We spent the most time looking
at the palette of ranunculus, an array
of galvanized buckets lined up
next to the reddest tomatoes.
It took me awhile to learn
how to pronounce ranunculus,
the Latin rooted word
stitched with Persian myth.
Once learned, it fell from my lips,
layers of petals,
cylindrical bowls, round and round
a carousel of color.
Its the last day of Spring how shall I celebrate?
I think I will begin by being thankful for all the early flowers.
Those pops of color are so refreshing after those long winter months’
We must not forget getting the garden planted. We started planning it in January.
Greenhouses are open and filled to the rafters with flowers and veggie plants.
Warm days and cool evenings are so refreshing.
The energy you feel from being outside after that winter hibernation.
Waiting and watching the perenial herbs come back to life and those tulip bulbs emerging.
Thank you Spring for a wonderful season full of color and possiblilties.
Tonight I will toast you and make a strawberry poptart cobbler using those berries you helped turn ripe and so sweet.
We trade gifts in Pokémon Go,
these strangers
and I.
And each gift comes
with a postcard,
a snapshot of some semi-random place.
A park,
a statue,
a theater,
a historical marker.
I spin the PokeStop
from the church
at the end of my street
several times a day.
I worry that my online friends
think I actually worship there.
Even my local friends
are mostly people I’ve never met.
We pass the same photos around
over and over.
Today is my turn to receive
the Samuel L. Jackson mural.
My girlfriend and I always
save the painted rose
on the sidewalk
for each other.
What’s fun is seeing
images from other states.
Kitschy Americana stuff.
Goofy statues outside restaurants.
Signs with animated ice cream cones.
Occasionally something real like
the Grand Canyon
or Arlington Cemetery.
Better yet are the postcards
from other countries.
My friend in Mexico who sends me gargoyles.
Shrines and shops in Japan.
Monuments to historical figures
we have probably never heard of here.
One guy sends me the loneliest looking
basketball goal
from somewhere in Slovakia.
I wonder if he plays there.
Or if he just passes it each day.
It’s always fun
when someone visits
an amusement park.
I just got a postcard
from the Indiana Jones attraction
in Shanghai Disneyland.
It’s a strange kind of tourism,
seeing these little bits of the world
each day,
many of them with descriptions
in languages I can’t read.
I wonder who they are sometimes,
the people behind the cartoon avatars.
Instead of churches or restaurants,
I’d like to send them pictures of my dog
or my girlfriend’s art work.
Instead of a sticker with a silly caption,
a message of hope
or a poem.
Connected but alone,
we send each other gifts each day
which only hint at our real lives.
Last night, Nancy prompted me to record
When life is broken
(To paraphrase John Lennon)
Love is super glue
I felt the weight of the cascade of reveries as I walked quietly on the cobblestone so hesitantly
Oodles and oodles of fragmented memories retraced so delicately
I strolled in my favorite place with the rest of me
I wanted feel all the emotions at once to pacify my mind
my plan de vida is to rinse these dirty hands of mine
I’m fine, I just like check in with myself from time to time
As you slip out of the inner darkness
I shout out incoherent words
then lose myself at our first touch.
I marvel at the smallness of your feet
As you reach for my comfort
With your unsure hand
Keeping grasp of my sheltering hand
we rock away the darkness
and provide each other comfort.
Testing untried words
And rising on unsteady feet
Nothing now is safe from your questing touch
With one last touch
You let slip the confine of my hand
And I listen to the fading scuffle of your feet.
But in the night time darkness
You still call for me with soft words
For me to give you comfort
Your strength gives me comfort
And I marvel at your steady touch
But still I call out last words
Of advice and grasp your hand
To remind you that I will still be here for you in the darkness
As you walk towards the future with questing feet
You walk now with firm feet
Towards him and he gives you comfort
In the still and quiet darkness.
Yearning for his touch
With it’s strong and loving hand
As you murmur indistinct words
I listen to your joyful words
That describes the smallness of your new daughter’s feet.
Walking with a tired gait, I am grateful for your hand
That steadies me and gives me comfort
And your soft touch
That soothes me while I await the coming of the darkness.
I sense the touch of your hand and the love of your words
As I slip into the outer darkness, I remember the wonder of your tiny feet.
The memories give me comfort, as I no longer feel your touch.
Our gods have been shuffled
like old playing cards,
greasy and secretly marked.
My small circle of friends & family
contains a myriad of divine beings
who each have their own way
of butting in or leaving us alone.
I dare name none of them.
But it does seem that they all play
the game of chance with the old “What If”
conundrum. What if when my papa
was running numbers in ‘30s Brooklyn
the longshoremen’s double hadn’t hit
and left him holding the bag?
In a story too long to tell it was
either go to Nazi Europe, marry
my mom and sneak her out to America
or die. God’s lucky number turned up for papa
and I exist. What are the odds of that?
Boy oh boy,
This poetry knocks me out lately
I’m worried it doesn’t have the same effect
As it used to
I get so tired
It feels like a boulder
I love words
They have put bandages all over me
But with these repressed memories
I get scared to see them on paper,
On a computer,
On a laptop
Long are the days of crumpled up paper wads
Surrounding a desk
It’s backspace,
Delete,
Nevermind,
Forward
Backspace isn’t the same effect as a crumpled piece of paper
Maybe i’ll get out my pen
