Sunrise

Your death is an angry wasp –
a hungry bear –
desire turned on it’s side,
blue.

I always wanted to tell you
something meaningful like god.
As if words could summon a heart –
a tiny rainbow of hope –
taking its cue
from some other side.

You were a Diva who understood dying
well before you were sick.
I was a poet
who traded my name for numbers
and lost my death
in a life half-lived.
Both of us always running
to beat our own lovely fall.

Your falling was a quiet farewell –
no more talking our way out of this one.
I said good-bye like a broken drum
while you commanded that heart to stop.

It seems we are both still trying to speak –
Me – a mad pen, tired bones, an ache –
You, a deplorable sunrise
another moon
the light.


 

#69

sometimes staying in bed or just disappearing
feels like a better option
than one more pull on the bootstrap 
or half-hearted acknowledgement
of just how silver the lining really is. 
we are tired.

it does not seem fair that while children are starving
simply because they are not our own
and people around us are ailing and dying
simply because its "part of being alive" -
that we should have to also put up 
with some hack job politic or crumby job
or even a hurt of our own.
we are really that tired.

i'm hoping it will be okay someday
for you to tell me how broken you are
and for me to just hold you
without trying to fix you
or telling you how fortunate you really are. 

and i am hoping that once we have all admitted
we are worn to the bone
by all this busy-ness of being alive
we can go back to feeding people
simply because they are hungry
and caring for people
simply because they are ill. 

i'm not sure there is much more to figure out than that.
maybe feeding and caring
would be enough to change the world.





 


					

#66 Grief

grief is a quiet color - 
gardenia who lost her scent -
a reckoning.

grief is without an hour -
has no second hand -
the face on a clock, gone.

there is only space
and a vacuous ledge to lean into.
my fear - not of falling
but that i will jump.

when i am a whirling dervish of doing
i can only be one way -
productive.
my heart sits on the sidelines
cheering us both on
but would never dare to interrupt.

i come here to be reminded of the color:
magenta
fuscia
aqua marine
blue
a light yellow blouse carrying bones.
flesh and heart held up in the mix.

i come here to celebrate
even though i do not recall the occasion
until I am here
and sometimes
not at all.

i sit.
i admit.
i pull away from the ledge
enough to breath
but not so far as to pretend
it isn't there.

my grief is a yellow tricycle -
empty basket -
under a timber of sun.

my grief is a magical final good-bye
i was not there to make -
with all the busyness
of being busy.
the doing of regret.

they say that is a stage of grieving -
as if recognizing its components
could allow for some dismantling -
but it is intact, i say.
as certain as a two minute timer.
this is how we are given a reprieve.
maybe even forgiveness.
the landmark for time.


 

#65

at union square
i always carry tiny wads of cash
to give to men in doorways
for whom no doors are open.
they are always much too gracious
considering the cold
and the ridiculous wonder
that while i was enjoying the theatre
they were begging for heat.
i am embarrassed sometimes
for how much i have.
2 healthy boys a husband
my friends a job
a home.
there are not enough ones or fives or even twenties
to make the kind of difference
that matters.
where you are no longer alone
or hungry or cold.
and i am no longer looking for someone to feed.

#64

when i reached for the moon
and fell out of the crib
i was moved to lower ground.
when i fell out of the tree
and broke my ankle
i said who likes tree climbing anyway.
when i wrote a poem
and you said it moved you
i thought i could write forever.
then forever became a mighty long time
and somewhere i decided
it was maybe better not to reach.
or to climb
or to write.
because what if with falling
or breaking
or resting
i could no longer move you?
and what if not doing means not being?
and what if the climber leaps?

#63

people are dying -
and also there is cancer
like a maniac      bully
breaking our hearts.
i wanted to feel something - 
one time for itself - 
without another something
to hold it up against 
or toward.
but what's so is the tragic beauty
of everything we love - 
        dissolving in front of us
as we become.

 

#56

finally, i got so tired of words -
and the way they were being used
to destroy what we love
and who we love
and even how - 
that i quit them.
just stopped writing.
like the fury of a hundred years
could be contained instead
in prayer.
but when the answers didn't line up
and my own silence 
started to feel more like cowardice - 
i quit that too.
had a run with rage. and ignorance.
i found it is terrible to hate,
even the haters.
so I'm picking up the words again -
like so many wild flower seeds -
and i am throwing them
into the wind.
into the abominable hatred -
even as it tries to oppress - 
i am throwing the words and the seeds and the light
back in the face of the darkness
and i am hoping
that in the midst of all this dirt and manure - 
our wild flowers will grow.
And they will take over 
all this shameful, barren bullshit
with their outrageous color.