8.7
if you have something to tell me
do it now, or wait three weeks, she
says. bobbie shared his plans
to talk about things with his wife
after dropping their last for college.
don’t you dare, says my honey.
after we drop the boy there’ll be time
to grieve, adjust, mourn, whatever.
but no other agendas will need apply.
timing is all.
—————————-
8.6
turning the corner I see a horse
nobbing its head against the end
of the fencing. the long neck rolls
and twists, stretching then upward
to flex the muscles while a subcutaneous
shimmer washes back down towards
its side.
ride cowboy ride. I grew up watching
men I thought were my heroes astride
such beautiful animals, and acting as if
they all were pals. the men were in real
life not quite as noble as they were made
nor the horses quite as well cared for, yet
there was a truth.
large deep eyes rise now to gaze at me,
an ear rises, then flicks, and a stare seems
to fix me before that great head turns to
walk slowly away towards a distant pasture.
I would have liked to run my fingers down that
long velvet face, till it nodded down into a sugar cube
in my hand. but I had none to offer, and only a yearning
left over from my youth.
———————–
(with a nod for Roger McGuinn)
8.5
the little man he balances
on the end of a lever tall
held dear upon the other end
by a glinting silver ball
can I turn him any way I want
will his distance shift and stall
or will his balanced status fault
and send him to the fall
like adam in the garden
waiting for the orb
like morningstar’s dark
angel falling through the core
the little man he balances
and I stand by and wait
to see which way to follow,
the entrance or the gate.
————————————
8.4
the tattoos braided-hair hippie dressed
woman considers curtain rods and wicker
baskets with her broad-backed shaved head
punk rocker mate in the tee and shorts.
this is what will go well on that wall.
yeah looks good, yeah, that’s
the one, he replies.
the new young wife appraises what
will mark her first new home. the stuff
is different, you can see it in her eyes.
her mother eyes, for the first time.
husband wife partner dance, balance
swap, eye, choose. this is us, me, you.
that isn’t. yes dear. yeah that looks good.
we all get domesticated.
———————–
8.3
Rosie cat with a full morning bowl
meows fretfully at whomever comes
downstairs next until more, even
a sniggle, is added. It is not the food
but the humble obeisance, recognition,
acknowledgment, sacrament
of the care and feeding commitment.
I fly twelve hundred miles to visit
my son with several days at hand,
but the sniggle is all that will matter.
The first moments, Hello Daddy Hello
Michael, confirm, acknowledge, are
the sacrament, caring commitment,
love connection.
We do not need much in our lives
perhaps only moments, sniggles,
of connection, affirmation, promise,
but need them we do.
Take eat, embody the back together.
This is the real thing.
—————————–
8.1
she smiles from across
the room and my heart
flutters; besotted
years in the
imbibing.
————————
7.31
dazzling sun striates
through trees, water
flowing over the dam
while we walk
when did we find out
that simple things make
the journey worthwhile
and full
adventures being avenues
only for appreciating the
wisdom of everyday
patterns.
I turn my head to look
again at what was there
yesterday and the day
before
to drink it in.
————————-
7.30
four poster. tall, finialed
emblem of life and love
through our years.
we brought the children
forth upon you, told
stories, snuggled.
and now I smile when
I see you decked in
mismatched pillows
of our shared difference
and joys, two heads at
ease upon your breadth.
————————–
7.29
rubbed green beauty of steel
and wheels, gears and rubber,
british, upright, noble, elderly
solid friend of forty plus years.
we started out together almost,
riding parish routes on miles of
tree lined pavements through
five slippery gears.
we look quaint together now,
older both, I with a helmet I
never would have dreamed of
and a broader saddle of my own.
your tires so thin I barely dare
fill them to the pressure listed
in fear of burst, measure my
own laboring pumps.
bumps and scrapes mark us,
yet there is nobility and
strength, clean lines and the
grace of an earlier clearer time
that endures.
————————-
PoemsPerDay 