When I was in elementary school
and wanted attention from a girl I liked,
I’d wander off somewhere alone
in hopes my love would come for me.
I do much the same thing now that I’m married –
but with less hope.
Month: July 2014
It Does Not Matter
It does not matter what I write
of blood-soaked bathroom floors and notes
or bloody birthing tables;
of bodies huddled in the dark;
of children laughing on the grass;
of lovers cuddling tenderly
beneath a knitted blanket
a chilly Autumn day –
it doesn’t matter what I say
or in what way I say it.
I ignite thoughts for bushels,
little candles glimmering
in bowls on weathered windowsills
that no one ever sees.
It does not matter what I write
because I write for me.
A Clearing and a Lake
The grass is tossed and tumbled
in shining colored waves
that ripple in warm bursts of wind
across the verdant clearing.
The smell of sage and pine needles
is lifted to the water’s edge
and bursts down heavily against
its glossy sun-streaked surface.
Life is smaller here and simpler,
primeval maybe, but rich.
As rich as the shining colored waves of grass
tossed by the breeze, scent-laden.
At the top of the hill
At the top
of the hill
the sky
exploded,
till everywhere you looked
was sky,
deep and bright and welcoming,
suddenly,
as if it had not
been before
at lower elevations
but was born and died anew
as altitude was gained or lost.
I want to write
I want to write prolifically
as often as I think
to transcribe thoughts to poetry
in perfect, flowing harmony.
Rowing
I pull these oars to stay afloat
And pray each day the wind will blow
But this blue bird’s day does dash my hopes.
I know that I would sink my boat
If ever I should cease to row
But when it seems that I should slow,
My arms grow stronger with every stroke.
My arms grow stronger with every stroke,
An I am better for rowing this boat.
Parched
When streams of words and information
inundate my brimming mind,
inevitably I make the journey
to the River of the Milky Sky
and, drifting there among the stars,
my flooded mind again is parched.
Alone
Take my hand and
lead me away
from the pain that I
endure each day.
With our fingers entwined
in the whitest of grips
free my down-trodden mind
with the words of your lips,
and lead me away
to redemption unknown
from the stifling pain
of living alone.
Need
Do you remember
When we sat together?
It seems so long ago.
You planted your head in my lap.
And spread your hair like petals all about you
I was storm clouds, full of rain and
My fingers were drops that ceaselessly fell
Over you,
Rejuvenating and invigorating,
Nurturing you
(And blocking the sun, if only I knew).
My fingers fell like water droplets and traced
Every line, every subtle contour of your face –
And pooled in the places that made you smile –
Memorizing them for a later date.
For now I guess.
For when you had outgrown the need for water,
The need for rain,
And me.
For when my raindrops, falling down,
But held you down
And blocked the sun.
Then you spread your leaves wider,
And pushed taller than my clouds.
You grew without me,
Past me,
Toward the sun
And toward eternity.
I write
to chase away the riddle
that is not ever solved
save by the grave itself,
to which that place alone
retains the only answer.
