I was seduced in Barnes & Noble, lured to the poetry section next to coffee and pastries
I touched her Blue Iris, fondled her Red Bird and recounted why she wakes to watch the early sunrise
She looked better than I remembered in a brown jacket with a striking emblem of a bear on the front She took me to her tent near Truro and told me of turtles, toads, hermit *****, and her fear of ridding her garden of a small harmless snake
I spill my passion on the beach’s sand — our bed for now
Under her cover she shares phrases, moles, verbs, and curves of sweet new perceptions
We are intimate beyond belief through her verbal kisses which bring sweat to my palms
I’m high, hallucinating on Mary my drug of choice
I’m having an affair with Mary Oliver
I am re-posting this in light of the recent death of Mary Oliver. I miss her
I found your face On Facebook Hard to believe I was ever there The landscape Is fuzzy Through the fog Your profile is So faded, there are new wrinkles Around your mouth Under your eyes Wisdom lines Gathered during our togetherness
Your eyes still seer with Every look, yet that look Seeks not to find my soul Whatever you saw One look was enough What you saw was too mild, or wild Or too jagged
Hidden in this box of memories Are pieces of you Musty reminders some invigorating some good Mostly gone
Sometimes I write something, look at it a week or so later and then can't seem to remember why I wrote it or even what I was trying to say. Nonetheless, here it it.
There is time for thought During this daily walk There is no need to achieve No need to count steps Or tally blocks or miles or minutes Leisure is on-deck Time away from work Time away from expectations Time when the only eyes evaluating The steps, the distance, the pace Is you
Pressure mounts step by step Shifting attention from the trees The falling leaves, the birds, Returning to self-centered issues Returning to thoughts that evaluate Judgments about the past Become concerns for the future Has enough been accomplished Has enough been stored For what is to come
Current experience happens Yet passes by Without appreciation Without being savored Being becomes anxiety Being becomes guilt Being becomes non-being The question is repeated Constantly nagging “Why is it so hard to become Aware of the present And why is it so hard to stay With the moment?” Will life be long enough For one to accept That this is good-enough That this moment Is life And it is good Good enough Being here, being now
Just sharing what seems to me to be an "eternal question"
Give me notice For life is short I might have more to do Than rest on your doorstep Hoping you will open the latch Greet me with a smile And suggest we spend the day Viewing the community pond Feeding the ducks Cementing our bond
Storm winds from the west Send us scurrying down the plank Steps into the dank basement Sounds become deafening as the Skies darken
Whatever is happening Is only visible through a four-paned Window no larger than a newspaper
At age seven this is all new Thunder, lightening, storms Have come and gone Usually starting in the west Among growing and billowing clouds This time the darkness is heavy Winds blow straight yet swirl simultaneously
A look of fear unlike any he has seen before Covers his mother’s face
His father, a man of few words and a placid personality Forces new wrinkles upon his worried forehead
The hay barn slides across the yard Walking as though each wall has legs Slowly collapsing, it crumbles into the granary Once it lands the storm begins to abate They will survive Slowly, step by step his father, then his mother And finally he ascend to view what damage Has occurred. One view and he knows the answer The devastation is real and substantial
Each morning the boundaries recede Skies are still blue Wisps of wind still stir High noon marks an end and a beginning Must someone star in a slow motion film as a carp stirring in the remnant floodwater of a receding river
Trapped, alone, hopelessness, Inspired by a line in Victoria's poem Habitual tendencies
Although the landscape is level clouds begin to bellow in the distance
Mere wisps at first gradually more pronounce gray, then coal-black
Interrupted with flashes strikes, bold and brilliant disappearing, reappearing each with a thunderous entry and silently sleeking away
Where would it display its fury and what would be left behind
Was it birthed of one’s own volition Was it intended or uncontrolled Nevertheless, left behind is a blistered path waiting to be healed to spring forth albeit slowly as a recovering forest after a wildfire
What does anger look like? (A friend asked this question yesterday and it sparked this poem.)
He is born amid dust blown from burnt and dried plains powdered grime carried past the James River conveyed though arid skies pelting window panes penetrating cracks and crevasses
She dampens muslim sheets wraps them around his crib catching sand and falling chaff like a coffee filter captures grounds from boiling liquid draining into the ***
He survives exposed to horrors of the 1930’s gradually he grasps a new catastrophe symbolized by woolen uniforms embossed with chevrons and metals for bravely killing and destroying uncles and cousins committed to expanding the **** nation
She cries consols Granny who frets in vain repetitively rubbing her hands across her knees fearful as her native beloved homeland becomes scarred war torn by death and torture beyond imagination.
He recalls crouching beneath wooden school desks practicing survival of an unsurvivable danger while nations race to discover an explosive intended to end all war
She feels no confusion with her lips against his eye. Eyes blue as a deep mountain lake. She senses comfort resting across her chest, like the first time her cheek touched his bicep when they walked enmeshed. Now feels so warm, soft on her mind for fear has fallen to the trail. Renewal of trust reborn fills her heart.
No confusion wrinkles her forehead, eyes affixed first on his lips until magnetically drawn to eyes blue as a mountain lake. Comfort rests across her chest. Hips burn together and her cheek brushes the ironclad hardness of his bicep. They walk enmeshed. Traces of trepidation, scars embedded in her mind from tragic romance, fade. Residual fears fall to the trail among twigs and stones. Rebirth of trust creeps into her heart. Together their feet trample her qualms.
Tell me am I love or am I suffering Am I stepping into the black or into purity So purity is white and white is purity Am I noticed for love or projecting my suffering hoping to be on stage for all to see Love is pure Suffering is pure Love is marred as are flecks pitting the whole of suffering
Entertainment comes in many forms One without Nielson ratings presents daily shows below the garage gutter
Weathered leather shoestring strains under the weight of unfilled feeder long exposed to wind and air until it's original surface contains only flecks of it's original varnish
When filled, squares of suet cakes fitted between wire grids entice chickadees early in the day before nuthatches, wren and downy woodpeckers peck and feed on the nut, corn and protein snack. Bluejays struggle without success to hang sideways and gather specks of nuts from the tallow.
Other large birds, cardinal and red-bellied woodpecker show-up the jay as they feed with ease at the suet rack
Each day suet sinks slowly descending until little is found by winged visitors
Begrudgingly he rises from his chair, tramps to the garage to find a new insert for the feed box. Hands, weathered like the pine of the feeder unpack the next cake to refresh the lure as the scenery of wild birds return to their feeding and refill his soul