Who are you?
I know
who you used to be,
and where you
seemed to be heading, but
now I don’t know.
All the reasons
that we changed
are still there,
and the reasons
why you’re unchanging
are there also.
Our static situation
unfolds kinetically
through time,
wisdom forging
our adult eyes
behind wrinkling lids.
You have so much
talent, more than most,
but not as much
as you think.
I still bloom
at your smile.
4/30/08
Does she remember
The sound in her ear
Filling the silence
Comforting the dark?
Remember? Yes.
Painful memory, yes.
How they played, constant companions
In the night
Soft friction measuring the temperature
Their rhythmic calls
Gently easing the darkness
Away
Yes, the memory is there
And more, the confidence
Built of years sheltered from that chasm
Of emptiness, loneliness
Years. Lord, years.
That long? Now again without.
For those companions went away
Harsh voices consuming her ears
Until the frequency faded
Disappeared
Those friends are still there
Delighting younger mistresses
While she sits in silence
For memory
Yes, she has that.
6/19/13
You may be wondering
Why the trail ended
So abruptly.
You said you were
Reading a map
And assumed I was too
Only I knew
There was no map
We were forging new ground
Your map brought you where it was:
Nowhere.
4/9/13
I struggle to fall asleep
Though it fills me with joy
In sleep, the sun
Warms my spirit, and
Trees shade my vulnerable skin
And you’re there.
Sometimes
Lying in a hammock, or
Walking a trail, or
Walking a city street
In my dreams, you’re there.
I can feel your warmth
If I can get to sleep
I try and try
But wait and wait
And when I stop trying
And just accept it
That I’ll get there
When it comes
Then I arrive
And we lounge in the springtime field
But I haven’t gotten there
Tonight, yet
I will soon.
See you there.
3/20/13
Don’t worry
As she stares
Down her bespeckled nose
At you.
She’s not angry,
She’s just –
Absent-minded.
Absent, but glad,
Because now you’re here – look!
Her lips curve quickly
Upwards, warm,
And welcoming.
Because you’re here, you’ve come,
And she anticipates your joy.
She hands it to you, with a wise nod.
She’s seen inside its pages
And she knows you will enjoy it.
3/9/10
Her hands apply their craft
With such dexterit
Men bend and twist
Their lives
In alignment with her will
So long accustomed
To the tickling of the strings
Are her hands
Textured by the force
Of powerful emotion
Under her control
Threads of creativity
Effortlessly flow into
A tapestry of such beauty
To make a god shudder
With awe at her work
2010
She hasn’t finished her coffee,
Grounds staled by luke-cold water,
And yet, her strict gaze
Assures you she doesn’t need it.
You said something clever,
Trying to evoke
Her needle-sharp wit.
She doesn’t laugh;
Titans don’t laugh.
Yet she’s no glacier,
So she smiles,
And Apollo shines through.
Last night she remained alert,
Despite the full arc
Of the cloud-embalmed moon,
Awake then for to finish her tasks
Later today.
Her stature dwarfed by intellect;
She won’t have trouble.
She dressed up to go out tonight,
Just to the coffee house.
Her fingernails shine
Like justice dispensed
With a gesture of her hand.
How she must surprise her adversaries!
To them she requires coddling,
For they miss the Olympian fire
Roaring from out the dark circles
Mortals call eyes.
Her coffee sits cold by her side,
But she takes another sip—
Tonight she will outsmart herself again.
5/8/08
They paid for tutelage,
because it was the thing to do.
Once the instruction had
begun, they owed
their patrons and teachers
obedience. What a gift
had been bestowed on them!
Then those others
began to expect that obedience.
Ungrateful students
were dismissed.
Only correctly appreciative youth
deserved the education
provided by the great teachers.
This turned the process
into something mechanical:
place student.
Open mind.
Fill with knowledge.
Garnish with skills.
But what of Socrates?
He lived for dialog and
died for freedom. He
cast education as a balanced discussion
of questioned assumptions.
That is the freedom
to learn together. But
such a radical concept
was corrupting,
and deserves death.
4/30/08
“Hey Alex!” you called, from the corner
By the High Horse sign.
I saw you, but was deep
In distraction, talking to a friend
Who’s still here now.
“Hey mom, look, it’s Ben’s brother!” always came next
Now it won’t.
You died in a car crash, far away.
Surrounded by friends, at least
Doing exciting things
Having adventures.
For you, it seemed joy and wonder
Hid around every corner
Where the faces
Of friends new and old
Waited to be smiled at.
Ripped away.
Torn from the fabric of this place.
Leaving but one question:
Why did I not give your brilliant pattern
More attention in my part of that fabric?
Emulating your warmth
Is not good enough, I
Want to see you walk around that corner again
So I can say “Meagan! Great to see you!
What’s new in your life?”
But I can do what you’d do
And just say that to everyone.
I guess that’s something.
Hope your next adventure
Is just as exciting.
I want to build
a platform. Not a deck;
this isn’t attached to the house.
It will be out in the swampy part
of the yard, under the spruces.
Sitting on it in the summer,
the fireflies will blink
silently as the crickets help out
with music for the darkness.
When the water is high,
it will be an island,
strewn with stray leaves
and twigs stripped
off the trees by the wind.
It will be a destination, a retreat
where there was only tangled mire.
The water will still be there,
but with a stationary barge hovering
just above the surface.
This oasis is a mirage,
imagined until the day
that I wrestle it into reality.
That day could be soon.
Today, though, I will sit
on the patio and watch the pines
sway and the clouds
move across the darkening blue
between the trees.
I will build it tomorrow.
4/30/08
