A leaf fell into my open hand
it took no great effort
there was no great requirement
my papers were not checked
I didn’t need my ID
payment was not needed
just a mindful openness
to catch fall’s generous bounty.
Tag: Poetry
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.
Endlessly Parched
In the warmth of the sun
I am thankful,
but still…
between the cactus flowers
and the radiant sunsets
is coarse sand,
tumbleweed,
snake venom.
Off in the distance
there might be an oasis
cool water to bathe in
or maybe –
my thirst casts a mirage.
I ponder reality
with lips,
endlessly parched.
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.
Of Poems and Places 