Sitting in my car watching the drops fly down
I wonder where my umbrella is
I put my hands over my head so my hair stays curled
I rush inside so to not get my clothes wet
Funny how life is like rain
It’s happening whether you want it to or not
You never know when it’s going to stop
Whether it will be a sprinkle or a downpour
Will you rush through it
Or will you stop and play?
I saw you walk
unbeknownst to you
out the door
I smiled to myself, as it was most likely a clear as mud sign
a hello from the Universe
more of a reminder, if I’m honest
end of May and time to
well, time to watch you walk out the door
it makes sense, on to the next
which could, I assure myself be…
virtually anything, as here I am at a crossroads
mostly in time, as it’s a new season
I smiled to myself as well, because I know, only a bit more
yet it’s something and that’s a milestone
There is a bird pecking outside
the transom window
attempting to build a nest
where one can’t be built.
There is a pile of twigs, dead leaves,
faded blossoms on the porch floor below her.
Some things birds don’t seem to learn.
Is it the glass that draws them
or the narrow ledge that looks so promising?
Or the edge of despair?
She began in spoken word
she had yet to place on the page
details pain
all the seeking
the unknowing
the relentless back-&-forthing
& when I attempt seduction
into the arena
she falls back
shame & fear overtakes
sending me her poem
declaring
she’s not willing
to step into the gaze
of the not-knowing
seeking answers
only poetry provokes
when tensions peak & border on unbearable.
Giving, maybe.
Maybe forgiving.
Neither cheating teachers
nor teaching cheaters,
and not much else, according to good authorities.
Authorities on goodness.
Letting other people’s poetry wreck me.
Like last night at the reading.
Like today in a book
in a coffee shop
half-drowned in rain.
Loving my wife and everyone else
who lets me in. Even you,
who tried to ruin me.
Who tried to destroy me.
I can’t help thinking of you fondly.
People like us don’t belong in the “real world”
or in the Godforsaking simulacrum of it
that Academia has become, but out of spite
I drag my broken-down body and soul
through the burning sands of both.
Maybe I’m good at forgiving.
I want to be good at giving.
Listening to music until I think
the notes of the song are my own thoughts.
Watching a movie so many times
I enter it and can’t find the exit.
I hope, many years from now, to die
in my office or in the classroom,
and I hope the stench is horrid.
To tell you the truth, I’m good at telling the truth,
good at enduring the cost, and there’s always a cost.
You remind me of a fresh peeled orange
The sweet tartness like the bite of your tongue the jester you are
Though soft and delicate hidden behind your peel
Your tenderness I long to have rolled along the valleys of my tongue
You allow me to breathe in this refreshing spark of something I’ve longed for all day, all my life
The acidic sweetness of your skin upon my skin
Dried into the ridges of my fingerprints
I wonder if you hunger for me the same
Desire to peel away at my hardened peel
To nestle me within your hands
My sweet smell lingering still on your own fingertips
The simplest of juice sliding down to your palm
And this marks the depth
of our lasting friendship,
of how gently we guard each other,
how we each regard the other:
Feeling fully safe and comfortable,
we dare to meet not wearing masks.
(after the painting, “The Hummingbirds,” by Christian Schloe)
The forest holds its breath, a symphony of rustling leaves and snapping twigs. Fear here is primal, a bear’s roar in the night, a flash of claws. But the city’s fear is a different beast. It slithers in a smile that doesn’t meet the eyes, a footstep too close behind.
a list of questions this morning
they seem to never end thought and question
is this enough to be called alive
what if there is something behind first thought
what if the reaction were not the real story just
a seasoned reaction learned over time taught
is it pure physical to stay horizontal inclined
toward calculating judging labeling hating
there’s more beyond this plane of the body
the gift has been given
