The Choice

The Choice

Counting back to that first glance, seconds and minutes,
hours and years, the desire and candor of bodies,
when  our days  became charged with the pace of lives lived.
Years of longing renounce the yearning to another,
no longer young. The clamor of  middle years
leaves  satisfaction and knowledge in its place,
a quietness whose heft outweighs the struggles.
Wisdom is as wisdom does, patience is its own reward,
love never fails, never. And this is the choice,
made and kept, to choose you now and at each sunrise.
Until the day comes that my hand is not recognizable to you
And  my laughter is silenced by your unknowing eyes.

— This always seems to be a poem people come back to from time to time. And Valentine’s Day would seem to be a good time to re-post.

The Moon Makes Me Laugh

November moon
The moon makes me laugh.
Her face pink-gold with exertion
Pushing past the horizon,
Filling the constellations,
To rise in her nights journey.
As she climbs, she prays
in the voice of my mother,
“I see the moon, the moon sees me.
God bless the moon and God bless me.”

The moon makes me laugh.
Her bright face silver with light,
Gracefully easing into space,
Moving in celestial dance.
As she rises, she sings
In the voice of my father,
“Don’t the moon look lonesome,
shining through the trees.
Don’t the moon look lonesome,
when your baby packs up to leave.”
The moon makes me laugh.

From the dark bedroom
My sleepy voiced husband calls,
What are ya’ll doing? Come to bed.
We can’t, I answer.
We have moon sickness.
As the dogs and I moon-bathe,
Naked on the back porch.

*** this is a poem written a long time ago But I thought with the lovely moon this weekend, I would dust it off and share it again.
The lyrics are from
Sent For You Yesterday by William Count Basie, Eddie Durham and James Rushing. Warner Bros Music, publisher.

always

Nov night

The clouds stand still in the early winter sky
As if a breathless wind held them close
Looking to see if you withdraw your hand
I reach for you and always find you
There
Red maple leaves scattered across the path
Dried bits of life once vibrant
I search your eyes to see if our love
Has dried to dust
And I always find it
There
Winters chill settles deep into the landscape
Sharp frost rings the rattling grass
I lean in for protection against the cold
Longing for your warm embrace
And I find it
There
Always

My husband brought me a bucket of moonbeam coreopsis

This poem is a bucket.
This poem is a moonbeam.
This poem is my husband.

A container of vague reference and history,
its origins unknown but its utility humbly significant.
Whether wooden or metallic in form, it chooses
to be the holder or keeper of all possibilities,
whether rain or mop water or tender young things safely carried.
This poem is a bucket.

Petals of pale yellow dancing in the spring breeze,
moving with the changing weather and seasons.
Sturdy and perennial, its heart moves with the tides
of earth, rain and sun. It is hardworking and dependable,
though its many faces show its charm and golden light.
This poem is a moonbeam coreopsis.

He is the bringer of gifts, deeply rooted and bound to the rich soil of our earth.
A partner in a garden of different minds,
growing in systematic wildness, each portrayed
in the best possible light or shade depending on its habits.
He is the keeper of spades and implements, ancient rituals of furrows and seed.
He is the blue eyed boy smiling with his weed filled bouquet.
This poem is my husband.

This poem is a moonbeam coreopsis brought home in a bucket by my husband.

*
*
*

*** A boomerang poem-a form created by Hannah Gosselin
whose instructions can be found on Hannah’s site, Metaphors and Smiles,
https://wordrustling.wordpress.com/
Copyright © Hannah Gosselin and Metaphors and Smiles, 2011-14

one, two three…..

love birds#5 (3)

We’ve lost our capacity to count.
Our years together number thirty something-
(how long have we been married?)
Too many kisses to enumerate –
(except for that singular kiss. You know the one,
when the room held its breath
for the count
of ten
or twenty
or infinity)
And that ice age when I stopped counting on you
(but you never subtracted,
only multiplied your love)
No, we’ve lost our capacity to count-
higher math and the calculations of our applied physics
have overwhelmed the
one
two
three
of us
But numbers aren’t everything.

*** Brian and Claudia are jousting it out today at the Dverse Pub Tournament of Champions. Our prompt is to take a line from one of their poems and create one of our own. I chose the line ‘we’ve lost our capacity to count‘ from Brian Miller’s poem-‘if I stay-

the cries of gulls

seagulls

The scent of sun is in your hair
with the salt smell from the waves
crashing onto the shore.

Waters sparkles in sunglints
and bursts into flame in the clear blue
sky of your eyes.
Heat rises with the day
light and sun glow on your skin.
Above us, the gulls call to the sea
and the wild sound of surf pounds
in my breast.

Startled, I wake from a dream of the ocean
to cries of gulls wheeling in the icy air
and the chill of winter in your eyes.

Hangover

Hangover (or The Day After Valentine’s Day)

Too much chocolate and intimacy,
our emotions crowd
this small room.

The overwrought day of love and hearts
founders with the consumption.
Thank God these feasts are few and far between
and the dull days
that drift from indifference
to profundity
even in the thinnest context
lie ahead
for us to rest our heads upon.

Love will again become happily perfunctory
and satisfying
without the need for overloaded emotions
and recriminations
drying on our faces.

Too much is too much
and I willingly give back
all those candy hearts and paper doilies.

Give me the day to day
workmanship of your love,
the confection melted away
to the unsweetened morsel of us.