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Because It Isn’t Spring
There is ice in the shade,
and because it isn’t spring,
the bluebird on my railing
startles me,
like the fall morning
the sunrise illuminated
spider webs with gold,
and I was too awed
to get my camera.
I would normally be suspicious of feeling this way.
But because it isn’t spring,
the feeling unravels inside me,
like a bird finding its balance
on a twig stirred by the breeze,
like the morning,
tiptoeing in on long black legs,
spinning thin
threads of gold,
until all is light.
Billy Collins’ Salt and Pepper Shakers Made Me Cry
But if you and I were spices,
we wouldn't be salt and pepper shakers,
we'd be mint and paprika-
two spices that don't normally
associate with one another,
and are placed no where
near each other in the spice rack
even though we came from the same set,
are in the same matching jars,
had similar histories,
we kept entirely different company.
No one would ever say
our names together in a sentence,
let alone a recipe.
Yet somehow I'm just curious
to know what the other side
of the rack was like,
if somehow being from the same place
has caused us to walk
distinctly different but
parallel paths,
if you who made an ascent
into the sun found
that which supported you
was as fragile as my
fledgling ego.
But in this poem,
you and I are spices,
and any burning with desire I do
will be kept in the paprika jar,
as known and unknown to you,
as my own self.
Cross Your Fingers
Imagine:
to never have a day
where the sun doesn't seek you.
One tick of that golden clock
Is all that's needed to end this.
One click and it's all gone:
bridal lace faded to ecru,
sepia toned prints of sober infants,
fat relatives, various acquaintances
shoved in hat boxes.
Notice that one pallid fellow
who never seems to age
with those around him.
But now,
it is the hour and
the door to the clock will open,
and out I will go
like a black bird on a spring,
and say,
"Imagine:
to never have a day
where the sun doesn't seek you."
The Way of the Dance
To dance takes a certain degree of forgetfulness
too much concentration and the sense of
one continuous movement,
like the tide coming in en pointe,
pulling its long blue scarves,
in designs known only to the moon,
too much concentration and that sense is lost.
Too much energy,
and one becomes seasick,
the room moving on its own,
like a ship beneath the feet.
We must find our dance legs.
To dance is to become unaware
of all that supports, all that gives,
all that makes the dancer able to dance,
to say, "I am the sea,
it is I who raises the blue banners of tide,
I, who keeps intimate council with the moon."
To give back, wholly and unashamedly of oneself,
not to the deserving, but as the sea gives, to all,
that is the way to dance.
Avoiding You
It was two days before Thanksgiving.
The parking lot smiling a gap-toothed smile
of early holiday departures.
I admit, I saw your car,
but thought you would be
out to lunch,
working,
in a meeting,
on the phone,
or doing something else important.
That, and the exact position of the wall,
which made it impossible for me to see you,
until you were bounding
down the stairs straight at me,
your face in a tight smile,
like a rubber ball,
startled me.
The feeling that filled me,
wasn't like the butterflies,
that swarm out of my stomach,
until they reach the tips of my fingers,
it wasn't the light
that pours out of my chest,
and into my cheeks until they hurt.
It was the feeling of being age six,
standing close to the wall,
and feeling the ball whiz by
so close to my head,
that I feel the heat of it go by,
hear the whoosh, smack,
and know, that next time it could hit me.
Ha
I don't want to be the tickle in your throat,
I want to be the tightness
the octave higher, throat clearing,
heart rate speeding
tightness.
I want you to untuck your shirt
every time I enter the room,
to be loathe to stand,
to wear your baggy pants,
I want to be the tightness.
I don't want to be the side-hug,
I want to be the itch in your fingers
the hand-twisting, sweaty-palmed,
knuckle popping
itch.
I want you to freeze
every time I enter the room,
to feel your words tripping
over each other in your mouth,
yes, I want you to take me
take me, take me, take me,
and most of all-
take me seriously
just this once.
You Shrug at My Mixed Metaphor
Your shoulders are round
and low on your body
like the limbs of a tree
stooping with fruit,
like a one-man boat
at twice capacity.
If you took off your shirt
would I see
the waterline up
around your breast bone,
barnacles a lace around
the back of your neck,
old marks from voyages,
a few scratches or bulges,
your rudder banging
around in your chest,
my hands feeling for leaks-
or maybe your trunk
rough and overgrown,
an apple in each hand,
a hole, left center,
bees pouring out,
and for the brave-
honey.
Obstacle/Illusion
The days are supposed to be getting longer,
but the fog is so thick
that my neighbor is scraping it off his car
with a Safeway card.
Even though I am shivering
the smell of fresh cut grass fills me
and I am walking up the steps to the track
of my high school, where boys wheel
in the grassy center with a ball.
I shyly circle in orbit, running
too fast to look.
The memory leaves a negative-
like a slide in front of a bright light,
and though I think that I see you in it,
it is an obstacle illusion.
I was almost over it until
the loneliness in your words.
Sometimes I run too fast.
There is a warm spot in my heart
where you can hide and sleep.
But the days are getting longer
(even though I'm shivering)
I am afraid that I am the obstacle,
afraid that your love is not an illusion.
You Forgot My Birthday
I thought I saw you out of the corner of my eye,
where things I want are
lithographed on my retinas,
but when I turned my head
you had already passed me,
like dreams where I can't run
fast enough, can't yell
loud enough,
I can't.
I'm just getting too old
to be carrying around
stones, drawing on them
with a finger dipped in
my own tears
hardening my joints
into grease pencils in wax.
I pretend I don't care.
Torch Bearer
For him I carry
a small candle
the upside down V
of its flame
still tugging at the wick.
Although small
it can burn
so I hold it carefully
by the striped stem
and carefully collect the wax.
It is the only light
that I have.
If it went out
my heart would be in darkness.
I am a live wire
touch me and elec
tricity will sing
through your veins
if
you don't wear
in your rubbersouls
ideas of escaping
near life collisions
near mind caresses
no? are you
careless?
or do you mean to
open my veins, circuml
ocute my hard wiring?
You Try To Fool Me
You pull apart your ribs
to show me your black soul
all I
can see is
your beating heart of gold.
You show me your black soul
its shadows falling on my face
your
beating heart of gold
like halogen, like the sun's rays.
Your shadow is falling on my face
and all I can see
is
you, like halogen, like the sun's rays,
when you pull apart your ribs.
Up Above
My affection for you
fell
away like leaves
fall in the autumn,
spiraling down from the sky
in defiance of
the 9.8 m/s/s acceleration rate,
to dot the pavement with
orange yellow green
red brown
but mostly brown and green.
I head for the biggest pile
jump just to hear the crunch
drag my feet to kick up
nothing
because I've been praying for you
every night even with the affliction gone.
I have been very careful to rake my yard
to keep my hands in my pockets
and my face pointed skyward,
so the bald tenderness in your face
surprised me,
just like that one last leaf
that always seemed
to be falling towards me,
until it slipped through my fingers
and landed on the ground.
What You Are
If you had hair
you would shake the stars from it,
and turning towards me
would laugh
that they are balls of gas.
I say "you"
because it is more powerful than "he,"
"I" is more powerful than "she,"
and when you say "we"
the stars are no longer a joke.
You are a mistake
that someone else would make,
and if you had stars
you wouldn't weave them into my hair
anymore than
you even speak to me.
Yet I still feel the tightness
under my ribs
when I think of you, still
feel the endorphins
rush through my brain
when I see a word that starts with
your name,
my nerves like stars firing static,
the pain is to wake me up.
I made up my mind
a long time ago-
it was always you,
and if you ever had a question
it was always yes.
Yes, in spite of my better judgement,
Yes, in spite of my confusion,
Yes,
and I spit in the faces
of those pinpoints of light
that tell me, as they fall,
not to feel,
not to hope,
not to wish,
that there's anything
beyond what I can grab
and hold in my hands,
that your heart is as brittle and pure
as an icicle,
that I am a fool for thinking
the warmth of my hands won't leave me
standing empty under the sky.
How I Wonder
I'm sorry for being so
distant
lately,
but I've been thinking
of how
I will never trace
the ink on cotton
stains on your back,
never pump
pump, pump
your blood through my veins.
So please
pull down your shirt
keep your hands to yourself
and try not to contact me so often,
or I may shake the stars
out of my hair
cast them into your shadow
and make you my constellation.
I haven't been very punctual
For the past month
or so
your words have been my food,
your ellipses strings of pearls
Arial 10 point blue,
cast before my eyes.
You know the secret
that things are spoken
into being,
that reality starts with
the drop of the diaphragm.
It is so much harder for me
to say what I mean
than to turn to
qwertyuiop
asdfghjkl
zxcvbnm
and press Enter.
I am writing those letters down
just in case.
You type that
I may meet someone
say that
to whoever is next
it will be unfair.
Are you afraid
that may happen to you?
I know your secret
that unfair goes both ways
that you are projecting
and I don't mean this unkindly,
your past
on my past
my hand
on your chest
your lips . . .
A kiss is just impulsive.
Forget I said anything
about kissing
it means nothing,
a sousy greeting is just that.
But words.
Be careful what you speak
into existence.
As for me,
I say
You may meet someone
who will wind your pearls
around her neck,
take a deep breath
and say
That may be me.
Her secret is one
you will have to learn yourself.
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