Posts for June 18, 2021 (page 5)

After Pablo Neruda  
 
Should we keep a window open, even in winter?
Why were there so many stairs to his office? 

Who escaped with the cream puffs?
Can we write without using metaphors?  

Why do some people not like questions?
Can Medusa learn to write her name in sky letters?  

If it rains, will the undersides of leaves get wet?
Who came up with the answer, “Because!”?  

Does chartreuse ever wish she were blue?
If the stones weren’t in moonlight, how could they fly?

          The First Rung

Silenced month after month,
Callouses of communication fall
Unused, flaccid, stale.

Poetry comes from the songs
We hear sung by life’s chorus
Of friends, loves, even foes.

The brace of expectation pulled
By the tug of mankind rubbing close,
Demands we respond in kind.

But we fell unpracticed, alone
Rusty, mostly silent. Today doors
Swing open and life asks that

We respond with cheer, rested, ready
To attack old tasks and paths hardy,
Alert and prepared. Alas, the creep

Of time has robbed a step. The hours
Unused seem to have held more than
They left of the stew of life, that buoyant
Elixir that lifted and blessed each day.

Granny would have said, pull on your
Hobnails, fill that poke, get off the porch.
You’ve mountains to climb and streams
To tame. Stop burning daylight.

Taking a deep breath, feet atremble,
We stretch to reach the first rung . . .

Glide over the ocean on seabirds’ wings and I will be waiting on the shore with open hands, a safety net for your soaring soul when it settles to earth.  

I am your sanctuary, a place of calm that sets you free to venture.  

The chains that bind us are soft as angel’s breath.
Your strength to soar is my soul’s gift to yours.

Into a solemn moment
Comes a fly seeking sweetness,
Buzzing our communion cup,
Drawing us from prayer to her
Search. Cloth covers, sacrament safe,
Sacred stretched to admit praise
From all creation’s seekers.

the end

of she and

of her is birth

one without a pomegranate driving her alcohol

the woman cries for better days and weeks and years

this the private marveling

a time to rest lyrically in the clouds

and develop a new respect for sleeping drugs

she who carries flames

he who walks with velvet feet

tonight is the love of those

who are only half read, half looked, and half gazed

Miles of moments on my road through the hell of hard questions.
Questioning my worth, my heart and my intentions.
I never questioned those things with you.

You always saw that I was worthy and knew my intentions before I knew them myself.
You knew I needed the wheels to fall off before I could drive in the right direction, but you let me hold the map upside down so I could learn to read the signs on my own.

You have always been my true north, pulling me in the directions I needed to go, and lovingly watching as I meandered along paths of new pavement and thunderous rocks.

And when I get lost, you point to the Word and the Book and LOVE and remind me who I am and that i need only trust in Him.

You help show me the Way

in Geneva, city of peace
a gift of aviator glasses
diplomats return

And resolve buckles again, under the weight of a restless black ocean,

To simply be the stick spun
in the mud—
twine intertwined
in my crevasses bound
to your stability.

Craving to twist
between your arms,
as you have in mine;
Desperately clawing
for stem strength
within a single pot.

Leaves crawling
up our crystal like image,
thornes peeking
through each one,
any swift breeze 
could shatter

what took so long to chisel.

Dew collects on the tobacco leaves,
dripping on the sandlugs
at the bottom of the stalk,
waking up the rattlesnakes.

Pecan trees sleepwalk
in the orchard, branches splayed
like the long arms of God
banishing the void with a wave.

In the house a boy is dreaming
of his mother and father
standing in a field of tobacco, 
growing smaller and smaller

as he leaves them behind.
He shifts in the sheets, damp
from his body.  The porch swing 
swings at the slightest breeze.