Posts for June 28, 2021 (page 2)

just inside the front door
lies the sacred space through which we pass
between our inner and outer lives:

two pieces of carpet sample, on which are piled
shoes in numbers and styles that vary with the season

one slightly broken umbrella (blue and white)
and two one-pound dumbbells (green)

round rug patterned with the labyrinth
from Chartres cathedral

two needlework wedding gifts, mounted and framed

the key to the deadbolt, on a string

bells on a cord tied to the doorknob, so the dog can signal
she wants to go out, and no one can come or go
without making a certain amount of noise

heirloom wooden secretary on which sits
a basket full of mail and dog treats,
a wooden valet tray in the shape of a duck, full of keys,
and a stack of CDs from the car

above the door, a hand-carved wooden catfish
keeps watch over our comings and goings

i changed all my favorite things

so when we met again 

you wouldn’t recognize me

In college we took a day trip
to watch the great monarch migration.

The big mockingbird robs the dumpster, and three
policemen press into the woods behind our apartment
complex where you lie. They gouge the hole
in the fence, wallpapered with the growth of vine. 

One morning, we woke up to a battered-open can
of beans on concrete stoop, shared between eight other
renters, some of whom feed the stay cat who kneads
our threshold every now and then, built it a box to rest.

Scared, the mimic bird tweets like a robin to cops
from the electric line, shoveling insults–peering
where I can’t see, to you and the narrow stretch 
of woods over the fence to another street, its apartment line. 

Remember, each unmounting day, there’s a new opening
towards grace. I imagine living rough there, so close: loosed, separated.

Red lights turn green

Old music soothing my ears

I think about June

How fast she went

As I drive through this small town

I think back at what I even did

Some days it was nothing

And some days were some of my favorites

But I can’t get past this feeling

I’ve had it since warm weather knocked on the door

That everything and everyone is changing

And that I have no control over it

Yes, somewhat of a control freak

Due to past circumstances.

This control is sort of different though

I’m trying to keep my fears from happening

I’ve overcome some of these fears before

I know how they feel

You could say I’m numb to them

But they still find a way

To break through my walls

The sad part is

Sometimes I spend too much time

Stressing over these fears

And wanting control

That I don’t enjoy what’s right in front of me

Or what’s outside my door

Or who is a phone call away,

What keeps me going is adventures

And friends

And just doing fun things,

Being a kid again.

Maybe this poem will be a vow to myself

To flip the bird to the fears

And go live this summer like I want to

using this tiny deck
my cat could play euchre
with Gus Gus
in Cinderella’s castle kitchen,
toke every time they draw an ace,
or deuce
when it’s wild,
split an order of sushi,
dream of hot tubs at Christmas,
grow fat, and
laugh as the stepsisters
cut their toes off
and the prince whisks
the princess off to do
whatever princes and princesses
do
these days
when dictators joke
and the world
slaps its knee

I’m new to this pharmaceutical
world, but the kids convinced me.

It’s been about 10 hours
since I took my medical
license for a spin, squirted
a little tincture on my tongue
and yo ho, off to work I go.

Typical blend of chores,
easy weeding, sweaty
shoveling–I’m in final
stages of rebuilding, moving
tons of amended topsoil upward
so I can tend my beds standing.

After an hour, I noticed
two things: my movements
in tight places had become
a dance, and my hands wrists
and thumbs didn’t hurt.

Rain interrupted, I mended
a hose, had a nosh, the rain
ended and I cruised through
two more hours working,
gathering and bagging yard
waste that goes away tomorrow.

Long shower, small dinner
then up to the bird room
Joni Mitchell on the radio
and I realize I’m tripping!

On the glide path down from
a good one! I felt exactly
like this in Punta Cahuita,
downcoast from Puerto Limon
in Costa Rica, 1974, black sand
beach and blue mushrooms
that grow on composting
cowshit, in full communion
with everything including
that vaguely familiar old
geezer who’s amazed his
opposing thumbs almost work.

I wish that you’d come back to me.

I wish your romantic words would stop

echoing in my head.

I wish your memory didn’t taste so sweet.

I wish you’d send me a message

even if it’s goodbye.

Then maybe I could move on.

I wish I could stop checking

every day

to see if you sent me anything.

I wish I could forget you.

I wish I could find someone else

but there’s no shortcut

through missing you.

I wish I could delete

what you wrote me

instead of rereading it

and living inside it.

I wish we could have a last

anything

instead of this silence.

I wish you could see

how miserable

you’ve made me.

I wish I could get an apology

but no one apologizes

for anything

any more.

I wish I knew

what I was to you

instead of wondering.

I wish I could process

all these feelings

a lot quicker.

I wish you’d have mercy on me

and just say something.

You step into someone’s life, 
establish bonds,
feign concern and 
build trust. 
You set about with seemingly 
genuine care and 
draw out love
and empathy. 
You infiltrate the hearts
of vulnerable 
open handed
honest souls.
You know when to smile, 
when to suggest 
comfort or concern, 
how to reap affection. 
You cunningly grasp hold
and ever so cleverly 
you thrust in your 
fangs of manipulation,
and bleed your victims dry.

By Kelly Waterbury 

                                                        Coming here from Cincinnati on the Amtrak,
                                                                traveling in a full-tube MRI for 17 hours.

                                                                *  *  *

When Langston Hughes was a busboy at Wardman Park Hotel restaurant in the early ‘thirties, he somehow dropped some poems on Vachel Lindsay’s table, which got Hughes on his way to where he went. I drank a cup of house decaf at Busboys and Poets and understood this venue to be no likely launch for any poets who worked here today.

Still, I asked a quiet, dignified young woman at the cash register in the gift shop . . . .  She replied, “Yes, but they’re only sort of haikkus; not exactly . . .”

“Only haikkus,” I gushed. “Would you write something in my book?” She would. I said, “Take as long as you like. I’ll look around the gift shop.” Books and fair trade crafts were there. I got a Gray Wolf Press edition of Elizabeth Alexander’s inauguration poem, “Praise Song for the Day.” When the cashier looked up, I went to her and asked if I could read it now.  She said she hoped I liked it.

                                                   i would like to ask
                                               if i may include you in
                                              the dreams i can’t shake

                                                                         – Mei, DC

                                                               *  *  *

                                            Riding home I rested in her persistent dream of me.