Boris hates me—
the way he vacuums at 3am,
the way he thunders floor
and hammers above my head,
this my brain turns over
on the afternoon train,
and it is false to say
I am innocent it wasn’t me,
the music was loud all day.
On the day these gods first met,
Lord Shiva fought his newfound son—
two adding violence enough
to part the locks of a jungle.
The boy was defeated, his head lost
in the bargain, and Shiva’s shakti
restored him with the guise
of a wise, old, lumbering elephant
on the child’s body. And at
six foot ten Boris was a Bosnian man
never spoke words until he’d lived here
one year and said,
“What is the easiest way to Starbucks?”
We thought he was a mute.
Thus, he lunged off, swinging his arms
across the traffic in the rain
like a short-eared South Asian mammoth,
clearing a path through the trucks, determined.
“got a thought for those who start to think of love
as the pursuit of a fool: It’s a palace from ruin.”
“Gather courage, if you’re doing something
do it, cause she’s got to go soon.”
— Dermot Kennedy, “A Closeness”
Consider the coastline—
how it waxes & swoons
on the whims of the moon—
our light
within
our darkness…
how it turns itself over in the night—
how the waves like watery sheets slide away
from sands wet with once,
leaving them
cold—naked—but how
they are reunited,
tucked in, ever righted,
at dawn…
how spectral ships like listing slips
of something that were tangible
yet carry memory like bless’ed baggage,
no less real for their passage
from sight…
how an island can lay hidden
over distant horizons,
no less present, no less sealed
while shore & glassy shore
though whole, yet feel
the ache–
the loss–
of Pangaea…
Yes, consider the coastline,
when you doubt
what you’ve seen,
when you forget
what you’ve felt…
when the fall comes & passes,
when temperatures drop
in the hollow spaces of your stomach
& winter’s teeth gnaw at your bones…
through the rebirth of Spring,
when all things are searching
for a mate, & flowers burst
from hiding places
to remind you
beauty
never
left…
& most of all, should the coming year bring you
back to this time—or the next one—or the one
after that…
…
should clocks slow to crawl—
should storms stop or stall—
should the dreams, again,
cause you to
fall…
remember this.
Remember me.
Remember the You
& babe,
please…
remember
you flew.
At Christmastime
Something yummy-smelling in the oven
And some spicy-scented candle
Would mingle with the scent
Of wood and cigarette smoke
And make a little brick house
On a rural Kentucky creek
Smell smoky, spicy, and sweet
At that time of year
The creek beside the house
Was cold and a little icy
And like most days –
A peaceful gurgle of soft current
But when the rains came –
That tiny creek
Would become a rushing tide
There were times when I watched
Large logs, rolls of fence wire,
Animal carcasses
And even an old truck hood
Roll down that muddy current
We were always a little fearful
That the creek might escape its boundaries
And flood our basement
But in the whole ten years we lived there
It never did
The house too, would seem to flood
But this flood was different –
It was a swell of smell and sound
And light and love
This was especially true at Christmas
Christmas, for us, began
Like all floods – with thunder!
My brother and I would thunder
Down the stairs
Sometimes skipping the last few
To greet a house full of family
And to find
Presents everywhere!
Mamaw Jeanie would be snapping pictures
With her thumb over part of the frame
Papaw Billy, with his boy-ish smile,
Would be making jokes and chuckling joyfully
Papaw Carroll would hug us tight
And repeat the reliably-delivered directive
To, “be good.”
Mamaw Theda, in her festive attire,
Would be full of commentary
Dad would be putting things together
And Mom would be fixing
Some delicious, copious breakfast
A coffee mug always at her side
Each person, each moment –
A snapshot in my mind
In that house
We had nurturing love in abundance
But there was also
Outreaching love
And disciplining love
All doled out plentifully
Love poured through
Everything we did
We were expected to work on the farm
Treat others with respect
Be obedient
And get along with each other
We never received coal in our stockings;
Because the spankings did the trick
We made food for people
Made cookies with Granny
Went caroling with our church
Participated in Christmas programs
And helped others decorate
We were taught the joy of giving
For a short decade
We lived in that house
And like the creek
Which etches the land
The love that grew in that house
Etched my heart
While water follows a path
Of least resistance
Slowly making change over time
Love makes wild paths:
Overarching, circling, returning
Wide-swinging, extending, climbing, piercing
These paths can be forged suddenly
Or with patience, over time
Through drops or waves
Peacefully, or mercifully violent
I know the creek will remain
Long after I’m gone
Long after the house has fallen
Maybe it will spread
And take up the whole valley
The love that burst from that little house
Will, at some point,
No longer carry our names
But will spread and leap and move
And hopefully carry with it the only name
That ever mattered
May it rain down through generations
Like the love generations before
Rained down on us
May it carry with it
The name that burst forth in time
On that first Christmas morning
From that tiny town of Bethlehem
The name that brought love
To that little house on a creek in Kentucky
And brings love to wherever you are today
A stream that never retreats
And never ends
I missed my poem yesterday
I remembered at 12:01 a.m.
I was busy meeting another deadline
For an art show
Painting a giant frog holding a fish
Maybe I’ll try to post two
I don’t know if it will let me
I’ll try
Awwwww heck!
I’ve had a headache the size of Jupiter all day and have scurried this night away
Now it’s my favorite day of the entire year
My wedding anniversary
And I’m worried abouts frogs and poems
I did set aside some time for a sandwich and a pickle, though
