Drift
playful hands sneak down
and roam where they please
searching for a quickening pulse
or shortening of breath
fingers dance quicksteps in double time
and ultimately slow upon partnering with mine
like a mantra against my exposed sin; I guess
I deserve this. I remember Halloween’s storming,
the fear I felt then, how it haunts me like an old
compatriot—I tell it I no longer care, I want
this now, the warmth of shared fabric, the respite from
rain. What else can I do but surrender? What else
can I do but rest in the comfort of all those things
you said you’d never do?
A common occurrence in Eastern Kentucky
occurs when a person falls asleep in their car.
An onlooker passes by, like they did this morning,
noticing the leopard-print jacket is slumped against the seat,
the trim hair and necklace tipped at odd angles to the passerby,
a hundred thoughts blooming in an instant:
“Is that a woman?”
“Is she alright?”
“Is she alive?”
“Is that a dead body or someone just sleeping?”
Even the frantic jolt
as she returned to life,
was a motion I had seen enacted
a hundred times a hundred times
by myself and many others.
Her fastidious resurrection
on my way into the building
forced me to ask myself,
“Am I living or just passing by?”
As a reader, I like Robert Frost’s poetry.
As a teacher, I appreciate it.
As for my students, they tolerate it at the “I do it” stage
If I include video or audio or some other bells and whistles.
(Sorry Robert Frost)
The “we do it” stage of the lesson is pretty technical and I fear its
Distraction from the joy, but then
The “I do it” creates such gems as,
“Whose shoes these are I wish I knew,
I know for sure they’ve stepped in poo.”
This sacrilege made me laugh the way a “Dust of Snow” did.
Of course, I teach middle school school.
Did Robert Frost have a sense of humor?
When my subconscious squeezes
Shall I go to the shower
and see people who
are acquainted with me,
who seem to want
my company?
Shall I ooh/aah over gifts,
sip melted orange sherbet
and ginger ale punch,
eat tiny squares
of cheesecake and
play party games
with baby themes?
Or should I stay
home, cradling
a heating pad
when I would rather
be cradling a baby?
The package of tiny shirts
I have stored in the drawer
are meant for
my someday baby,
not her real one.
I will draw the blinds
and take Tylenol and tea,
awash in the misery
and monthly disappointment.
The invitations
were not to her liking with
‘a Celebration
of Love’ nontraditional
she huffed, I proudly ordered.
each movement, a release
of energy–
designed to hamper or harm
our opponent
never thinking of them as
enemy, only
obstacle
learning the kata,
much like dance choreography,
begins with memorizing each step–
repeating, until it becomes
second nature
until the ballet becomes battle
and the battle a ballet
as you study-practice-fail,
you begin to understand
the foundation of all martial art,
of all art–of life itself–is
breath
drawing it into you,
converting the gases
to energy for action,
breathing out what is
not needed
but more than that–
for you see, even galaxies
have a pattern–
the universe, now expanding–
breathing out–preparing
for the next Great Inhale
the ultimate kata, the one
True Obstacle
Remember
the value of art
differs from heart to
heart
Don’t try to force
a connection
If your heart
broadcasts vibrations
that set your spirit free
the frequency syncs
from your heart’s station
to other souls
who tune in
naturally
Five pieces of bread
Five pieces of bacon
Five pieces of biopsy sample
Five chunks of meat
Five chunks of musty cantaloupe
Five chunks of concrete fallen off a bridge
Five fragments of wisdom in an ancient language
Five fragments of song I know but can’t recall
Five fragments of shattered glass to be found later
Five pictures of a wedding
Five pictures of a mountain draped in morning fog
Five pictures of relatives celebrating, now all gone
Five thoughts of fear while laying in bed
Five thoughts of remembrance of the best summer
Five thoughts of resolve to make this day
