he kisses me

bob on his bday

he kisses me
absentmindedly
as if he has better things to do

distracted by whatever
is in the foreword of his inner workings
tick tocking behind his blue eyes (those eyes!)

sketching plans on invisible whims
to catch the first train out of the station
riding heady currents of his singular thoughts

he has slept in my bed
for a thousand years
dreaming things
that have nothing to do with me

what has love got to do with it

everything

Hangover (or the day after Valentine’s Day)

009

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.

For all I know

love birds#5 (3)

time will not stand still-
autumn has deepened
across the Ozarks ridge

and you are not here

you could be in Tuscany
for all I know
flirting with the grandmothers
with your beautiful blue eyes
(those eyes)
and smiling at the children
playing in the piazza
as you drink espresso
and trade lies
with the young men
I can see the warm Italian sun
against your silver mane
so handsome and at ease
strolling up the cobblestone path
with golden sunflowers
and a good bottle of red

and I-
I walk my cloistered walk
alone in our empty room
I will trade our bed for the narrow cot
of a nun
and cast my longings into prayers
and rosaries

but you are not in Italy
I know
you are working long days
in the high lonesome desert of west Texas
where the autumn stars are out
as you lie in your own monks cot
calling home
to say good night

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.

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 Metaphor 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

The Geology of Marriage

cairn 1

The Geology of Marriage

Our eons hidden under the topography
of the day to day,
years compressed into striations
of lives lived.
The igneous layer of crystallized need
eroded  and reformed,
creating colorful promontories
etched by wind
into hieroglyphic memories
painted in exposed rock.

Sedimentary layers
where old fossilized
hurts and frustrations
are buried-
Bones of contention
waiting to be re-formed
to make dusty arguments
whole again.

Digging to the metamorphic core
where we were created
by the fire of our first passion.
The center
the magma
the heat
where we return
to be changed
and changed
and changed again.

(revised 2020)

The Year of Clover Honey

The Last Really Good Shack - porch

It was the second spring in the old farmhouse,
you seeded the open meadow with red clover.
A common cover crop,
it did just that,
covering the slope
in luxurious rich deep green leaves,
topped by scarlet globes
of soft feathered blossoms.
Honeybees, intoxicated with
sweet perfume, staggered in the warm spring breeze,
humming their drunken songs
in sweet unison.

The bees song bewitched us-
a sirens song.
Mesmerized,
we walked across the meadow,
thigh high in clover,
waist deep in bees.
The hillside undulating,
shimmering with invisible wings.
The sound of a million bees
singing.
Their voices so deep,
it echoed in our bodies.
We held our hands out to feel the vortices of their wings.
We were carried in a wind
of wing song.

We were golden with pollen.

The honey was rich that year-
deep amber
and filled with the song of a million bees.

(revised 2020)

Tempus Fuget

DSCF1037 (2)

Tempus Fuget

Translating the ancient language of our long marriage-
Our vocabulary of years, memory and choices:
Love as verb
Cor ad cor loquitur…Heart speaks to heart
Love as noun
Amor vencet omnia…Love conquers all
But in the diagramming of that sentence is the lie-
Time, not love, is the conqueror
And our end is closer than our beginning.
Eheu fugaces labuntur anni
Alas the fleeting years slip by
In ictu oculi
In the blink of an eye….
Tempus fuget
time flies.