6.15
he’s washing the dishes. a
man shouldn’t do that. it’s
embarrassing. the other kid’s
dad’s don’t. it’s women’s work.
I hide my head.
I stand at the sink now years
later and see my mother’s hands
raw, cracked, hurting. he did
it for her, out of love, long before
we learned to lib.
I am embarrassed now, that I
didn’t see the strong heart in
those brute shoulders, bent
forward with the scrub brush
in his hands.
——————–
[for my dad, whom I probably didn’t appreciate enough]
6.12.2014
rain in the night brings
a smile
snug in our beds
windows askew
doggie hiding in the
tile bathroom
the steady rising and
slowing patter
flows like good wishes
down the roof slant
washing away the
sins and failings of
whatever life threw
at us that day
and with my love beside
me in our modern cave
I peek out from under
the covers, give her
hand a squeeze and
breath deeply at the
crispness of our lives
appreciation is only
a word.
———————-
6.11.2014
morning newspaper not
here, mist across the
pond, a low burst of sun
just visible between
trunk and branch
sweet time. coffee with
m and s, a chair by the
barely cracked window
while steel-cut oats
burble
light is bursting through
the eastern mist as if
pan himself will soon
dance in, and
old graying princess
cat takes her place
in the middle of the
rug.
it is good to be
here.
————————–
6.9.2014
friends pass
sometimes because
the cancer caught
up to them
some because they
stuck a needle
into their arm
one too many times
and the heroin got ‘em
some simply dropped
one day in the
library stacks
young and surprised
at age twenty-four
but they are all friends
and their passing
is part of ours.
requiescat in pace.
————————
6.7.2014
green machine
big boys toy
vroom vroom across
lawn rooms
grass or path
woods and scrim
with green machine
I’m all in
———————
6.6.2014
tiny needles quiet music
settle mind and body
alike
nerve ending glidings
unknown to western
ways
cleansing and healing
through pathways
born
in the mind
of God.
—————-
6.5.2014
tired, wired, aimless
heap
worried about the
days last
keep.
tired, fired, not
high wired
only wanting to
close eyes and
sleep.
——————
6.3
pink jersey top, pale blue
jeans, walks out the driveway
and into my heart.
it still flutters when she
enters my day, tawny hair
and eyes asparkle.
how did I manage to find
such beauty except for
miracle and grace.
——————–
6.1.2014
forty years ago
on a rain slicked night
a car in front turned
sideways
at fifty miles per hour
and five years later
the back gave out, like
the twisted metal of
the driver’s seat,
on a drive north.
the nazi surgeon zapped
spinal nerves with an
electrode so her students
could watch legs twitch
of their own J-response
accord
spinal damage so obvious
that we stopped trying to
get better without
the knife.
thirty years now it has
had its run. things simply
wear. we simply wear
and pain returns like those
first moments when you
thought it would go away
with a warm bath and
some scotch.
the body was not meant to
last forever. a machine with
a rated capacity, time line,
stroke parameter. but it
is still a shock
that none of us gets out of here
whole
except in our souls
—————————-
PoemsPerDay 