Voices and posturings in these original poems are often not autobiographical, but fictional characters speaking…
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WEEPING WILLOW
I was the only one
who asked where the joy had gone
and knowing it could return
in one simple gesture,
I stepped through the threshold
and left the politics in the burning house
and instantly watched my black&white movie
morph into color before my very eyes
and let’s say you were there
before me in your bright flowered dress
with the bluest sky and mountain range
behind you and I forgot how to say hello
and you leaned-in to whisper
and it all came-back-to-me
but I felt no need to say the new obvious
and you took my hand and guided me
to the willow and broke a switch off
and tied a bow in it after removing the leaves
and I couldn’t even remember sitting down
with you but there we were and suddenly
our faces were eye level to the ground
and waving our flattened hands
midair the few inches between
the ground and tips
of the dozens of hanging limbs
and laughing for no reason
except that neither of us
had ever noticed that our whole lives
before that moment.
DARA’S DREAM
Perhaps drifting to sleep
I happened to notice
the car veering to the right
but instead of compensating,
I happened to go-for-it,
with an even harder right
till I was upside-down, rightside-up,
for a few times and landing
outside the windshield in the pond,
I swam to the surface and then to shore
and sat on a large rock
and rested with a confidence
unexplainable except to say
I felt a love of life unknown before.
NEW FORCE TO BELIEVE
It just happened, I was told,
and I was nearly forced to believe
on the authority of scholars
and media and branches of government
and I mean ‘nearly forced’’ because
it took a few minutes of reflection
to realize I had a choice
and authenticity required more than
succumbing to peer pressure
and threats of torture
against my natural desire
for security and significance,
since no creature of power
can compete with a creator.
ONE’S OWN HERO
What’s the point in living
if you don’t live anywhere
not even one time
and what’s the point of dying
if in a dream you attend
your own wedding
and you are both
the bride and groom
or preacher and singer
or florist and janitor,
simply put,
put-out from never getting
to rest from your labors
and what’s the point
of being your own hero
if you are the only admirer
on the last island
with paper and no pen
or an uncharged smart phone
or a case of empty water bottles
surrounded by the most beautiful
ocean one could imagine?
____________
SALVADOR DALI
Aimee awoke shouting prophetically,
It will absolutely happen tomorrow
Just as the movie said it would
Except the clouds won’t be clouds
And the bicycle won’t be the bicycle
And the box with clothes laid out
And the ants from the holey hand
And the grabbing and squeezing
And the woman’s unshaved underarm
And the grand piano and cow heads
And priests all tied and pulled, all of it
Won’t be as it will appear but exactly,
Exactly like the movie is saying it will.
And when Aimee finished, I asked
If she needed a hug but instead,
From the sand, we posed goodbyes.
____________
THE CLOWN
the unedited poem
is hiding and ashamed
waiting for forever’s rescue
waiting four minutes or
until the clown appears
colors are that way
catching corners of the eye
regardless if the blue or green or
brown should be reserved
exclusively for the iris of the soul
but the clown is still a clown
with or without make-up
self-deprecating moves
of flash played humbly or
clueless during a political
season of promises and hype
like the pregnant asked
how pregnant she is
or guitars without strings or
who’s on first at the art gallery
Voices and posturings in these original poems are often not autobiographical, but fictional characters speaking…
Copyright 2022 nowdy.com