The carillon plays from a church
Two blocks away,
And it takes me back fifty years.
“are ye able, said the master”
My dad sang the bass line
Of every hymn
Like it was being recorded.
And it was,
On my brain, anyway.
Deep notes … almost
A counter-melody.
So certain. So comforting.
If I went back to church,
I wouldn’t try to fathom the lyrics.
Only the lowest notes.
Not really a believer,
Just a sturdy dreamer.
were that i were as determined as the grass,
which grasps the soil from shallow roots,
contends with insects climbing up the shoots,
stamping around the base, burrowing the
nearby soil,
with the rain which never feels gentle
to the grass, but can be
harsh, especially when wind,
its mischievous accomplice, comes with it,
not to mention me–
the human who comes along
with my loud machine to bisect
the grass, the cut fragment falling
to die in the dirt,
yet the grass keeps growing,
refusing to yield,
standing tall despite the attacks
by creatures and Mother Nature,
despite my heavy feet pressing down,
as it survives under a relentless summer sun
and the dormancy of winter
36 years since we met
Living in today with the you of yesterday.
You are my rear view mirror.
Memories of time, the tangible part of our now with a hopeful maybe in future weeks.
“Tattoo you” on the wall next to the spot where I fell in love with you, over and over, like the coiled phone chord wrapping around my fingers
Your name on my shoulder and heart;
I carry you in my bloodstream and under my skin
Each morning she enters the dark room.
Canisters of film, yesterday’s memories,
waiting to be developed.
She puts on her gloves and prepares
the chemicals in their trays. Developer,
stop bath, fixer, all carefully measured.
She sorts through the captured images.
In this one she is walking to the car,
her hair blowing in the wind, sun shining.
He is waiting for her, on their way
to the beach. She smiles, thinking maybe
he is watching her, maybe he is glad.
Her smile fades as she gets closer
and sees his eyes diverted as usual
to something more interesting on his phone.
This is the moment she wants to keep.
She holds it to the light until it transfers.
Develop it. Stop it in time. Fix it to the page.
Each step she agitates with the liquids.
Finally, the picture crystal clear and dry,
she will add it to the stack marked negatives.
You can not fit
a round peg
in a square hole.
You can not navigate
through the darkness
like a mole.
You can not control
your world without
being bold.
You can not fool
the universe
with a pot of gold.
You can not force
love when
it has no soul.
In my family
Madness runs, in
some it walks and
others merely
tiptoes. We can all see
where it gallops
or trickles out
like thick maple syrup
from a tipped over jar.
I’m blessed with a kiss
of it and not its full
blown embrace like
brother’s opposite poles
or sister’s obessions
or aunt’s hand wring
or grandmother’s sorrow
and so on, just the manic
rush toward alarm
that my wife helps me
disarm with a dozen
deep breaths
I watched the flowers dance as the tiniest summer rain
stormed their petals
they didn’t seem to mind that some of them broke free of their center
tumbling into the dirt drinking up the drops
I’d been caught in the cacophony the headlines hit me with
as I watched the flowers dance
I couldn’t help wonder
do they laugh sometimes
cry more probable
at humans’ attempts to reign
