the worst feeling:
thinking you’ve done something wrong
when really
you didn’t do anything
but you apologize
so you feel bad
then you spiral
you start to breathe heavy
you get dizzy
your stomach twists into knots
your hands get sweaty
your mind starts overflowing with meaningless words
all because
you apologized
for something you didn’t do
Bottom line, I guess,
it was all my fault.
There were these chairs,
Adirondacks, sitting in a row
against the outside of that store
west on the State four-lane,
right under the large display window
and next to some drought-stricken,
sun-faded planters’ wilted leaves.
Ten chairs, five colors to pick from:
Yellow, green, blue, pink, orange.
She wanted two of the same color,
us relaxing like a cute, close couple
in our matching wooden chairs
on the white-railed porch,
smiling over the perfect lawn
and across the neatly trimmed hedge
for the passing neighbors to envy.
I wanted different colors. My mistake.
Still, deep inside, I blame the Amish.
“I hear it in the deep heart’s core”
William Butler Yeats
solstice eve
grey dull sky no light
but fireflies
rising slow as magic
in the “deep Heart’s core”
They say memory
begins after we acquire language,
but surely my birth
must have left
some sort of impression,
and before that
my time in the womb,
when I was nothing more
than a tiny hand,
pressing against my mother’s
abdomen,
when I was less
than the size
of a lima bean,
sprouting in a paper towel,
when I was two
cells, dividing,
when I was one cell
rising up
from primordial soup.
Call me Parchment,
says Paper.
It’s like calling
a person
Doctor
or Boss.
Call me Gem,
says Rock,
smoother than
a skipping stone,
harder than
black coal.
Call me like a bell calling your kids to dinner,
says Scissors. See, I have two legs, and I’m small.
Call me Ish. Call me Mael. Don’t call me
late. Don’t call me for dinner.
Call me like a suicide hotline
when you feel alone, when you think about cutting.
Your back aches when you garden?
My doctor shows some concern
then peeks at my birthdate, smiles,
case closed with You still garden!
Supposed to feel good then, I guess,
but feeling good is a more practical
matter at my age. ebay gets it.
The Easy-Up awaits my bidding.
“A poem begins as a lump in the throat…”
–Robert Frost
A lump in the throat, the result of a lifetime
of sucking it in
holding back what wants to be said
staying silent in the face of opposition
A hunch in the shoulders, the result of a lifetime
of staying small
shrinking from conflict
being invisible
Learning to fly, the result of
being old enough to no longer care
about what others think
what others say
who others think you should be
Joyous enchantment
rodeo did present
children
as electricity went
through arched spine over bent
hat brim
floating over scent
of dust, food, ointment
and sin.
Seems no one ever wins
the pain left to gin
tonic
eased slightly bruised limb
wrapped bandage dim
onyx
smudged from the hymns
to heaven, amen –
Ironic
But for demonic
rushing systemic
ride thrill
untreated addict
of epidemic
size ill
the cowboy soul hitched
tight would fly atomic –
Content.
