Twice now this week
I have woken from dreams
They are filled with meeting new people and
Sharing meals and conversations,
Airports and brownstone neighborhoods.
But I have no idea why Chicago
Though I do have two beloveds living there.
My nightly adventures could not be more different
Than this quiet life,
Near woods and water
In the back hills of the Missouri Ozarks.
No busy streets with milling folk,
Street lights or traffic noise here.
But the dreams feel so real
It makes me consider astral projection.
And I wonder if I should check my pockets
For L train tickets
Or notes written on the back of receipts
From fine restaurants along the magnificent mile.
dusk saunters up the lane
whistling for his dog
and filling his pipe
leaning against the fence post,
he squints into the setting sun
and waits for twilight to arrive
wrapped in a mantle of early evening stars,
she skips down the lane
her steps light and lovely
tipping his hat,
dusk climbs the western ridge
and wisps of smoke
as twilight fills the darkling sky
with the smiling crescent moon
and the scent of sweet honeysuckle
If I met you today,
for the first time
would that first spark
be the same
as that long ago feeling
in a bar
in the foothills of Colorado?
Would I be as bold,
and you as cool
in the midst of another rowdy crowd?
Would our kiss
be that kiss
when the room held its breath
in awe of the lightning
crackling along the ceiling,
sending sparks cascading
into our white hair.
I’m making a list of 1001 things that make me happy.
Because somewhere along the road,
I have forgotten how.
To be happy.
Its not your fault.
I would not have you back
To suffer the indignities of the last two years-
The bed, the diapers, someone washing you and feeding you,
Bob lifting you up because your legs forgot how to hold you.
We held you
and I would not change a thing.
I don’t grieve your death
Only your absence.
I want to remember your eyes and hands
And that you were ready for fun and ice cream and new birds calling to you from the cedars
And the sound of your voice singing
And laughing with Daddy laughing.
And laughing when we were all laughing.
And singing and laughing.
This makes me happy.
How is it that the kinship of words and emotions leads us
to birdsong and moonlight.
If I write
what do you hear?
If you read the words
‘The cold light of the moon shone on her skin’
Is it not the same moon?
I heard you were once a small child in a garden filled with flowers.
Were you there
Or only words in a verse?
The sadness overwhelms me and I long to drift away.
But is that poetry
Or just wishful thinking?
The abstraction of poetry only reveals itself in the emotional response of the reader.
Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.
And the dawn refuses to break
As my heart has broken
And that is not abstract
Driving along the ridge,
Bright sun in a cold sky,
The bar ditch is filled with the first blush of spring.
Effervescent purple henbit covers the ground,
Weeds of childrens delight,
First bouquets of the season.
When my nieces were babes,
These weeds were their favorite flower until their father
Mowed the yard,
Decimating their wild flower garden and bringing bereft tears.
Did my grandfather tell me the tale of why we call the ditches
Along the roadside ‘bar ditches’?
The dirt was borrowed ‘bar-red’
To raise the road, flattened for the wagons then model Ts
To travel above the fields.
Memory sometimes obscures the truth.
I remember that my father died on Palm Sunday,
Though it is not the truth.
But that is the memory I preserve in my life’s mythology.
And it is Palm Sunday once again,
Not the date of his leave taking
But still the day I grieve.
And it is the first day of spring,
The day I remember my nieces’ grief
Over the heaped green weeds across their yard.
On this day, memory, unreliable and exact,
Borrows the joy before the grief…
Its the first of spring and all the birds sing
And little children palm frond process
Waving welcome the King into Jerusalem.
One brother is spending the week in silence.
One brother is spending the week in Amsterdam.
These are not metaphors.
I am spending my week in an alley amongst the dumpsters and broken glass and who knows what that is on the ground
Somewhere between weeping and not weeping.
This is metaphor
And knowing myself like I do,
Since I have spent a good portion of my time in this alley,
It has been swept clean and the dumpsters have been lined up just so and the whatever that was has been washed away.
And I have probably made friends with a cunning rat or two and helped some homeless dude find lodging.
All this is metaphor.
Grief puts you in unexpected geography,
Locales not usually associated with your life.
And you spend a lot of time there,
Weeping and wishing you would stop weeping then thinking, okay, I have stopped weeping
Just to start all over again.
Some of this is metaphor.
And the alley is someplace.
I mean alleys are always the in between places.
The places that separate there from over here.
And all that may or may not be metaphor.
I’m not sure.