In the still morning I wonder where you are
O you of the hidden nature you
mysterious traveling poet you
wanderer you collector of stories
of words of puzzles of birds you
fragrant wisp of cool night air
you dazzling conductor of grace
you of the guileless heart you
gatherer of stones, singer of truth
dancer of love life compassion
you whistler of timeless tunes.
You.
Write me a letter in the darkling sky
with only your eyes
whisper the secrets and I
I will find you.
How simple a thing it is to be at home
again where one’s heart is
to occupy one’s own bed, the covers skimming
one’s bones as they are known to do
the familiar clock and lamp at the elbow
the special mug for tea now full now empty
to see the neighbor’s green house outside the window
to feel upon one’s thigh the known weight of a beloved dog
whose two baby teeth lie downstairs in a small blue bowl
where they could be found, admired, touched
whenever one wanted.
How simple how simply grand.
When I am away do you pine?
As I do?
Do you see another–about my size and shape
whose coloring resembles mine–and sigh?
As I do?
Do you catch a familiar scent on a puff
of air and find me in your brain?
As I do you?
Do you search with your eye for some small
crumb of me in each who passes by?
As I do?
Do you, dogs of mine?
As I do?
A new wind blows at this week’s end
and all’s well and all is swell
but I must go and when I do
I will wish to come and spy on you
and find you laughing and merry
my dear Mary.
Troubled by headache after too much wine
regrets be damned for the evening was grand
the wine divine the dinner sublime
and most of all the company was marvelous.
Oh she was in a fierce mood that little Nahla
with the pouf of hair! Tiny terrible tragic mood
nonetheless (one has to note) so admirably expressed.
So many objections strongly and most passionately voiced.
I don’t LIKE cookies!
I don’t LIKE that face!
I don’t LIKE bears!
So vehement so fervent and firm
no budge no waver no yield.
Tiny dramatic Theda Bara
of nursery school.
Had I remained married we would today
celebrate thirty-seven years together.
I’d have lived those things rather than these.
For better or worse these many others now make me up.
For better or worse I am now a person who stands mystified
by the long marriages of others, the years of accommodation,
collaboration and conflict, the volumes of shared memories and milestones.
My own are a crazy quilt of bits and pieces this one shared with that one
that one with this, some of whom I no longer see or care to see.
I cannot know what other I would be, had I stayed.
Skull and crossbones leer at me
from Pamela’s scarf once again the just so thing
for I shall be a pirate come Sunday.
She had a penchant for ghosts, zombies,
and all that makes the heart race.
But I prefer a bittersweet story, one with lovely odd characters,
affairs of the heart, a dog, perhaps a bear, ships at sea and
lighthouses that reliably bring All in to shore.
Mary and I
are free today
to do as we please
when we want
slow or fast
here or there
willy or nilly
to and fro
yes or no
just just so
on this Tues of day
this month of May
merry May Mary
and me.
Who or what raps at my door
taps on the window waits
for me to finally open?
What mystery what knowledge
what essential piece stands
patiently waiting to slip into place?
Where even is that door that window?
A piece of importance eludes me
slides across my night sky
like the moon waxing and waning
in the black bowl of the universe.
Will I ever catch it?