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Robert Ronnow Mar 2021
Carrying a sleeping baby.
Cleaning after a successful party.

Camping beyond mountains more mountains.
Playing trumpet on the streets of New York City.

Eating although the food supply is deeply compromised.
Flying with Democrats and Republicans, evangelicals and atheists.

Flying like a fruit fly that won’t quit mating.
Cool as a hummingbird in a stream’s wet spray.

Abstaining wholly, absent from worldly life.
Two dogs fighting but not biting hard.

Chanting as if the planet were mending.
Gourmet dining, devout prayer, loving Mary.

Evenings watching tv. Scotch and Star Trek.
Taking off Emily Dickinson’s clothes.

Meeting in the meeting house, arguing and praying.
Planning a legacy as if you knew enough to control events.

Pursuing happiness as a naturalist or humanist.
Spinning with the planet, performing the history that surrounds us.

Killing many Germans, saving many Jews.
Doing less until one thing’s done well.

Fainting from staring at candles through stained glass windows.
Morning, a billion trillion nuclear detonations per second warming your
        bones.

Manipulating symbols, solving equations.
Disregarding tweets and facebook persuasions.

Sitting with a tiny Buddha near a rushing stream cutting a gorge.
Running, disciplining myself, making myself healthy.

Ingesting drugs, throwing die, drinking sludge.
Growing varicolored corn.

Participating in the cause because it’s impossible not to participate in
      the effect.
Running over a chipmunk, groundhog or a skunk.

Lying face down in the emergency room facing doom.
Waking up Monday thinking Sweet Saturday! but soon remembering
      your trick knee.

Turning the towering young thunder of my anger against my sons.
Regretting the callow dispassion with which I met my parents’ quietus.

Lawn mowing, leaf blowing, yapping dogs, napping old people.
No jets but a rooster mornings, cows and goats.

Al is painting an apartment. Sirma is cleaning the floors. Felix is taking
      out the garbage.
Deciding tentatively I slightly prefer Heifetz’ to Oistrakh’s Sibelius.

No cedar waxwings, no chickadees, but beautiful moon!
If you’re alone as you get, why are you crying?
—Collins, Billy, “Taking Off Emily Dickinson’s Clothes”, Sailing Alone Around the Room: New and Selected Poems, Random House, 2002.
Carly A Jan 2012
Leather jackets and smoke rings.
Dark bars and motor oil stained fingers.
Varicolored skin and scarred knuckles.
Your 5 o'clock shadow scratches my chin.
My lipstick wears off,
I look out the window to see the pitch-dark is rising to violet.
Your cue.
And you leave me staring at the ceiling,
The ghosts of your hands on the surface of my skin.
astroaquanaut Oct 2015
tick, tock
i forgot my wristwatch
i'm losing track of time
tick tock
and you're just there,
right in front of me
twirling carbonara noodles with your fork
the sauce messily covering your lips
tick tock
it has been a long time since
you expressed your stories, your dreams
your philosophies, your blusters
tick, tock
i answer you with smiles
with glances that appreciate
the tiniest details about you
tick, tock
your worn out black cardigan
your varicolored necklace
your white tank top
your chaotic food choices
tick, tock
not again
just stop
quit staring
tick, tock
**** it, i can't finish my meal
tick, tock
you smiled at me
tick, tock
you blushed
tick, tock
you laughed at me
tick, tock
again,
i'm falling
in love
with you
tick, tock
deeper
tick, tock
moments
they hit me
like a train
tick, tock
just tell me
when will i see you again
tick, tock
i don't want this to end
tick, tock
take me with you
tick, tock
ugh **** it
tick, tock
you ask me what's wrong
tick, tock
i shake my head
as response
tick, tock
time is running out
tick, tock
i push my plate away
dropped my spoon and fork
they clattered
tick, tock
i stand up
i lean for a kiss
tick, tock
Elaenor Aisling Jul 2021
Our epilogue is a grey sky
beneath it are the small plants I care for and bring to bloom
lavender, vervain, rosemary--especially
that anchor me to your memory.

You knew it meant remembrance
How the lathe of time reshapes, shaves
mud from my eyes
on the small abrasive moments
the little thrip-like wounds we never meant to inflict
and how they siphoned the spirit from us.

In the throes of want
I was hungry for more than arms--
there were times I could almost taste your soul
but even on the doorstep
when I caught the key from around your neck
it would never fit into the rusted lock,
despite all your honeyed words.

I have known men with varicolored souls
with wounded souls
with starving souls,
yours-- silver, mausoleum still
a ****** eating snow
to hide any sign of life.

Loving you, coaxing a stag to drink
holding water in my hands until
it seeped from my fingers into the earth, undrunk--
At my feet grew anemone and yew
living things
that do not have a soul
that want only what I can give
and never
promise
more.

— The End —