Friday, March 31, 2017

undiscovered

In your hands you are reading a poem
that no one has read before.  I wrote
it for you, to be given at the right moment.

In your hands you are reading poetry
that belongs to you.  I wrote them for you
because I don't know what to do with them.
I kept them in a box, in journals and blogs,
for years because I was scared that you
wouldn't want them.  Scared that you already
had found a poem to read.
But, here it is; here they are.

I know that you miss your home:
the garden you started when it was just dead grass;
Median plants, your attempts to create
a forested mountain, rivaled that of
Nebuchadnezzar himself.
I want you to take this poem and plant it.
I want you to read this poem and let it grow,
Amytis, and let it surround you.
It is in your hands now, so that after
I am gone, these Babylonian gardens
will survive the earthquakes.


Thursday, March 30, 2017

Anteros

Ebb and  flow throughout my short life!
Why must time be categorized,
organized,
led away
into our minds?
Are you and I not one

in the same day?
Do we not exist,
but for the love and beauty
of all things?

Are there not an finite amount of sunsets
(glories of life)
in the course of a day?
Can we not visualize our purpose unless
it has a deadline?

Closing my eyes,
the clock stops its tick-tocking;
the cars stop their honk-honking; but
my heart continues beat-beating.

In the darkness of my mind,
time is eternal, it is pure and is made
from my blood and tears.
Time does not exist

for every atom in my body
(My body, my soul
does not move back and forth.)
In sleep, all things are peaceful,
eternal,
pure.

In death,
the ebb and
ow will stop,
and all that will remain
is love
(a love for all things beautiful.)

Wednesday, March 29, 2017

Tea

The teabag bleeds into
the hot water,
slowly oozing its nectar,
like a deep, red wound,
red river (split in two),
darkening{becoming pungent.
Hot blood in my coffee cup,
just below boiling point.
Who has wounded you?
Are the ripe, red strawberries
in my cereal your brethren?
Bobbing up and down,
the blood continues
without cries of pain
or shock.
I feel sadistic,
watching my tea bleed,
waiting to drink from its cup
as though ritualistically sacrificing
the adored lamb, waiting for its mystic
blood to collect in some holy, tin cup.

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

Jared

While balancing an orange on round Tupperware,
its lid blue, stained with red chili,
I think of Jared and how he still sucks his thumb.
He's nearly six

and once his lips pressed
around the knuckle, creating a tight seal,
he lapses into infantile reality.
It happens so easily,

how we can lapse into childhood or childlike states
of mind.  I wonder what he thinks of:
whether he was breast-fed or bottle-fed,
whether he nursed for long?

He's a stubborn, whiny child,
but so are most adults.
Where can you draw a line;
separate cognitions; mark the maturity levels?

As a teacher, I can't make
him stop.  I'm not behavioristic and
he is not a Pavlovian dog.
I wonder if he feels

his mother's breast
pressed up against his cheeks,
her hard nipple squeezed in his gums
providing him comfort, security, milk.

Or maybe he feels the rubber nipple,
soft and elastic, strangled by his gums
providing him comfort, security, grainy, sticky formula.
Maybe he doesn't think at all.

No matter;
for if I push my orange
it will fall and roll onto the floor.

Monday, March 27, 2017

Matera

Take me out of this moment,
this place in time, and
invite me to your home,
smooth and quiet.
We can take my boat and

float down this milky-white river
and pass the rows of yellow tulips.
I will speak to the raven
overhead and ask him to fi nd me.

Take me to your cobbled streets,
and show me wide buildings
crowding the shops. Let me

sit in the cool corner
under forgiving basil plants.
I want to smell of mint and basil,
so let me bathe in Romanesque sun.

I can feel us nearing
the bright, green clearing, malve growing in Santa Lucia;
smelling the stones
of the short, wide homes.
I can see the raven calling
and the rain falling.

I am here;
we are near;
I do not fear
anything.

Sunday, March 26, 2017

Nyx

Running toward the blackened horizon,
the sky is nice and big tonight.
I see shadowed mountains
wrapped in the space of the night.
I feel warm here;
waiting to envelop the night and hug the sky.
There are plenty of stars
shining on me,
so I extend my arms and reach outward
until the smell of the evening lingers on my
fingertips.

Saturday, March 25, 2017

On Death

Part I

I can remember how when I was young I believed death to be a phenomenon of the body; now I know it to be merely a function of the mind--and that of the minds who suffer the bereavement.
Dr Peabody--As I Lay Dying

eldest son

Son, she's dying..
Mom's dying.
I knew,
somehow.
The Stillness:
cold, quiet;
There is nothing,
and I felt it.
Moments before,
it was clear.
(The pounding, crashing sound
rips me from it…)
I knew,
somehow.

father

We're going to beat this thing.
I don't fail.
I cannot fail.
I'm not going to lose;
I can fix this thing.
You gotta be smarter than the…the…
renal cell carcinoma.


eldest son

Months before
Weeks before
Days before
moments before
I knew.

youngest son

Mom's sick,
in bed
sick
smells funny
(I don't like her smell)
Does it hurt, Mom?
No, sweetie, I'm just tired.
Go to sleep, Mom.

eldest son

I fall to the ground;
my legs do not bend.
I crash;
my head
slams me down;
I cannot move.
Weeping, weeping, weeping:
no tears will fall.
I can't talk.
How long?
(The voice; sound
stabs me).
Six months…maybe less.
I'll drive down.
I'll see her.
I will stay with her.

Part II

It's because I'm alone. If I could just feel it, it would be different, because I would not be alone.
Dewey Dell--As I Lay Dying

middle son

I hate you!
I fucking HATE you!
How can you do this to me?
You've always hated me;
now you’re dying?
Fuck no!
Hell no!
I don't need you,
just go,
leave me alone.
Stupid bitch!
Goddamn you!
Goddamn it!
You never loved me,
liked me.
Just leave;
I don't need you.

father

You don't know; you fucking doctors
don't know crap…how to fix this!
We're going to beat this thing,
Toni.
Don't leave me
with these kids…
are my life.
This house is yours.
These kids are yours.
renal cell carcinoma
yours.
Mom's gonna be just fine.
Don't worry,
we're going to beat this thing.
Don't you damn doctors know
how to beat this thing?!
Worse?

youngest son

mom's breathing
breathing
the tubes are breathing
looks funny
(mom looks scary)
Mom, can I go to play?
Sure you can.

eldest son

How's she doing?
Ok…not good.
How long?
A month…maybe less.

middle son

I can't do it
not going
hate hospitals
NO GODDAMN IT!
not going
can't

father

I can't do it
anymore.
It's a poison:
toxic.
I can't do it
anymore.


eldest son

I got class:
school.
I can drive away,
cross the line
into
no death
no cancer
no.
I got class:
homework
a test
finals
I'll drive down this weekend.

youngest son

her hands are cold:
white
like bones
Mom, cover up with a blanket.
Mom is wet,
her forehead is wet.
Here's a towel, Mom.

eldest son

I'm tired,
waiting.
The painful lights
strike me down,
strike down my skin:
numb.
I'm tired,
numb,
waiting.
I've got school tomorrow.
This must be hard,
difficult
for Ellen.
I'm sorry, honey.
Sorry.
I love you, Mom.
Love you.

mother

I'm so ugly
feel sick.
I'm tired
of being
not ready.
Ed, be a good father:
be around.
Stop working so much
and be a father.
I'll take care of it;
my family is my life.
I'm sorry.
Eddie, you be a good boy
for your father, and
listen to your brothers,
especially Adrian.
Be a good boy
good boy,
Son.
I love you:
take care of my sons.
I love you,
you're my number one son.
Be a good son, Tyson,
for your father.
Don't cause trouble
Be a good son,
good son.
Tyson,
I love you.
I love you, too, Mom.
(I hate you)
I love you, Tyson.

eldest son

The stillness
remains behind
after we have left,
she's left
us.
There is nothing.
I notice the badly-decorated walls,
ugly,
so ugly.

father

I'm not ready yet, guys.
I can't do it.
I just feel close to her.
I can't.
It's only been a year,
give me more time.
I can't do it.
I'll take care of it.

middle son

Dear Mom,
I didn't want to
hate you.
Didn't want.
I miss you.
I love you,
always;
no matter
what was said,
you said.
I will love you.
I will miss you.


father

I just don't feel anything
for women.
nothing.
I'm just so depressed.
depression, depressed, depression.
sadness.
I'm just so down.
I can't imagine myself
with another woman.

Part III

I heard my mother is dead. I wish I had time to let her die. I wish I had time to wish I had. It is because the wild and outraged earth too soon too soon too soon. It's not that I wouldn't and will not it's that it is too soon too soon too soon.
Dewey Dell--As I Lay Dying

middle son

I'm just so depressed.
I'm just so down.
I wanted to be close
to know
you liked me.
I never felt, knew
before.
I know now.
I will love you.
I will miss you.


father

I miss your mother…so much.
depression
I'll take care of it.

eldest son

I knew,
somehow.
I knew there would be
nothing
within these walls,
this room:
cold, quiet.
I feel it
again…
moments before,
forever after.

Friday, March 24, 2017

Solemn Aspirations

solemn aspirations
dwell: statues
in thought.
The light is found
preserved
from centuries of
hate
patiently seeking
the meaning.

Thursday, March 23, 2017

Theoritical Dream

it's gonna be
another late night:
sore feet,
sore back.
can't sleep:
a theoretical
$58 in my pocket.
6:28 PM:
no one here;
why am I?
10:55 PM:
fi ve minutes before closing;
no one is leaving.
11:55 PM:
still here,
waiting.
12:58 PM:
can't sleep,
Keane stuck in my brain,
with a theoretical
dream in my pocket.

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

Dancin' a little

Pointin' my finger,
shakin' my hips
side to side.
Movin' to the music,
dancin' a little.
Snappin' my fingers,
feelin' the beat,
closin' my eyes
still shakin' my hips,
movin' a little.
Feelin' the room,
move as I move.
Feet are tappin'
dancin' a little.

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

Writer's Block

My mind is stuck
for lack of a better term.
The lights are on, but
the music has ended.
Writing is like listening to music
for the first time:
You close your eyes,
visualizing the notes;
You hum the rhythm
inside your heart.
Listening intently
looking for the right words,
for there are only right words
(no left words to listen for).
If you hear your music,
write it down.
If you cannot,
enjoy the silence.

Monday, March 20, 2017

The Writer and the Poet

I must read poetry in silence,
enveloped in the quietude of myself
and the writer and the poet.

Whitman must be read outdoors;
Yeats should be read aloud.
I read Gluck on a sofa, under a comforter
with a cup of tea; alone with her words.

Poe must be read by candlelight
or flashlight, if you must.

I tend to read Baudelaire in coffee shop corners,
nervously glancing around to see if anyone
recognizes me,
or him.

I read Neruda in public, with coffee
(or in my case tea)
but with the intention of sharing lines
of verse, here and there, to strangers,
passersby.


Sunday, March 19, 2017

A Eulogy for my Father

This relationship is dead;
been dying for some time now,
a few words may be in order:

What happens when a father blocks his son,
his light begotten?
And the sun shifts, leaving me
alone in darkness?
Alone with poisonous nostalgia,
false memories of how things used to be.
I lost my umbrella years ago,
sank a foot deeper,
became a father myself,
perhaps my own father.
Am I robbed of a childhood?
When all I can remember is
thunder and rain and tears?

My sun shifted.
My light offensive to him.
He preferred solitude and shadows
And Fergus rules the shadows of the wood.
How can I inherit his sun,
when he buried himself alive,
clutching that orb of light
tightly to his chest?
Jedes Licht ist nicht die Sonne
And I will walk in my own light.

Saturday, March 18, 2017

Song of Myself

Ah, Whitman!

The leaves of grass may be dead, yellow and brown,
covered with a littering of sharp pine needles,
but the ground is warm
and smells fresh and new.

I chose to sit in the shade, on this side of the tree
that slopes upward toward the concrete school.
I want to face downward, downhill, but I want to feel the strong,
rough bark of this tree hold me in the breeze.  I feel safer here,
so I try to avoid glancing at the school.

In order for you to understand,
I must look, but understand
I am doing this for you.

It's depressing, really, to see
the sun warm its cold, white walls.
The sun does not differentiate
between concrete and grass
(although it should).
It shines, warms every body,
tree, building, and child's head.

The juxtaposition of grass to concrete,
city to nature, warmth to cold,
is understood by us all.
Thoreau is not the only one
to notice the banks of Walden Pond.
Nor Whitman,
as he sat and cradled the leaves of grass
capturing their in nity
for us to understand.

The difference:
Thoreau, Whitman (and now myself, I suppose),
continue to notice and
continue to write.
But they are dead, you say,
They cannot write!
Ah! But they do, for
they write through me and in me,
and by me.

Thoreau: in every drop of water;
Whitman: in every leaf of grass.
They are still here, and so am I; glad I chose this side of the hill;
Glad I chose this pen,
and this day and this sun.

Friday, March 17, 2017

Laurel, MT

I. 
North side (NW end):
Driving into town,
past the tracks,
the smell of sulfur
hangs in the air.
Tall cigars,
stacked next to tall factories,
smoke themselves
into the sky.

II.
South side (SW end):
The train has left
its fingerprints
riding along the ground.
The train has circled
the lake
waiting for salmon to return.
Blue collars stay blue collars
in the Laurel working end.
Grandfathers take their grandsons
fishing in an empty lake.
If we could find one,
Grandma will fry it up
when we get home.

III.
East end:
Homes line the streets
separated by rocky alleys.
Alleys that connect the town
flowing through the homes.
These are the veins
of Laurel.

IV.
West end:
Tractor tires lay in
overgrown weeds.
Indentations mark a
faded diamond
where children still play
(as in 1953).
Saturday nights
we gather together
cheering Laurel's children.
No winners,
no losers,
just baseball.


Laurel sits in the middle,
beating life to its state.
Roads come and go,
but Laurel continues beating.
Early in the morning,
among the quiet trees,
you can hear it
if you close your eyes
and open your heart.

Thursday, March 16, 2017

Emerson

Sitting before the fire,
not cold enough outside
to warrant one,
I am torn between two worlds:
Baudelaire's sad Paris,
changed and still changing
as he mopes up and down
Place du Carrousel
looking for signs of youth;
and my bouncing daughter:
pants too long, cuffs slipped over her tiny heels,
holding onto an overhead rail,
practicing her jump
over and over,
cooing and cooing,
laughing,
making happy noises.
Two worlds, a century-and-a-half apart,
a continent apart,
aren't that different.
Charles and I both long for an earlier time
when buildings and babies
were younger;
streets and siblings
were newer;
But what he and I don't realize,
is that if we just look upward,
toward the sun,
our objects of a affection,
and see beauty before us,
we will see
Paris.
Emerson.
Otherwise, we will continue
to walk,
head bowed,
missing life.

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Budding Persephone

The budding Persephone
drinks wine
surrounded by cypresses.
The crescent shadows

flowering from her
soft, olive hair,
cling at the earth.

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

the forest

I am standing in a forest
Silence surrounds me
I am alone
I can see my family,
The ones I love,
But they cannot
See me
A stark realization blankets me:
I must leave them
I must turn around and leave
No good-byes
No last minute love to share
No time at all
I feel the force behind me
Pulling me toward it...
Toward the loneliness
I want to stay, but
Cannot
I want the warmth of life,
But I am cold
i am dead.
the forest becomes gray
the color of a storm
it is raining, but I cannot
feel
the rain on my skin
i am not wet
i am cold
water touches my cheek,
but it is only a tear
one tear:
shed for my life
shed for my love
shed for the warmth
i must go
to a place i do not know
i fear the unknown, but
most of all,
i fear leaving
I fear being alone.

Monday, March 13, 2017

Hands

I look for chores to busy my hands,
inherited from Marie, my German grandmother.
She barely sat down for 76 years.  She would clean
and cook and wash and cut the grass.

Except when Frida would come over.  Two German
sisters: sitting over coffee, chatting in German, smiling
at their grandchildren as I meandered in and out of the kitchen;
until one day I was old enough to sit with them.

I told them I was studying German.  They asked me
to speak, clicking their tongues as I twisted and curled my
tongue.  They tsked at my hochdeutsch.  Their own speech
born out of the Depression, WWII, cleaning the bank, raising children

who didn't want to stay in Laurel, MT.  Their language,
the words they used, had so much more substance.
My textbook talk was highfalutin, stuck in meaningless
conversations about Claudia and Hans ordering coffee after school.

Marie and Frida talked, spoke their truths and then stood
up from the linoleum kitchen table to wash the dishes.

Sunday, March 12, 2017

Daydreams

My daydreams
had thorns on them,
and fade to the color of
boiling smoke.
Surrounded by the heavy blue scent
of my imagination,
I lose touch with reality,
become intoxicated.
Drunk with nostalgia,
I stammer to the open door,
ajar, and breathing with fresh air
from the outdoors.
I burst outside,
only to crash into a pile of dead leaves,
the colors of rust and butter. Again,
I am thrust into another childhood memory,
this one happier and healthier.
I cannot escape my memory,
and as this thought warms my face,
against the brisk October wind,
I fall into a deep, chaotic spasm of laughter.

Saturday, March 11, 2017

The Somnambulists

The somnambulists
walk slowly,
precisely,
through the stucco promenade
made from figures
in their
minds.
Each brick,
is a fantasy
linking dreams
and gravity
like the soft, pink
umbilical cord.
Their processions,
in the darkest
space
of their minds,
will surely end
with coming of
each day.

Friday, March 10, 2017

Poet Again

I want to be a
poet again.
Perhaps I never was
one, but
I want to bleed
my feelings.
I want my soul to grab
this pen from my hand.
Let me show you how to feel!
I want him to take over:
The Hopeless Romantic that
I used to be.
She love me more then,
or so I think.
She says she will always
love me, that man that I am,
but I could make her cry
once.
She would read, and my
words would blur in
the pools of her tears.
Was that me?
Am I lost?
I want to be a poet
again.
I want to write her,
and pour my feelings
over her.
She would drink them like
sweet water,
because
she is dying of thirst.
She needs the romance.
I need it, too.
I want to be a poet
again.
I never stopped loving
her,
feeling her.
I never stopped.

Thursday, March 09, 2017

Under the Apple Tree

Under the apple tree,
the warm sun sets behind a purple horizon.
Patches of green grass
scratch our legs and
the knotted trunk itches my back.
We sit together.
80 years could pass,
all in one day,
and our love will be just as bright
as the sun that sets on
our lives together.
Under the apple tree,
we are at home
in our embrace,
and the apples ripen.

Wednesday, March 08, 2017

Late One Night

The real dream begins
when I exit the highway.
I pass reality by
and enter the mind
my heart created.
The music begins,
the blackness begins,
the road begins.


It is three a.m. and dark.
My eyes are heavy, but
I drive home.
I tuck half of my heart
into bed, and
begin to drive.


The radio is what keeps
me sane.
Life seems true, but
the road, the tires, the sleep,
all make me feel crazy;
This being the sanest I have
ever felt.
The music.
It is what keeps my reality
real.


The painted lines
appear and disappear.
Forty miles per hour seems slow.
I seem to be
floating through
a dream...my dream?
Am I awake?
Am I still driving?
I know I am driving because
it continues.
Every night it continues.


My car allows me to be
surreal.
My music is the link to
the reality in which I will awake.
Tomorrow will be another day.
Tomorrow will only come
if I make it home.
If I tuck the other half of my heart
into bed, and
begin to sleep,
dream.
Is this a dream?


I swerve and my body clenches.
My eyelids are heavy,
but my eyes are wide.
They stay open as I drive.
The night is black.
The lines are white.
Do I dream in color?
Do I see white lines and
a black night?
I see my marker.
My house will be approaching
soon on the right.
I turn o my engine.
I know I am awake now.
I thank her for gliding
home safely.
I sleep, and I dream.

Tuesday, March 07, 2017

My Last Will and Testament

To Macbeth:
I leave my paranoia;
always tugging
at the hem of my slacks,
as I brush past
the puddling rain.


To Juliet:
I leave my romance,
my passion,
my name;
May you always
speak aloud
among the stars
and remember
how to love.


To Yeats:
I leave my manhood,
(my russet brow);
the shaved stuffings
creating my
pride,
insecurities,
hopes,
fears,
masculine gait,
and all other things
that dance upon the level shore
underneath the
disheveled
wandering stars.


To Mr. Holmes:
You shall receive...
(well, if you are reading this,
then you have already deduced
your inheritance).


To Dr. Watson:
I leave my desire
to capture greatness
with pen and paper
and an eye
toward truth.


To Superman:
I leave justice,
my strength,
heroism,
and a need
to do what is right.


To Mr. Collins:
I leave
my poetry
(you will know what to do).


To Mr. Hughes:
I leave the moon,
jazz beats,
hot, Harlem nights,
but most importantly,
my dreams.


To Mr. Whitman:
I leave,
myself,
body electric,
soul sewn into
rich earth;
scent of lilac;
hope for the future.
a belief in myself.


To Hamlet:
I leave my loneliness,
the indecision,
which plagued me
in life;
my cowardice,
my conscience.
I am off to the undiscovered country.


To My Beloved Children
(To be equally divided):
I leave it all:
Shakespeare,
Yeats,
Sherlock and Watson,
poetry,
leaves of grass,
Juliet and passionate love,
Langston Hughes,
Billy Collins,
and
Superman.

Listen to music;
dance,
be romantic,
brave,
unyielding in your beliefs.

Listen to your mother;
be kind,
funny,
and wiling to cry.
Take it all
and be you;
be wonderful;
just be.


To My Loving Wife:
What can I give?

There is one thing
left to give;
that, which you do not want:
change.
Remember me
young,
happy,
breathless,
utterly preposterous
and in love.

Sometimes it will feel like
you need to be two,
Don't--they already have me

inside.

Monday, March 06, 2017

Something for Someone Else

I cannot decide: a poem
or manifesto to write.
How can I understand and write
poetry if I cannot write
nor understand myself?
Publish a book or journal article.
What do I have to say, really?
Other poems are for other people.
I need my own poems;
my life in ink out before me,
splayed and splashed,
before I craft my words into
something for someone else.

Sunday, March 05, 2017

born to catch butterflies on her tongue

for Claire

She was born to catch butterflies on her tongue.
With shooting stars in her eyes,
she would wait for the rain
to wash the day
out of her hair.
Sitting on a small, dry patch of grass,
she closes her eyes
and waits
anticipating the flutter of her tongue.

As a child
she advised balloons
how to bounce and stretch.
She interrogated hens
until they told her
the truth.

When she tires, she closes her eyes
and shrinks to the size of a pea,
and hides under a maple leaf
in the backyard.
She feels safe there
resting and dreaming
of a world filled
with butterfly wings.

Saturday, March 04, 2017

Mother of Hynos

I.

Think sleep, friend, and ask why you truly fall into it.
Do you escape the wake?
Do you visit the familiar?
Do you stay because you are afraid to leave,
or leave because you fear staying behind?

II.

Essential shadows rob some goddesses of their dream.
Some steal your sun,
some comfort the lonely.
Are you the goddess they seek?
If you look too hard, they will disappear.
Dream sweetly, Nyx, and let your shadow listen.

III.

When you dream, do you hear the colors in your mind?
I love in whispers,
languid and delirious,
beneath my dreams.
I shine on your beauty,
and soar through these black moments.
Yet, the wind will blow in my face.
Guide me through.

IV.

I lust behind her music,
her gorgeous power.
I am a frantic ship in a winter storm.
She is a petal, the light I see.
Her skin is smooth and bare:
a wanted picture
that I keep in my mind.
The thousand weakest shadows will not cover me.

Friday, March 03, 2017

Hero

In July, I don the costume I paid too much
for a school fundraiser; forever limiting my Halloween choices.
Dark blue, deep crimson, this Superman is more modern
and all my children know of heroes.
I chase them mercilessly, around and round the house,
until they are hot with laughter, and I am
sweating from my age.  I feel too old to chase;
too old for this call to adventure.
Crossing the guardian's threshold without aid

(I have no mentor) makes facing my own death and rebirth
too much effort for suburbia; I'd rather mow the lawn.

But how can I return to my children a hero
when all I have is a costume and a dream?
How can I transform for them
from imperfect father who yells too much
into Superman?
How can I atone for my sins:
spanking, yelling, making my children feel less than perfect?
How can I return when all I want is some
peach and quiet and tea; to write in my journal,
imagining myself better than I am?

"Dreams save us; dreams lift us up and transform us."

This is what I have: my dream of guiding my young ones
into a world where dignity, honor, and justice
are not slogans to sell toys.

I will never stop fighting; even if it is with myself;
to be better,
to do better.

Ever.


Thursday, March 02, 2017

She felt lonely.
So often, we are two ships,
described on two different pages,
in two different books,
passing by each other on two different nights.

I long for a time when
we are one
again.

Wednesday, March 01, 2017

My Own


I sign their names, as my own,
underneath their poems,
as if they were my own.

I claim that their words are my own;
their memories, emotions, are my own;
Because I am too scared to write
my own.

Perhaps this is a poem,
a thought in time,
that someone else can write down,
when writer's block sets in,
as their child interrupts because she poked herself
in her eye and needs a hug;
while their spouse is upstairs
watching YouTube instead of talking.

Perhaps we all need someone else
to tell us what we are,
who we are, and how we feel.
Perhaps we need to live vicariously through other
people because our own lives
are too clumsy, difficult, painful, mundane.

Perhaps.