A Few Poems
What to Make of Beleaguered Possibility
Tower-
ing
cornucopia
of sparkling
possibility
high-
lighting
iron will
molten
in the face
of insanity
a dearth
of tolerance
amasses
graves
mile high
ashen I
look to
the heavens
hands raised
others raise
clenched fists
Tender an Apology, I Say
If ruminating heifers gather
that they may not be sold
as prime, rather, they could
end up mad as hatters
and burned, or dwell sound
of mind, knowing full-well
they’ll be cooked to shreds
and canned, would they, then,
tend to lean toward the side
of caution and post-
pone slaughter, by starving
in lieu of grazing? And diehard
beefeaters who snub their noses
at canned beef, while relishing
every bite of a pricey Sirloin
or Filet Mignon, do you think
they’ve ever been inclined to cow
in shame considering the price
some poor bovine had to pay?
Stand
and be counted! No
matter what, stand up
to the enemy. Don’t
stand in the way
of action. Stand fast
and deliver what is sure
to ensure victory.
Insubordination
won’t be stood for!
Understood?
Don’t stand by
and let others rest
on their laurels.
Can’t stand the heat?
Chill, till you will
take the stance
that sits well with folks
who don’t stand
on ceremony.
No standing room left?
Sit — work the phones.
If need be, pound
the pavement, or go
down in history standing
shoulder to shoulder
within the rank and file
of the long-standing
collectors of dog tags and body bags.
Riding Past the Museum of Natural History
Seeing the steps I first took toward
infidelity — how far I descended.
My lover is history, has been
for some thirty-odd years, yet,
I remember the nervous excitement
still — how unashamed and
unnaturally good I’d felt. How beyond
stupid, thinking I would scale those highs
unscathed — so sure I was just
stepping into my husband’s footprints —
those impressions made long before
I ever thought of venturing
to make hurt go by going
the ways of wayward flesh —
before I knew what I know now:
the crawl space one could carve
in a marriage preserved
for the children’s sake.
The Barber
Alois lifts Mother’s wet tresses, glides them
through his fingers, smoothes them
flat, focuses on the task of cutting,
shaping, redefining. His comb passes
over tangles of twisting fiber &
thickening plaque beneath her scalp.
I watch her live with whatever he does,
watch her face the mirror.
Her silver hair shines. She doesn’t
look or look away. My thoughts turn
to her beauty-parlor days: once back home,
she’d head straight to her bedroom,
root herself at her vanity, pull & pull
her cropped locks trying to stretch them
back to a length she could live with.
A Changing Heart
A heart longing for heart-quiet
in the inevitable fall
into winter’s short days of sun
forwarding to spring’s
longer days, and a circling back
in the cycle of time.
Heart-and-mind-numbing time
with no respite. A longing for quiet
thoughts, an end to my playback
of failed relationships. The awful
repetition — mind and life wasting.
And in the darkest of seasons,
the conviction that the sun
will only half rise in my lifetime;
that, the lingering of a sting,
as from a bee’s disquiet
of green slumber swelling to a fault
every damned day slamming me back,
season upon season. Holding me back,
chilling me with doubt that the sun,
in its inimitable shine, will quash rainfall
and that, unquestionably, in time,
will offer warmth enough to dispel disquiet
of heart and mind, its ever-state of being.
A fast forward to summer, past spring,
and onto fall, winter. On and on, back
to summer; then, quite suddenly, heart-quiet:
a magical glance, a responding nod. Overrun
with flutterings, my heart races in time
with the pace of burgeoning love’s freefall.
And with the passing of that particular fall,
winter heralds in the sweetest of springs:
daffodils and budding dogwood — a lifetime
promise of celebration ahead. No looking back.
Risk versus reason, past, I bask in the sun,
glow in love’s shine. Rain or shine, disquiet
falls on deaf ears. Abiding, only the quiet
of peace of mind; snowflakes melting in the sun;
time, and again, kisses blown, then blown back.