Month: September 2012

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All That’s Needed

Quarter-sized hail came banging down and I

crossed the fingers on my two hands hoping

I might get a new roof out of it for free & oh let’s

go all the way, new siding for my house as well

& while we’re at it a whole set of windows

that go up & down easy as pie & I might as well

throw in loving sweethearts for each of my sons

actually why not just say loving sweethearts

for all young people and all right, the older ones too,

plus peace and happiness within all of our hearts,

the country and the world,

food on the table, nice homes, warm clothes,

all that’s needed for All to survive and thrive.  All.

Whyever and forever not?

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Perfect Things

Have they gone, this summer’s cicadas, unnoticed by me

after the pact I made to note each day their noisy presence

so that I would know, in the end, the last time I heard them sing?

Folly on my part I suppose as, truly, do I remember (no)

the last kiss of the lover who one day to shock and chagrin

called the whole thing off, the unimagined last words spoken

by that distant friend now passed on, the final toothy grin flashed

by the little white dog I dearly loved, the last time my

chubby toddler spoke with his sweet little boy impediment,

the last time his brother’s adolescent voice cracked

before it went forever deeply male?

Even aiming to know and hold them close,

I’ve lost those perfect things even as they passed.

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Blooming

Rain.  So now all the wildflowers that haven’t had the heart

to bloom are popping out, the many sizes and shapes of

yellow that look like daisies but of course are not,

bright cheerful big and little faces dotting the trailsides and meadows.

I would like the rain to work such a magic on me myself

and all of us, bringing out the airy, blithe, beaming blooms

lying dormant within us but I for one am far too

complicated for such a quick fix (or so I tell myself).

In my next life I’ll be a simple, small flower, happy to

bounce into bloom with the slightest provocation.

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Finding Out

Still and dark with only crickets for conversation

a pink pocket of light appears above the trees.

So something is happening after all.

Now comes another pink ribbon drawn

through the blue dress of sky followed by

another and another and the lightening.

Lovely dawn making its slow, inimitable way

into the town and across my windows.

Comes another day.  Holding what?

Holding what for us in its open palms?

We shall leave this room, my dogs and I,

and find out.

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Two Straight Arrows

That woman’s two sons died together in a car crash

two teenagers off on their way to work

two straight arrows she said they were

and when she told me tears sprang

as it is so often said right into my eyes.

How did she bear it? I wonder for

I have certainly imagined such a thing

many times when my own sons have

stayed gone longer than seemed

explainable in some other way.

I don’t know how she bore it or how

she bears it now, so many years later.

I hear these stories from strangers

who pass right along through my life

on their way to whatever private

challenges they face, these stories

that live someplace inside me, the

lovely and the terrible making a

kind of fierce patchwork I could

easily hide beneath.

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A Whole Circus

Rain falls as it should

three days in a row and in

this perfectly sealed room

with its high ceiling I feel safe

and expansive, my thoughts

able to float ten feet up

before bumping against the ceiling

thus permitting a whole circus

to perform in the bigtop of my brain

where the juggler’s pins are tossed sky high,

the gal scantily clad stands upon an

elephant’s back with room to spare and

my own humble plans and wishes raise

their heads and hands fully believing they

will be seen and heard.

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I Want Half

Forty years sober, eighteen years married

this wise kind man who claims there are

no bad days, who lives with persistent pain

insists there are no bad days.

His back’s been manipulated and fused

with metal rods and newly grown bone

to no good end and yet he will tell any

and all that there are no bad days.

Sleeps poorly, uses crutches, a scooter

to move about and yet:  no bad days.

I want half his good will

half his acceptance

half his equanimity

half his serenity

half his pluck.