Meat is prepared in a variety of ways,
and the menu tantalized
with descriptions worthy
of a well written mystery novel,
leaving us both
unable to decide.
Then you smiled that appetizer curl
of your succulent lips
tempting me to want
what you had ready to serve,
leaving the waitress
an empty booth.
(Found in part on Twitter)
They were conforming
to the standards of skill,
competence and character
expected of properly qualified,
experienced workers.
Two boys,
a basketball,
strong spray,
and a whole bunch of courage
destroyed a huge wasp’s nest
hanging by the shed.
Gladiator 3-pound wasps
re-built.
Digging into morning sand
they build a temporary castle
while their stories invent
the hidden occupants.
A moat is dug deep
with hands and buckets
as the water flows
around them all.
Finally protected
from beast and foe,
her daughter smiles
beyond her cheeks.
But only a mother
can measure the day
when her five o’clock tired
is finally built up.
The distance between them
was shortened through play,
so it’s time to pack up
and head for home.
Kyle pressed hard,
too hard,
and his paper tore,
but my mistake
was not turning away.
It hit me square in the chest.
You wouldn’t have thought
that an eraser bouncing off cloth
would make a loud sound,
but everyone in the classroom heard it.
Slowly, I reached down
and picked the eraser off the floor.
The clock’s second hand kept moving,
and I hadn’t realized
that I was holding my breath
along with the rest of the class.
There was stiffness to my voice
when it finally came out,
“Thank you, Kyle.
Most students don’t return things
they borrow from me.”
Twenty-six pencils
lifted at half mast,
offered a respectable moment
of silence for the dead.
It’s all about you,
and I am listening with my head nodding,
my eyebrows lifting at just the right time,
so you keep revealing
because it’s evident I feel
the depth of your pain.
You can tell by my furrowed brow
that if I was held hostage
by foreign assassins who plan
to pull out my eyelashes
one at a time until I cry out,
I wouldn’t retell a single word.
It’s all about my love for you.
But sadly my questions
are not meant to be misinterpreted
as interest,
just merely my attempt
to help speed your story along.
Because if I was connected
to their lie detector,
it would no doubt record
that I don’t care.
I just want my turn to tell you,
with my eyes searching your face
for obvious signs of concern,
that it’s all about me.
And if you loved me enough
you’d listen.
My watch face tells me
another ten minutes passed
and I recheck the wall clock,
but it isn’t confirmed
until I look out the window.
The driveway lays calm.
It is tolerantly waiting
though my aura of desperation
has settled unseen
on the pavement.
Even with repeated practice
I haven’t learned to pace myself
in my back and forth
back and forth
competition with the window.
But the window and time are partners
in a gunny-sack tied together
by my impatient waiting,
and only when you stumble in
will the race be over.
Some people
try to impress us
by their diplomas
and degrees.
And they expect
the rest of us to desire
all they know
about the world.
They lift people up
stacking them high
on their list
of who’s who.
But I will admit
that I must be
the slow man
on that totem pole.
For I am ignorant,
unable to read
the warnings on the back
of a box of chocolates.
And when the chocolate
is melting dense and sweet,
I expect to taste
all there is to know.
The corner of her mouth
lifted at his gentle teasing
is now a tightened line
that is afraid to laugh.
And her shoulders sighed
with a nagging stiffness
that begged for his relief,
but his touch never surfaced.
Nightfall is her only solace
where his passing shadow
no longer has the power
to darken her brightest day.
Every day
unseen particles
drift down
from where you dance
and swirl up a storm
or punch pillows
as you cry
down a drought
and land in a whisper
on the surface
of every solid thing.
Neat freaks
will never take the time
to amass enough matter
allowing them to push a trail
of memories
into a dusty heart,
an accumulation
of yesterday’s unspoken words,
lingering,
waiting
for you to shake things up
again.
He swaggered his rugged masculinity
like John Wayne
with gun hard laughter
and only a fool
would not have been afraid.
Even though rumor had it
that he refused to shoot a man in the back,
there was no rule about
a little girl.
“I haven’t lost my temper in 40 years;
but, Pilgrim,
you caused a lot of trouble this morning;
might have got somebody killed;
and somebody oughta
belt you in the mouth.
But I won’t.
I won’t.
The hell I won’t!”
Unarmed,
no cowboy boots
with sharpened spurs or chaps,
I was unable to stand tall
when I was only seven.
And it seemed that nothing
could defeat his arrogance,
but time was my ally,
not his.
If he had foreseen
what diabetes could do to a man
when his back was turned,
he might not have
balled his fist
at a little girl
who grew to stand so tall.
There was a mountain of stairs
leading to my Grandma’s apartment
and I always lost count
before I got to the top.
Her apartment was small
but exciting for a six-year-old to visit
because it was filled with intriguing tchotchkes
like clocks spinning dancing ballerinas
and ceramic peeing dogs.
Grandma also had a real chirping bird
that was smart and learned real fast
as he hopped from his ladder to his swing.
She would lovingly lay a blanket
over his cage and almost instantly
he would go to sleep.
But Grandma also had a fox
who kept biting his tail
and he must not have been too swift
because she wore him every Sunday to church
wrapped around her neck.
A grim warning for a little girl
who was reminded again
to practice her counting.
My eyes closed
I slept beside you,
holding you,
loving you,
and waking today, you’re gone.
Someone stole my dreams.
“Clean your room already!”
she said for the thousandth time.
But six years said I deserved better
so I loaded my Radio Flyer with licorice and toys
and headed down the sidewalk.
The block was long but I was determined
to leave my chores behind.
Running away from everything
is a luxury that only children can afford
with a twenty-five cent allowance.
And I would have gotten all the way to Michigan
if only I had been allowed to cross the street.
It was a lazy summer day
with nothing to inspire a child
until Mom took me to the garden
and picked the hollyhocks.
With only her knowing fingers
she pinched off the opened flowers
and handed me the tiny buds
before going back inside.
I couldn’t see her vision
until flowers were flipped like skirts
and green removed from buds
left tiny eyes and upswept hair.
We filled a dish with water
and the flowers were transformed
into floating floral ladies
and imagination danced away.
There is no more our song
just pieces of love gone wrong.
Yet the broken glass of the disco ball
keeps on spinning its dancing light.
From ceiling to floor dappling shadows
transform my imperfections.
In time I’ll move from dark to light
wherever the music takes me.
But now all I want to do is dance
and learn the tune of my song.
Some days I kneel to the order of things
watering flowers and pulling weeds,
but deep furrows grow in my brow
and confusion chokes my life from me.
For if God is in the flowers
and the Devil’s in the weeds,
then where am I in the garden
when I can’t tell them apart?