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Interlude #11 (#315)

Pointedly awkward silence
Again

How did we…?

Funny story.  So yesterday I had a craving for a croissant.  Don’t know why.  Maybe Paris flashbacks.  Anyway, I decided to walk down to Moore’s bakery cause I figured if I was going to eat a croissant I probably needed to get some exercise beforehand to start working it off.  You know where the stream runs along the side of the road and then veers off right around Wallace and there’s that little foot bridge?  There were two kids on the bridge, probably eight or nine and they were playing Pooh sticks, you know where you drop a stick on one side of the bridge and then run to the other side and see if the stream brings it back to you.  I used to play that with my little brother.  So I stood at the end of the bridge and watched for a bit.  The kids ceremoniously dropped their sticks and ran to the other side and waited.  But only one stick came out.  The blond kid’s.  The little brown haired boy’s stick never came out.  I guess the stream ate it.  I don’t know.  I left.  I had a bakery to get to.

What are we…?

The funny thing is, the bakery closes in the afternoon.  I never knew that.  Did you?  Well, lesson learned.  So I was croissant-less and that was the whole purpose of going so I didn’t want to go get an ice cream or anything else so I just turned back around to come home.

Why are you…?

Just wait.  When I got back to that little bridge the boys were still there.  I don’t think they are brothers, you know blond and brown hair.  Though they did kind of look alike  with a mom-who-shops-for-both-at-the-same-time kind of thing.  They weren’t playing Pooh sticks anymore.  The each had a pile of rocks by their feet and they were taking turns, one at a time, and dropping them in the water.

What does this…?

I was a little hungry and frankly a bit tired of the walking and also a little curious so I went over to the boys and asked them what they were doing.  And the blond boy, I think the older of the two, at least the more confident, said they were aiming for the fish.  I said, aiming for the fish?  And he said, yea, but the big rocks make too big a splash so you can never see if you hit them.  But the little rocks kind of go sideways when they hit the water so you have to aim a little beyond the fish.

They go sideways?

Yea, kind of skimming through the water, sharp edges first.  I thought it was cool that a kid so young could figure out you had to aim away from the fish to hit it.  Smart kid.  So I watched for a while.  Pick the perfect rock, aim for one of the little fish, aim a little upstream, and then throw with their little boy arms.

You stayed and watched?

Yea.  And then the younger one, the brown haired kid, squealed.  He said he hit one.  They got real excited and I kind of did, too.  So we ran to the other side of the bridge to see what happened to the fish.

And?

I don’t know.  It turns out a fish swimming downstream and a fish floating downstream because it’s dead actually look the same.  Funny story.

Pointedly awkward silence
Again

 
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Posted by on March 23, 2017 in new poetry

 

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Learning to be lifted (#314)

Learning to be lifted

Dancers
Need to learn to be lifted
To give up the power of their body
To accept, briefly,
The battle between air and gravity
Before trusting their inevitable fall will be eased
By another’s hands

Most dancers learn this gradually
Spins on the ground first
Then small leaps, very controlled
But eventually they need to grow
To become Baby launching into Johnny’s hands
And submit to faith

Other dancers seem to be born natural
They have grace in their leaps, clear lines
When they fly their form never wavers
And their eyes keep focusing on the sky
They have dignity in their being lifted

I have always envied them

I am trying to learn
Learn to be lifted
Look, God,
I’m leaping

 
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Posted by on January 26, 2017 in new poetry

 

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An argument between friends (#313)

My hands are traitors to my feet
My feet want to be moving
–here to there–
–purpose to objective–
My hands want to grasp things
–to hold on–
–to slow me down–
My days are an argument between the two

My feet try to move out of the way
Avoid puddles
Don’t trip
Keep me standing
They know their job

My hands try to catch things
Raindrops and frisbees
More to have
More to give
My hands like the air
My feet are annoyed

But on some days
At some hours
My feet do dance
Circles and taps
Not moving to get somewhere
Just loving the ground
Sharing the joys with my hips
And my shoulders
And even happily with my hands

And on some days
At some hours
My hands do let go
Release
Empty themselves
They understand mortality
And loneliness
And find solace in prayer

My feet allow them
Their sadness and peace

 
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Posted by on January 23, 2017 in new poetry, Uncategorized

 

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Hospice (#312)

Hospice

Pinch me
I’m alive
I’m breathing
Take my skin
Between your finger and your thumb
And squeeze
I don’t care if you bruise me
I’m alive
I’m breathing
That is enough for me

If you reach to me
I will take my hands
And smooth all of your anger into hope
Make the sky shiny again
Help you fall in love with blue
Like you were back when
Sadness mattered as much to us
As vegetables–
Things older people worried about

Hurry
Connect with me
Remember
I’m alive
I’m breathing
You are alive
You are breathing
We do not have to fly into death
Nor into sorrow

Joy is still possible.

 
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Posted by on November 9, 2016 in new poetry

 

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How I learned to lip read so well…(#311)

because it is rude
to turn on closed captions
when you ask me (every time)
to mute the TV
so I will focus on you
during our “talks

 
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Posted by on August 27, 2016 in new poetry

 

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Awakening (#310)

When the sun rises
My heartbeat begins
Warm rhythms

My blood
Rays of light

It is a flowering
A flowing

Fingertips dancing
I rise with the light air

With feathers of sound
With wings, yes they are wings,
Of sunshine
Wanting to return home
Blood singing through bones and muscle

Yesterday
You turned away again
Told me I am always sleeping
That I am cold

The sunshine today
Is so much brighter than your smile

 
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Posted by on August 24, 2016 in new poetry

 

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After an illness (#309)

Waves don’t care about death
or dying.
Even when they change
to whitewater,
push up onto the shore
and slowly thin out
until only a glistening on the sand remains
they are still part of the greater whole,
pulled back
to form the base of another wave.

Waves don’t care about failure.
As loud as they crash
they are still stopped by sand and rock.
And while sometimes they can harness the power
of a tsunami or a hurricane
even those, too, eventually lose
to the power of the earth.
But they keep trying.

Waves don’t care about numbers:
how many fish
how much of the earth’s surface
how many miles of shoreline.
Waves are the voice of the ocean.
Humans, like me, try to give it words and reasons–
To quantify and philosophize.

Waves, rightfully, don’t care about me.

 
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Posted by on August 22, 2016 in new poetry

 

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