Tomorrow
And tomorrow, and tomorrow
Tomorrow I’ll do this, first thing
not last thing
and we’ll see if I do better
Looking for beauty
I leave home early this Sunday morning.
As I drive out my graveled drive, I
look to my right at all the lillies around
the huge oak tree, orange, except for:
two yellow ones that catch my eye.
Two miles from home a terrapin crossing
highway 127 on a day, with drops of rain under a broken sky,
begs me to pull to the shoulder of the road when I found
beauty in motion but danger calling out for
rescue. I gather up the terrapin and release it where I
believe it will survive.
At Sunset Marina I sit at a table, watching
white capping wave turn gold against the dock,
Lashea, my waitress, blond, blue eyed, friendly,
is beautiful, but does not match the young lady,
four tables distant, watching me, I’ve
seldom seen dimples so defining , watching,
until our eyes lock,
she is youth surrounded by old age, unfriendly,
this poem is for that young lady,
and for sunlight
and even for rain that falls in the poem I write.
Rain poured down, cold but welcome
Soaking my sweater, my hair, my being
Hood up no help at all against the pour
Breathing in deep the smell of petrichor
Once the onslaught begins to slowly ebb
The Scottish street awakens as the sun
Finally makes her grand appearance
Reviving the city and bringing it to life
I am here with my family, some blood
And some chosen for myself with age
This is where my people came from,
Or close to at any rate, we are south
They hailed from the highlands above
Yet I am here, my feet on Scottish land
My name a Scottish name, a tartan
Bearing it inside a little cozy shop
There is something bittersweet to know
That there are people here I will share
Kin with, a name with, a history with
But we will likely never meet each other
It is also humbling to realize just how small
The world really is, as I walk through Glasgow
Just one of many who are trying to find
The place where their roots were once planted
Jettisoned in short order
back to the bluegrass
back to herrington lake from alligator lake
my 87 y.o. future uncertain
a man of my means with no means
to stick on with someone,
an orphan to the world
all of my lovely loves
shifting around like shrimp
searching for clear water
buffeted like a parachutist
falling through turbulent air
the plane lands with a thump,
and I’m sore everywhere
especially in the heart
Have not the poets been foretelling this
for a thousand thousand generations-
that the endpoint of man’s pride is death?
Under the banner of the heavens we used to seek
answers from celestial lights,
teasing shade from true form.
Now, too many seek answers from darkened screens.
Little caves everywhere, palm-calloused
hallucinations so vivid, we lie and call it god.
Are we to be content with shadows?
Ghosts and graves that cannot mend?
Myopia a poor substitute for dreams,
for communion.
I push words from heart center
in the direction of my fingertips.
Occasionally, they detour, exiting
between teeth and lips. This typically
leads to near misses and accidents
with others. However, should they stay
on route, mapping their way through tendon
and muscle, blood and bone, they arrive
late as usual. Skidding onto the page.
Appearing nothing like their original
design. Yet I am always surprised
and happy to see they survived the trip.
The recycle truck’s song stabs the a.m.
motley. Hauls a garish parade
band whose rusted spatula wind
chimes mar an aria
while a dozen dropped trombones
gambol in roughhouse gowns
of beer can taffeta.
And so, jarred from sleep’s black whole
rest, we groggy and goddamn
as the grunt chorus
of forced gears,
wheezing hydraulic trauma,
dopplers
to the avenue’s end.
When all you know is discomfort
Even if you didn’t know it at the time
The first signs of ease
can feel like an attack.
It’s hard to rest
When you’re constantly on guard
Waiting for other shoe to drop
preparing to defend
with fight mode engaged.
When your baseline is chaos
Order may feel like falling through an abyss.
You should be able to
be still.
You should be able to
exhale and relax your shoulders.
I pray that you are cradled in clouds
Because you should know that
safety should feel like softness
And not knives.
Somewhere between now and then things changed.
Not talking about writing because it’s “uncool” turned
into published poetry. Wearing makeup to cover
“ugly” acne turned into the fact that imperfections
make us unique. Listening to “popular” music turned
into blasting my own music out the window unashamed.
Being afraid to “fail” turned into believing every experience
can teach me something new. Running away from my fears
turned into facing them head on. Being scared of my future
turned into working towards my dreams. Somewhere between
now and then I realized I only live once and I want to
savor every moment I can. Somewhere between now and
then I realized I wasn’t in my cocoon anymore, instead I knew
I was a butterfly flying towards my next adventure.
