Posts for June 1, 2021 (page 10)

A cardinal is exactly who you were meant to be
Here on the hinge of childhood
With adulthood vivid and bright before you

I wish you a big life
Full of love and laughter and meaning
I hope you will always live large
With a generous spirit and eyes fixed on the horizon

The cardinal you have always been
Loyal tender caretaker that you are
And loved by so many

I wish you all these things and more
Love, confidence, and happiness
I wish you all the joy that you have brought to my life
And so much more

under Mayapple

spring shadows darken,

mark spots

where, folding back loam

we bury pain

unearth pleasure

snip roots away

each in time with

our seasons

I heard the singing again this morning
But i couldn’t see where it was coming from
Like a bird in the bush of my heart
That flowering thing I have failed to trim
And I wonder what else is here that I
Have failed to see that I have failed 
To attend to

“Touch has a memory.” 
                        –       John Keats  

We are what we touch
and yours

was so soft
I touched
so softly

the way
one might touch
a moth

with thought–
without

touching.  I knew
I couldn’t

ever be
the same.

  ~ ~ ~ 

I recall
the way

each of my sons
preferred that
touch

at bed time.

The first, in one large circle,
nape of the neck
to base of the back,
and again, until
he was still
against my chest.

And then, my second,
like a brush, but coarsely,
dragging the nails, but gently,
from bottom to top,
top to bottom, then a shift
to the right, and repeat—
though he seldom fell
asleep.

And with both, a light
sweep from the temple
to the ear, from the ear
to the eye—til it closed,
til their chest rose

and fell
more deeply.   

  ~ ~ ~

They, and You,
will never be
so small

again.  So much
has and will

change.  But

I’ve longed
for so long

to touch you
as you touched me—

to gather the gossamer
of wings, and light
a whisper

at your back—find myself,
there, as before, drawn within
visible but indelible ink,

saying,
Oh, there.  There you are.

There you are.

     peonies so pink
bending ballerinas 
     cicada opera

words
    of string,

wings
with
    phrases
             stated-
    one syllable
    of
       time.

              light
would act
  to move
            us deep,

  to line the
             realm it
                opens-

   all the truly
                open
          empty lanes  
    of leaves.

For Kai

I spend each day dreaming with you,

creating worlds and stories

the way life should be.

I spend all night dreaming of you,

wondering how your arms would feel around me

and how good your kisses taste.

So say goodnight to your baby doll

and give me a word

to live inside until we talk again.

We agreed no pictures.

So we’ll always be beautiful

in each other’s minds.

You’re my favorite fantasy.

Even though we’ll never meet.

I wish I could pull you through the screen

into my life.

So I’ll say good night again,

to my lover and my friend,

and our impossible romance.

Good night, my unseen lover.

You make me tremble like no other.

Take one more kiss to

last us ‘til tomorrow.

Something Hungry

used to wait near the edge of our driveway
next to the right-of-way fence. It gobbled 
up anything our cat didn’t eat.

There are scratches in the screen
above the limestone step where previous 
owners placed a crystal bowl.

We removed that altar to scrape
our plates next to the highway
hill, hoping only to spare

the porch door more gashes.
The feeding continued.
Never a scrap left.

At the edge of the woods, I dragged
a 25-pound grass carp clocked 
by a zealous heron peck.

The next day we found five scales—
wampum scattered purple and pearly.
Not even a bone remained.

All the deer who come here
to die, riddled with ammo
or mauled by the traffic,

never last a week as carcass.
Something chews and pulls
all flesh from the ribs, gnaws

at remaining jaw.  Why, this spring, 
has wild hunger paused? Fancy Feast 
curls dry in the grass,

slicks to paste after rain. Only maggots
thrive inside cast off bits, wriggle
new dance from the ruins.

Driving onto Cape Cod late at night,
mid 70’s, cops stopping us
where are you going,
and the frozen stares as we said Ptown.
Shining spotlights at the kids
sleeping in the back.  Do you
have relatives there, as though
that was the only legitimat reason
to head for this gay mecca.
We were soft spoken,
diplomatic, we knew the power
of the state, the gleaming guns
in their holsters.

A rusty can of earthworms and grass
Pried open edges like teeth on top