Whew!

As Useful
April 30, 2008

I like to think of myself as useful.
I can cook a meal, wash a dish –
even swing a hammer if I have to.
I’m a good friend, a good listener,
an adequate scrabble partner,
and I’ll play (off) rhythm guitar
if you’ll play lead.

But for the past seven days
I have been greeted every morning
by a slowly blooming azalea,
shyly uncurling her petals,
coyly dressing green limbs in pink.
For another seven days, she will
dance like a sunset and then fade.
Yes, she neither works nor spins,
and I’ll do even less. I will be a
witness, nothing more.

Every morning for the last seven days,
and every morning for the next seven,
I will be reminded that, useful though
I may be, I am certainly not essential.

Gravity

In Science class they talk about gravity
as if it were a constant, as if life weighed
the same at a wedding as it does at a
funeral. They’ve even invented a
formula to prove they’re right.

Let them crunch numbers all they like,
everybody knows a quarter pound of beef
weighs more when you’re hungry,
and when the world feels gray, eating
ice cream takes off the weight. Feet,
of course, are heavier walking on sidewalks
than strolling in sand. And a heart in love,
we know, is lighter than a heart forlorn.

Trust me. I’m a poet.
I’ve got the formula to prove it.

Gifts

• One poem from a man who loves me
• A new display of my photographs which I never make the time to print or display
• A lock of hair "for you to remember me by when I move out" in a treasure box decorated in primo six-year-old style (move out? can I come with?) (oh, and please stop cutting your hair. She says she enjoys the feel of the scissors cutting hair. I must admit, I agree with her.)
• A collection of poetry from a budding poet (this was in the works evenings for over a month)

• and... a late afternoon delivery on a somewhat sunny day of a decaf iced Americano. Ahhhh.

I couldn't ask for more. Ed tells me that he has plans for a purchased gift but the first time he went to the store, he didn't make it in time for its limited hours and when he did make it, they didn't have whatever it was.

It doesn't matter though. These are exactly the gifts I needed.

A Blessing

Lord,
let my life be filled
with wonderful things,
like the magical
arrival of a goldfish
into a housecat’s home.

And Lord,
let me live with the
patience of my cat,
who can watch her pet
fish for hours on end –
eager, hungry, and amazed.

Happy Birthday, Boo'ful!

ways to say i love you
january 26, 2008

words, i suppose, would do
in poetry or song,
or in red sharpie on a bathroom stall

or flowers, perhaps, might work
hearty bulbs or fragile orchids,
maybe fiery roses, carefully shorn of thorns

some people speak in gesture
three quick squeezes or a pat on the bum,
a long, slow kiss, lazy as a summer afternoon

but the best way to say i love you
yes, the best way to say i love you,
is with tiramisu,

unasked for and unsuspected,
on a not quite icy january night.

Will You Be Mine?

as each event in my day presents itself,
i ask it: will you be my poem?

brave sun struggling through a film of gray haze,
is there a metaphor in you?

the impending doom of a hot, dry throat, help me
find your allusion. biblical or literary will do.

my wife and child, my daily habits and routines,
will you be symbolic for just one more day?

and as each event in my day presents itself,
it tells me no. and no. and no.

sometimes, the only way to write your poem
is to just shut up and live it.

Spring Cleaning

Yard sales bloom
like dandelions:
ubiquitous, invasive,
yet somehow
charming.
Neighbors litter
their lawns
with clothes that
don’t quite fit,
furniture that’s
functional though
slightly chipped,
impulse buys
that can’t be returned.
By Sunday afternoon,
their pockets
are full and
their basements purged.

If only it were
so easy to rid
ourselves of
other blunders:
here, have these
values I’ve
outgrown,
these words I
can’t take back,
these dreams,
slightly tarnished
but still good.

All yours, for just
pennies on the dollar.

Wounded

The white gauze bandage
on the back of her hand
looks … medicinal.
Hospital issued. Available
by prescription only.

When she sees me stare,
she hides it – fiercely,
not shyly. Her wound
is private property,
not to be photographed,
pitied, or admired.

Tonight when I watch
her sleep, her fist
will be curled softly
beside her head,
and the white gauze
will shimmer in dim light.
I will brush the hair
from her forehead,
kiss her gently
on the cheek,

and worry that she will
one day know how
much that bandage hurts.