Two Views

I must do this.

because I was chosen

or because I chose it

or because there is no difference

between the two views.

I imagine someone finding my notebooks

and stamping me into history

as the next Emily Dickinson.

I also imagine maintenance workers

scooping the greatest product of 

my entire life into trash bags.

Either way, two views (and many words)

will eventually disintegrate.

So why do this? Why continue?

was I chosen? Did I just choose this?

did ‘Leaves of Grass’ fall on my infant head?

did I choke on alphabet soup at some point?

Is Sesame Street to blame?

or my high school English teacher?

either way:

Form and Meter

are putty in my hands

(maybe silly putty?)

Ah,

Two Views again.

Mary

When I am a certain flavor of lonely

I stop falling in love with women who

simply walk past me and smile.

I instead,

turn to poets.

Today, under the brisk overcast

of a September Sunday morning

I drink coffee with Mary.

I lay my head in her lap

she plays with my hair

she makes me believe in God

she makes me notice miracles:

mundane, ordinary – miracles.

For the length of an iced coffee

she is the only one in my world

and that world has never been –

so entirely perfect.

Green

The Green will come back to us

it has to,

the passing of its shade

simply a setting sun.

Nothing lasts forever now

how could it,

life carves the wonder

deep in the bark and root.

So don’t mourn the leaves

it’s not water they need

but time,

simply time,

and my sweet Loves

time goes on.

The Green will come back to us.

Golden

Turn and face the sun my friend

the crisp fall hues will wilt and fade –

to hide, to heal, then grow again

my endless faith

where it’s always been.

Listen to the song bird’s ode

there is a wisdom in its truth –

to pass, to feel, so gently known

a thousand things

yet you’re never alone.

So give in to this gold still here

note the honey in its passing –

to say, to deal, in no despair

for colors change

yet never there:

no not this.

not you.

(we’re golden)

Butterfly Kisses

“How does one become a butterfly? she asked. You must want to fly so much that you are willing to give up being a caterpillar” – Anonymous

Two wings and all the soft wisdoms

needed to weave eternal grace and

every blooming tranquility. How true

and how precious the butterfly: to

place those kisses on our open palms.

Silken bodies in their immortality,

stolen from the dreams we hand

them, to deliver to the fairies and

pixies. Our curious couriers, so

quaint in their regal spring flights.

In the quiet moments. The rising

mornings. Their silhouettes dance

on the window blinds. I trace their

journeys in notebooks and canvas,

they are truly all we will ever need:

butterfly kisses,

on our open palms.

Inheritance

One day I will have a son.

He will inherit all my tomes of poetry.

Every book of Billy Collins,

Charles Bukowski,

the complete collection of Emily Dickinson,

and Sylvia Plath,

along with three copies

of ‘Leaves of Grass’

which I will read to him at night.

I will make sure our walls

are adorned with paintings

and the reverberation of music.

I will show him how to play

guitar and piano

and old records.

He however,

will be a football star

major in business

use my books as coasters

and be nothing like me.

And I,

will never be more proud of anyone,

for anything.

ever.

The Noticing

Do not let the sunsets pass quietly

those hues will not stay

the reds and yellows and purples

will melt into recession

dripping in tranquil nightfall.

Do not let the couples and lovers

chat in unnoticed companionship

the souls and masses and families

continue to prove to us

loving sprouts in those needed cracks.

Do not let the planes fly by

without thinking of its passengers

the lost and travelers and coming home

drink deeply from a sea

glistening in perception and imagination.

Within the innate dissatisfaction

blossoms these endless wonders,

bathe in them,

know them,

hold onto them,

until the noticing

crystalizes into radiant impenetrability

while we gloriously

endure.

How the Daylilies Grew

On an unremarkable day

a fourth grader swung his feet

forward and back

like a pendulum

(If pendulums could wear light-up Sketchers)

The world around him:

a game of Uno playing skip cards,

a Tamagotchi slowly starving in the pocket,

a field day running too slow for ribbons,

Yet to that fourth grader

that swing set stood like a castle

and he ruled as king

or maybe a jester, either way …

The friend on the other swing

laughed with him

giggling together

and planting little seeds

which, over a decade later

would grow into truly beautiful

precious

daylilies.