i wanted only then to love you,
whether time be short or long.

so when you turned back to your skiff,
and waded out to climb again
aboard your vessel with parting kiss,
i know you then the best of men.

and so sometimes, i scan the shoreline,
watching for a ship to pass,
consider it a holy vigil,
i offer prayers as if at mass–

please, sailor, take good care, i beg you,
and if by night, you see the moon,
you know i’m from the shoreline watching,
hearts beating, even still, in tune.

Your kisses are my favorite liminal empire

After the cat knots
came out of her fur,
we shook down the tent
and said quick goodbyes
to the goats, the peafowl,
the hens and chicks, the rooster,
the horses, the donkey, the “night badger”,
and Miss Glorious Fancy Pants,
who often uncurled like
the smoke beside the campfire after dark
and had sprawled herself on the ragtop
of your grey beetle the evening before.

Your embrace is my safest empirical space

We took the air out of the tent.
Room by room, then top or bottom,
then all in half. Together.

You and I unite our rulership: I bask

Folding a tent together
and making it fit
in its original bag
effectively, without distress and complaint
makes me hopeful for what else
we might unpack and
put in the spaces that work
smoothest for us together.

Flower absent from every bouquet!
You have no scent, but will never decay.

What wisdom lies here?
I long to run, to seek it.
The woods are calling.

The sounds of the woods around us became muted, as if there was life in the trees and meadows, but only a fraction of what had been. I could swear we had less thunder storms rolling overhead, less color in the sunsets. After she walked on, you moved the piano to rot by the back stairs in place of teaching me to play or trying to sooth your soul. I still cry when I hear Beach or Gershwin.