blame it on the sunny Saturday, so
caressed by daffodil yellow
hunting for lilac leaves, perhaps
in the dream of the moment all forgotten
it is not okay
to move toward someone, to stretch out your hand.
well, his look of reproach
as good as a wall
the box carefully set
on the sidewalk
between us.
(in the house, in the box a dress
sky-blue eyelet—
the mirror and I admired it)
we tiptoe now more than ever
the verges of all
comfort, this house we’ve built
probably delicate
at foundation though
truth be told
we haven’t looked in years
*
I surprised myself by thinking the beard was attractive but
perhaps it was merely youth or coloring or how he leaned over
a computer for doesn’t that speak brains? it could have been
silver hair, or glasses. bow-tie and glasses. shoulder’s curve, certain
combos of eyes/lips, forearm beyond rolled-up sleeve. dressing up
the urges to make them make sense. and then
with clear maturity of thought I told myself you can’t
have everything, not in one person, not in a hundred.
what then, this craving
to bring every ever-changing facet of beauty within?
a step away from the graywhite world
off the cliff and to what warm breath
what greengold chasm
what impossible delight
this far planet, origin
of superheroes who can
repel bullets perhaps
having been raised beneath
this hail
hell
wind-swept every lightless day
from the star side
and umbrella-less
NaPoWriMo Day Seven prompt to use a news article as inspiration.
Sharing this project I started: For 50 days before my 50th birthday (and on that day), I wrote a short…something…and now for the 50 days after, I am adding decoration to each piece. The goal is a hand-stitched booklet.
I’ve not been the type to actually scream
over something so small
as a word
but then I’ve not been
the kind of person to dye her hair purple
on a whim
drive off shaking
my fist at the store because
they wouldn’t let me bring my own bags
it is a normalcy of strangeness
but I beg not
of discourtesy, suspicion
the repeating of these thoughts
until they take on skin
and settle in
the closet cleaning clothes boxing of your discards
meant to make me feel
lighter; the sadness not in the clothes
themselves nor even in this evidence of time
passing, sizes changing, personalities tried on and rejected
perhaps
a sense of failure in restraining consumption
in training care and appreciation
though the hat is not even the best emblem but merely one
of the last in the pile, the pompom salvaged for when
you decide to wear hats again
rather than this handful of ravaged spangled spandex
that was for one brilliant night a prom dress
because in this closing of the year
i find another narrow door
to slip through—somelight
like you came into the world
all pent-up fuss and bother
more than true for once desire
to escape without admitting it—
sometimes
proclaiming it—
now these boxes and ribbons
become remembrance, smoothing over, wrapping up
and making pretty
ordinary, how mothers and daughters fit together,
spool apart
-es all color dim; in a wonderless sky smeared with groundlight we strain for space, craft
-ing dread into dream: mazed, lost, shot, alone. fifty years, so unfinished in peace
-ing phase by phase, layer by layer; your maker heart left to this scream
-ing of wind through the seasons
hope like arugula sprouts
big enough to be seen
from a second-floor window
*
cat out and leap-chasing
shadows—sparrow, crow,
flick/sway of still-bare branches
*
water wind-rippled in bird baths
sometimes sun-shimmered, reflecting
on redbud bark
*
that april blizzard and how
we could see again
smooth-swirl snow on rooftops,
dollops on red-budded trees
Graceful Press Poetry 