Posts Tagged ‘Ode’

During the hot summer she,
tempest and teapot
steamy teasing of
the pool boy,
gently wheezed
as if overexerted,
a cool sweet tea
in her hand. Both
slightly covered with
summer breezing
necklace on her chest.
Heavy lifting has her upset
so she let him see her
easing into a hammock
swing set.
Gently waning
a body’s weight
bathing suit barely
containing another
man’s miracle,
expensive exercise,
and New England’s
ironic fake tan.

Aluminum net,
muscular man
taking his shirt off
so his work clothes
don’t get wet.
He pushes an imaginary
gondola across clear water
in large majestic strokes
like Charon delivering
another load.
Between her lips
Archeron chokes down
sun brewed southern soul.
He looks as thirsty as he can.

If we were honest we would tell the
man whose miracle lost
was found as a chess game
between two masters. But if
we were honest we wouldn’t be
watching from a safe attic window,
where we go to pretend the spiders
we study are black widows.
Webs stretch

between asbestos
daunted gathering flies
taunted by a thread thin passion
for flight.
Our adolescence shows in our voices
as they creaked like the aging
wooden floors.
Blind seer binocular
prophesies, ushered adulthood,
premature but productive
united by the games adults play.
I spill my coke a cola when we
laugh too hard. A cuss words
exit between giggling
distracts us long enough to miss
prey getting caught in the web.

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It’s 3 a.m. and I hear my unborn child cry
on the shrink wrapped baby monitor
looming over a cup and a tea bag sucked dry.

A half opened book lays on its spine,
A book on SIDS too frightening for such an hour
A nightmare too real for my mind.

The book in my hands; a book on baby names
Is opened to “D”, who knows what for,
Because one decision still remains;

Will he be strong, or smart, or kind
With mathematics or philosophy
Written as poetic line,

Running through his heart, or in his veins
in his eyes or in his mind
and will his name be a highlight, or a stain?

Will it be apt or prophetic
will it define him before he’s born,
Both meaningful and aesthetic?

When he says it will their pride,
Or shame in his eye
when he asks a girl to be his bride,

To take his name, to take our name?
Will he be chastised
For its lack of fame?

On my death bed will he say:
“Its all your fault,
My life turned out this way”?

More importantly will he be right?
Is his fate in my weak hands,
Cradling his name tight,
At such late hours of the night. 

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It was on this very spot,
this pile of dirt we bought,
that our father once stood

He lived through wars we fought,
and he never forgot
that evil comes from good.

Is he in the wind, or in the mind,
the absolute of history, or the grace of time,
In her hand, or in the trees?
Perhaps he is none of these.

This body once contained
A child whose laugh sustained
the people of the wood.

But now this corpse remains
drowned in cheap champaign
that never tasted as it should.

Is he in the wind, or in the mind,
the absolute of history, or the grace of time,
In her hand, or in the trees?
Or perhaps he is none of these.

While turning old and grey,
he was recalled to say
“Dear, perhaps I’ve misundertood

The meaning of the day
or what price we pay
In persuit of the almighty good.”

Is he in the wind, or in the mind,
the absolute of history, or the grace of time,
In her hand, or in the trees?
Perhaps he is none of these?

But on the night he died,
While on his bed he lied,
He finally understood

That while some run, some will hide
some will fight, and others will abide
but no body shall be considered good

Are we in the wind, or in His mind
the absolute of his story, or the grace of Thine
On the land, or in the seas?
Or perhaps we are all of these.

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Ode to a hole

How wholly disappointing it must be to be a hole

To be more less than more

You fill full things will emptiness

And turns walls into doors

O’ holy hole you are more than a sum of your parts

But your holiness holds the whole hostage

Your absence defines the highest arts

And allows the addition of subtraction

Your soul’s sole motivation is singularity

You deny nobody and make all equal

By gracing us with your charity

You give us something we can never have

While we use completeness as our goal

The whole hole remains whole.

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