Category Archives: Poetry and Stories

I’ll Take You

 

I’ll Take You

I know your particularities. Coffee, light
and sweet. Flowers, ranunculus please. (Never roses.)
Cold beer and hot shower will cheer you up
most days. And you could live forever
on spicy chips, Twizzlers, and avocado
with salt and spooned
right from its black leathery skin.

To say you have quirks is too generous.
The fact is, you’re often infuriating.
You drive too fast. You say you love,
then completely neglect,
your houseplants. You leave crusty dishes in
the sink. Stay up too late, don’t say
what you mean, but then talk too much.
You’re stubborn and contrary and
you’re always changing your mind and
I often want to shake you.

I used to strive (without success) to love you
exactly as you are. But now,
I think, there’s not a thing
about you that’s exact at all.
The trick is in the turning.
The seeing you again, and new.

Because when I say you,
I mean me.
And you’re the only me I’ve got,
so I’ll take you.

Old Enough

 

 

Old Enough

I’m old.

Michael Keaton as Batman old.

“We Didn’t Start the Fire” old.

Crush on Susanna Hoffs old.

 

I’m grey hair old.

Insomnia old.

I’m laugh lines old.

I’m cool with these laugh lines (most days) old.

 

I’m know what I like old.

I’m going after what I want old.

I’m trust my old heart old.

 

I’m old enough to be impatient.

Old enough to be new.

Old enough to know there’s no time

to waste.

 

I’m short skirt old.

I’m I don’t care if you like it old.

I’m old enough to have my own back.

Old enough to have yours, too.

 

I’m old enough to be reckless,

in all the right ways.

I’m old enough to worry whether this is all enough.

Old enough to know, most days,

that I am.

Fuzzy At Best

 

Fuzzy At Best

When the ball strikes the line

does that mean in?

Or out? How many cards

can I trade with the dealer?

And how many lives? I can’t

remember. We both know,

my grasp on the rules is fuzzy at best.

But if you open that

rulebook –

weighty as a bible, stuffed

with onion skin pages –

one more time, I swear

I’ll flee to the bar,

and gleefully forget everything else.

If we’re going to play a game,

I’d rather make it up

as we go.

Things to Do with a Feeling

 

Things to Do with a Feeling

squint at it

hide from it

cry over it

share it with your best friends

share it with your therapist

share it with the one person who needs to hear it most

write a story about it

tie it to a stone and drop it in the ocean

wrap it around your shoulders like a blanket

spread it around like fairy dust

develop a crush on it

send it away

stay up until it comes home

hold it under your tongue until it melts

press it between prayerful hands

whisper to it in the dark

rock it in your arms

wait

watch

see how it grows

Delight

 

Delight

Does the tree

feel dismay

about her scars?

Or the places where

a bug burrowed,

a bird made its nest?

Does the tree

wish to hide her bark

where it is weathered,

stained, and rough?

Does the tree

feel ashamed

of her asymmetry?

No. The tree

delights

in her strength,

in the way she grows hard

as she ages.

She holds spaces

to share

to feed

to shelter.

 

 

Just as the sapling,

uncertain as a fawn,

delights

in her trembling beginning.

And the seed,

full to bursting of promise,

delights

in her prelude

of cool, cool earth.

 

The tree

delights

in herself

until

she

falls.

Alive to the world

Crows screech,

black robes beating

against a diffuse grey sky.

In a breath of quiet

a new sound,

clear and bright,

trills from my laurel bush,

and a somber blue jay

hops

from branch to delicate branch

testing his morning legs.

His voice, more poignant

because it is alone,

and sweeter

by its sole performance.

Sweeter still

by the gentle frame of my memory

as I recall

the cascade of notes

that greeted me

because I

had decided

to listen.