Story of the Day
A young wren is on the porch.
Chirping and tweeting as he hops around
Looking for seeds, or maybe to get dry.
My cat crouches for attack.
POW!!
Cat crashes into storm door.
Sadly, no film at eleven.
A young wren is on the porch.
Chirping and tweeting as he hops around
Looking for seeds, or maybe to get dry.
My cat crouches for attack.
POW!!
Cat crashes into storm door.
Sadly, no film at eleven.
You sang the song of my steps
then taught me the tune,
on my own now
to learn
the words for this gift
Retreat to
the balm of living spaces, lush from summer rain
the mesmerizing of wings soaring overhead
the klatch of tale and rhyme lovers reclaiming lost time
the connection created when imaginations align
Retreat from
the noise of our existence, full yet flooded
the undone tasks and toils of our days
the weight of holding happiness for all
the fear of failure in our own eyes
When two or more are gathered…magic happens
You were at that golden age,
perched between infancy and all that adulthood,
before the world stopped resetting every night
when you closed your eyes and drifted away,
opening them to a new world like a new day.
You loved to pull my braids
and we would throw our arms around each other
and around the neck of the dog who guarded our gates.
I did not understand that you were not my job.
Like our dog and his drooling jowls
I stood between you and danger.
But you were fearless,
falling down mountain sides
and climbing up the highest trees,
and there was nothing I could do
and nothing ever stopped you
and I couldn’t follow.
All my fear I molded into my own armor.
And I am safe
and you are spectacular.
What is worse, to look out
I sit with intention,
quiet my mind, close my eyes,
and wish for fractured light
to splinter the grey.
Instead, Hilma af Klint’s abstract
prisms appear. The colors asked for—
but not what I sought to find
until I open my eyes and look
to the gardens below:
the wind rustles the flowers
into an Isadora dance.
Finally, I dance too.
The silver-struck
Piano plays
A lonely melody
As it tries
To capture
The Moon’s
Very first,
First Quarter,
Partial-pale song,
Filling midnight air—
But empty space
Breaks Piano’s heart
It’s alone
Up there—
But so, too,
Is Piano.
It cannot capture
the song in
the lonely, quiet dark
brave Trumpet
then plays in turn
calling out into
that lonely, quiet dark
cutting through
that empty space
in a brazen golden arc
heroic in its mission
to befriend somber Piano
knowing that they’re both
alone in a tuneless world
then Trumpet stops
then listens to the
unyielding abyss
for any signs
of connection
Piano stirs
From its
Mournful solitude
And returns
The gesture
That there
Is hope
Trumpet
cries out
with eternal
excitement
and vibrates
in tremendous,
newfound
joy
Piano knows
Just what
To say
“In Friendship
We are mighty.”
Trumpet
says,
“in
friendship
i am—”
“No,
No,”
Says
Piano.
“In Friendship
We are mighty.”
Trumpet
Repeats,
“in
friendship
we
are
mighty!”
In their
Music they
Have learned
To work
Together, together
Piano & Trumpet
Now play
With consoled,
Rekindled hearts
And with
A goal
To sing
The Moon’s
Very first,
First quarter,
Partial-pale,
Silver song,
As one
Voice
He said the thing
that annoyed him
most was when
I used the word “but”
Perfectly fine word,
I argued, wanting
to add more, but
though it would be
tricky
without the–
you know
Few have
made me more
self-conscious than
this man, but yet
I learned
to communicate
without my–
you know
Now that I’m older,
and more confident,
I am claiming my
right you use
my “but”
any time or place
of my choosing
I feel good about
my progress–
I wish I could
stick my “but”
in his face, but
he is long gone–
I suspect he
remains a serial
“but” grabber
wherever
he goes
Sat cross legged on the floor in a Barnes and Noble
Squarely in front of the psychology section
They have the ADHD books sitting under “personality disorder”
I’ll deal with those feelings later
I’m looking for something to guide me
I’m not sure through what
The grief books teach you how to move
The five stages
Divorced at 27
Therapized for a decade
Nothing new to see here
On death and dying
On grief and grieving
A compendium of hospice nurse retellings
None of this is what I’m needing
What the fuck is this feeling?
For what, God, am I searching
I think I’m looking for you on this shelf
And for Nada
And for Nathan
For answer on how to stop the losing
How to stop the knowing
I want to stop the knowing
I’ll live out most of my years without the people I hold most dear
duel with canvas
