Saturday, July 24, 2021

What Color Are Your Eyes Today

 

“What color are your eyes today?”
I asked you in my dream last night.
“Do they change to match your mood,
or to match your dress?”
                                          You sighed,
“They change at your command, my love,
as does the rhythm of my heart.
You’ve seen them true and clearly,
you’ve known me from the start.”

Saturday, July 17, 2021

Now that it’s too late

Now that it’s too late,
I thank you every day.
Now that it’s too late,
I listen to your gentle
wisdom with gratitude.
Now that it’s too late,
I would pay more to hear
the sound of your voice
than for almost any other
thing I can imagine.
Now that it’s too late,
I wish I had never let
a single day go by
without telling you,
or somehow showing you,
that I love you.
Now that it’s too late,
I would gladly give up
what little hair I have left
to return to the days
when I could sit in your lap
in your fake-leather recliner
and run my fingers through
your thinning and oily hair,
which I can still smell today.
I am grateful for the final years,
as roommates and friends.
And I am grateful for the early years
of riding on your shoulders.
And I am grateful for all the years between,
even if I didn’t recognize
their value at the time.
Now that it’s too late,
I wanted you to know.

Saturday, July 10, 2021

Grief

when my mother died,
i did not grieve,
for reasons still unclear.
i mean not to displace the blame;
the fault, if such it can be called,
was/is only mine.
there is/was no one else.
 
grief, though, is a form of energy,
and its potentiality
remained long hidden
(but ever real)
in my dark corners.
 
when my father died,
my grief (now doubled)
manifested itself physically,
with fever and chills
and aching and trembling.
i hid beneath blankets
for days until
it burned itself out.
a fire, not of cleansing
or redemption,
but of pain for its own sake.
 
what remains has yet to be determined
or is not worth examination.

Saturday, June 19, 2021

More Time Dying Than Living

there is nothing we desire more than to be loved.
so why do we spend so much time dying
when we could be living?
 
we wish to laugh with joy and humor,
but don’t take ourselves seriously enough to be funny.
 
in memories we find, or hope to,
the treasures of a life.
but memory is a mirror cracked,
ever on the cusp of shattering
into a thousand sword-sharp shards.
 
we proceed through life guided only by
a damaged map of an enshrouded world:
an incomplete set of information
about an ever-changing cosmos.
but it’s from not knowing that meaning comes.
the mystery is the point.
 
so, battle the monster if you must,
but remember:
the monster is only yourself,
and all wars are useless and foolish
and fought over delusions.
 
we each differ in our natures, it seems,
or perhaps only in our degrees of illness…
an illness for which there is no treatment but love,
and no cure short of death.
 
auto-bio-fictional,
we each re-write our stories as we go.
my pages are dog-eared and worn;
too many times re-read, perhaps,
and re-written just as many.

Saturday, May 29, 2021

I will pound on your door

 
If it’s locked when I get there
I will pound on your door
until you let me in.
I’ll scratch and scrape at the hinges
like a dog or a child
who longs for the hearth,
who longs for the breast,
who longs for home.
 
If we should meet,
unplanned, in the street,
as if our separate steps
were directed by gods
from Olympian heights,
then we’ll kiss and I’ll hold you,
and that will be enough.
 
And if I die before you
I will wait.
I will hide in the corner
of whatever room
you happen to be in,
or snug in your pocket.
And if you die before I,
I will lay myself down
and stretch myself out
on your grave.
 
I know you are strong,
the strongest I’ve known,
but even the strong grow tired.
So lie down beside me and rest a while,
for I am not strong, but I love you.
 
And if I die before you
I will wait.
I will hide in the corner
of whatever room
you happen to be in,
or snug in your pocket.
And if you die before I,
I will lay myself down
and stretch myself out
on your grave,
for I am not strong, but I love you.

Sunday, May 23, 2021

to measure time

 to measure time

by the movements of a lover

is to attain a higher level

on the journey to becoming human

to becoming whole

Sunday, May 16, 2021

DIY Angel

 With wings she stitched herself from an old par of curtains
And a halo twisted from aluminum foil
She’s my DIY angel, my self-made messenger of the divine
 
She's a bad speller but her words are right                                  
Full of wisdom and crystal-clear insight  
Wounds of the flesh that heal the heart                
Bite my ear, scratch my back, that’s a good start
 
An endless kiss that turns daytime night
Does things with her left hand that feel so right
Fire burns the lies in my eyes seeing her
A love that could be seen would to all else blind her
 
With wings she stitched herself from an old par of curtains
And a halo twisted from aluminum foil
She’s my DIY angel, my self-made messenger of the divine