“When peace comes we are made to wonder if we have been gifted with a godsend.” William Desmond
[Work-in-Progress]
Enough! I do have
enough. Easy friends, quick smiles,
generous gestures.
The ache of Springtime!
Sheer waste of blossoming trees,
pear, apple. Time’s gifts.
I get it. I own
nothing, am nothing, waiting
on nothing but God.
In vain. I grow old,
stunned to see so clearly what
I’ve taken for granted.
A kind of peace, yes;
beyond understanding; yes,
these floating blossoms.
Work-in-progress
People don’t like you
if you’re fucked up: blind, lame,
troubled: they look a-
way. Old girl friends, gone.
Solitude’s companionship,
the other you—true.
The birds, the neighbor’s
cat, watching the birds, looks at
you as you walk by.
To the cove, then. Move
from your own to the ducks’ deep
mind reflected there.
Metaphysical
desire is a desire for
metaphysics: not
tonight, damp and chill.
The possibility of
something else, a hope
not of thought thinking
itself but of something more
real. Tomorrow we
come together so
to praise an altogether
other, fleshly love.
In hospital nights
random shrieks and moans may break
the odd silence. I
am shattered, and healed,
returned to holy selfhood
by being there, my
body seeking truth
in deeper silences be-
yond the pain and dread.
The night sky lit o-
ver the Mojave, and the books—
bright hard childhood friends.
Air conditioning
and white supremacy, mother’s
popular bridge games.
My father’s garden,
azalias hanging in wind-
less heat. He loved our
black maid. Small, patient.
We’d drive her home past the tracks,
canals with catfish.
I have made myself
from time to time an old fool
caught in the lucid
gaze of a shop girl.
No reason beyond beauty‘s
high color on cold days.
But today with fresh
snow on the ground, solitude
called for my green fleece
and new rose hoodie.
The least personal,
elemental, ecstatic
colors save the day.
No. I came here by
shipwreck, poverty, and good
luck. Motley my mot.
You came from sunsets
on the Atlantic, ribbons
of yellow and rose,
and dawns, icy creams.
I saw them in your eyes, be-
ginnings and endings.
You show me pity,
not the deep shadows of self-
pity, the pure thing.
You lay your head down
on my knee before leaving,
angel of my grief.
Rising and falling,
love colors all I can do
with or without you.
Lost in thought, I walk
downtown and hear freezing rain
strike my stiff raincoat
and feel my face sting.
Suddenly I’m a part of
the world, alone yes
but rather pleased to
be part of what thought can’t touch
but which makes me me.
Your strawberries took the winter away
Cheerful old lady
staples the sign, fresh snow sticks:
Pancakes & Prayers