write a (sloppy, half-formed if need be) poem every day (or so) during August 2009

The friction of two hearts catching
Can jar. The ascent and arrest,
Denial and magnification of
Flaws then settling in as you
Hand to another a slice of your
Tenderest organ, nothing like the
Ripping of one heart caught by
Another, a burr in rough wool
Tolerated as curiosity until
Irritation overweighs novelty.
Cut out it neither soars nor is
Buried but lies on the ground,
Fruitless, unharvested, bearing
A lesson felt harsh until you
Feel reciprocal pull, and know
Why you have been weathered.
A heart without scars is
A ship without sails.

The colder wind comes,
Your legs shake, the stern
Soldier rows of the firs throw
Deep shadow; it has become
Too late, you are too slow. If
You make it back, if all goes
Well, sunset 5:53, probabilities
Quiet at last under the blunt
Crushing waves of exhaustion
Moving up from raw ankles, in
From burnt shoulders. You sit
On a rock over Truckee, the
Worst of your many bad choices
And wait for what comes.
Most of what matters survives.

She misses abandon.
She observes, records,
Sympathizes, is a good
Mother, friend, surrogate
Shrink. The last time she
Left the sane world of her
Good enough life she was
Twenty-eight and seduced
The man she would not
Marry, the future father of
Her children, onto the low
Limb of the oldest oak tree,
Then teased him for hours
Until they were both drunk
On stars, lust, possibility
And couldn’t tell if their
Dance was sex, love or a
New form of ecstatic warfare.
The good enough life is quite
Good. She tells herself she
Has aged well and abandon
Is best for the young, but
Her body, protesting the lie,
Cramps into furious pain.
She lies on the sofa, a rare
Bit of rest, and listens to the
Wind in the oaks, falls asleep
To its whispering, dreams of
A waterfall; she, at the bottom,
Looking up in aching joy,
Waiting for the water’s crush.

_{dedicated to BirthdayerRat & her magical mystical nighttime black-handed bike rides ; )}

“balance,”
I learned long ago.
It’s my secret that I never felt gravity
in the first place
similar to the way I never have any
sense of direction in the city
it’s not all floaty like you would think
you fall a lot
just thinking you’re going up

to achieve balance though
you have to go in different directions
you just have to
that’s how balance works

the simplest of lessons
someone running along holding your bicycle seat
or hand
a classic form has always appealed to me;
later, there was “thesis,
antithesis, synthesis” the simplest of lessons
have always appealed to me
simple to learn, simple as a chime

though I have said,
Who said I wanted to be balanced? maybe I want
.to find forever in unchangingness
but I remember

wonder and delight
as if singlehandedly defeating gravity
and all its closes
as I caused those 2 wheels to lift away from the earth,
two circles become a taut line
vibrating like a string stretched between two tin cans

you can stop riding bikes, have your bike stolen even
but you never forget that
moment of knowing balance

is not deprivation of right or left like you thought,
but a third direction:
with a shrug, almost,
almost as if it were too easy
balance goes
up.

here

As usual, anyone is invited, all are welcome and note that you have the option to write every day or so, as interpreted by you, and write poems that are sloppy and half-formed.

Hope y’all will join me!

He has taken on her habits,
As if to keep her in the house;
Never using a number ending
In five or zero on the timer or
Microwave, flipping his pillow
Over every night, kicking his
Slippers to the side of the bed
When he changes his shoes,
Closing his eyes when brushing
Teeth. While he has not developed
A taste for black tea, he brews it
On nights when her absence grows
Overwhelming. She is stubbornly
Dead, does not reply to his wooing.
He holds near the belief that she
Knows and will, when he joins her,
Smile at his foolishness, then perhaps
Admit she has papered heaven with
His way of leaving notes, flowered
It with spent tissue, and arrived at
Its gates precisely on time.

After a life of struggle,
The master has given
Her herbs reinforcing
Vital energy. He has
Listened to pulses,
Looked at her tongue,
Taken history, pulled
Down the lower lids
Of her worried eyes.
It is definite. She was
Born with a low store
Of inherited chi. It is
Not her fault. The
Green mess she must
Whisk into tea will
Support what she has
Built by herself, but
The foundation is not
Ideal. It is a restful
Thought. She must be
Mindful, but if she is
Tired, she has not
Necessarily done it
Wrong. All her life,
She realizes, holding
A brown paper bag
On windy 53rd Street,
She has been waiting
To hear she has not
Done it wrong. She
Whispers, again:
It is not your fault.

It is not
Your fault.

I have been told to stop
Buying coffee. The yearly
Expense has been presented
as a lump sum sufficient to
pay four months of auto
insurance, finance a weekend
getaway, save a child or a
turtle, build a school in Africa.
What I’m buying is daily
Routine, the landscaper in his
Green shirt, the regular in his
Table near the fake plant, the
Counter woman’s smile as she
Recognizes the ‘spilling lady’.
Those who know better prefer
To rail against ignorance than
Hear of local small business
Or finding community. I sip
Perfect contentment as they
Tile the room with argument.
When I am old enough for
People to believe me, with
At least half a head of grey
Hair, I shall say, “Beware
Of knowing what others
Should do.” For now, let
Them know. $449.86 is a
Small fee for happiness.

Whatever you say behind her
Back, it is nice to have one
Bossy friend. She knows
What you should be doing,
Is sure of how she feels about
Issues and glad to tell you how
To feel, think, vote. Her life
May be unbalanced, a distinct
Lean developed in the direction
Of infantile projections, an over
Identification with spouse or pet,
But she is productive to a near
Frightening degree and as you
Make your way slowly along
One of the older, ultimately
Satisfying paths, her shortcuts
Are soothing, seem to provide
Proof of something, though you
Couldn’t say what. Her dictates
Do not answer the questions
Posed by your own quiet voice;
The meal she provides is richly
Seasoned, quickly eaten, feeds
Many but nourishes few. There
Will be a falling out, a rejection
Of what you sought in her, hurt
Feelings, a return to course for
Each. You scan the shadowed
Woods with sharper vision and
Slightly sour gratitude.

I have not been good.
enough
Kindness escapes me,
Compassion’s performance.
enough
Charity sent automatically
From my checking account
Doesn’t cost me much.
enough
I forgive when it makes me
Look good or if I am bored
With the situation or grief,
Often incompletely.
enough.
You know this,
Love me, have
Faith when mine
Falters. I start to
See I may be.
enough.