Quaint Quatrain
Words of whimsy warble on
Singing songs so spritely,
Chides the children carrying on
Boldly, brashly, brightly.
Words of whimsy warble on
Singing songs so spritely,
Chides the children carrying on
Boldly, brashly, brightly.
Inside a stone circle in Tulsa
your words echo only to yourself &
even those just beyond its forcefield
watching your mouth move
cannot hear you yelling
I imagine many line up
to try it on
a temporary puzzle
a fascinating experiment
I imagine some
with voices
that have been muted before
widen their path
lest a quicksand sinkhole
open beneath them
again
It’s that time of the year
that I get to express myself,
to look back on what I’ve done
and scare myself
with how proud I am
or at how little has gone on.
The school year flew by,
but so did the chance to recognize
the days of my life
and how they got us to where we are.
Of course I’m glad it’s summer,
but maybe it’s a bummer
that I didn’t live each day to its fullest.
oh well,
retrospect can be the greatest or the cruelest.
“I want to do with you
what spring does to cherry trees.”
— Pablo Neruda
Now is the summer of my near-content.
Somewhere else, the cherry trees have already passed
their prime, weeping pink & white blossoms that blanket
the green sheets of yards, the grey & dappled brown earth
of cobblestone—the beauty of a beginning coming to an end.
After the fall, tiny, green fruit take their place,
swelling, filling with juice & meat of life,
til what is green ripens to blood.
I am swimming this summer morning: Warm enough
for shorts, a patterned tee—the breeze cool like it’s kissed
ocean waves & white sand, somewhere else, somewhere
remembering the press of the souls of your feet
in a land I’ve yet to see, in a distant past
I only see when you talk.
Cicadas shed their shells like songs
telling the story of your birth, your childhood,
the decades of a you that existed—lived—before
there was a me to mature in your mind.
I sit, knowing you are there, knowing you are here—
memories & untold stories like time-lapse video
of darkest pink peonies gathering dew in secret gardens,
your eyes blushing velvet black beneath long lashes
curling toward the heaven we create, your cheeks
dimpling, your nose crinkling when you laugh,
your eyes closing as your lips are opening
to taste me again.
I wonder how long the summer will last.
I wonder how the cherries will taste
in the season of harvest.
I wonder if it is easier to not know
you exist, or to know & to wait,
both knowing it will come—it will
all come—while we wait
& long
for more.
I know
there is no reason
to wonder, only
to know
now is the summer
of my near-
content.
The sound of cicadas
is deafening me.
Flutterings
float drunkenly
through my field of vision
wandering
wearily
from some sorted celebration
that sizzles incessantly
with a song saying clearly–
You are not allowed.
The sound of cicadas
is taunting me, now.
On my trip to San Diego
I could barely climb into the cab
of the Ford F-150 gas guzzler monster.
I held tight on that rumpus ride
through the canyons of Balboa Avenue.
I held tight because this room changed
while I was away in Ohio
birthing one last boy, crying one last joy,
scraping the mud from the Little Miami
where sometimes, when the sun skips
like stones across the water,
a bass or bluegill or sucker
jumped.
Someone had painted the room.
Someone dragged the bed to the other wall
leaving gouges in the hardwood.
Someone tore down the lace curtains,
and replaced the wood panes with vinyl.
Someone opened the window
and let the Santa Ana devil winds
wreck everyone who lived here.
You can:
Cut off my hands
And feed them to the hounds for supper
Pierce my Achillies
With a poisoned arrow or spear
Tear out my entrails
And strew them all across the battlefield
Slice off my ears, or nose
Or gouge my eyes
If you so please
Break my spine in two
Or four
Or thirty-three
Individual vertebrae
But, in spite of all that
It’s best to stay wary
I have teeth
I can still bite
What to do
when bandaging your friends wounds
make your own scars ache and burn.
Promises to darn that sock
were kept even after you left.
Long tear filled nights spent
weaving closed the holes in the sole
I hope she is able to be completely free from him
in a way I’m still fighting to be from you
Doused the sock in lighter fluid
more than was needed
and watched it burn
the patchwork on the bottom was pink and green
It was some of my best work
Watching my sister scream out in anguish
over the lies of a man
my only offerings being a shoulder
and promises of hope
of freedom from pain
I wanted finality
but I still can’t sleep
scared of your wrath
being expressed by another
