Spring
He had spent his forty days in the desert.
He wanted a drink of water
and wine.
She warned him that spring brought new growth
and change.
She counseled caution.
She spoke the words of winter,
But, she moved with the body of spring.
He wanted her
with the sizzle of a summer sun.
Their voices danced quietly,
the dance of lovers.
He was patient.
But, he wanted the lightning
and the thunderstorm.
he waited for the coming of the rosebud.
Its bloom was as inevitable
as the passage of time.
VIDEO GAME
But, papa, I don’t want to go outside,
he said in a small voice
as he navigated a three dimensional wonderland,
populated with fairies and demons
and monks and warriors.
Real people playing virtual lives
on a virtual landscape
doing virtual things.
I understood his reluctance.
Nobody ever really dies in there.
Magic potions and spells
renewed the body and spirit,
and the only casualties
were monsters and ogres
roaming the virtual meadows
and lurking in dark corners
of virtual castles.
He wanted to avoid the harsh realities
of the physical world,
where accidents happen
and people die
and insects bite
and sun burns.
How could I tell him
that the truth of life
is about the striving
and the risk?
How could I tell him
that virtual happiness
was no match for the real thing?
Or was that true after all?
Maybe he would tell me
that reality was the real illusion,
and that maybe wars should be fought
on virtual battlefields
where nobody dies.
SNOWBIRD
He looked at the snow
piled on the ground.
Its powdery beauty glistened
and the early morning sun
rose over the forest trees in the distance.
A deer hopped through the chilly meadow,
happy to be in a winter postcard wonderland.
The snow covered the walkway
to the car in the driveway.
The newscaster predicted
more chilly weather
and a freeze coming.
His view switched to a garage
and a snow shovel.
Someone would be spending time
moving piles of snow and mud
away from the path.
He thought about the cold
and the heavy coats
and the muddy boots
in the foyer.
The chilly forecast was the final straw.
His old skin
wrinkled at the thought of another winter.
He turned off the TV weather report of his former home
Smiled, and walked out into the Florida sun.
He wore his uniform
of a Tshirt, plaid shorts, and FlipFlops.
He thought he might cut the grass
this afternoon.
This one is old; but, it shows the angst of dating again after a loss. We humans are resilient creatures. We keep running that play again, until we get it right. Never give up. Never surrender.
Other Men
I struggle to form a picture
of a restaurant.
You are seated at a table
across from other men.
Do you make the same small talk
you make with me?
I wonder if you spill your wine,
or whether
you toss your hair
while you nail them to the cross
of male ego.
Do they cringe at your courage?
Do you look at them with the looks
you have given me?
I fight the urge
to ask myself the hard questions,
what if they get a higher grade
on the test than I?
What if they are prettier
than I?
What if you will love them
and not me?
Do you hold their hand
with gentle fingers?
Do you touch their knee
with the knee that touched me?
In my mind's eye,
the landscape is filled with other men,
grasping and groping,
wildly pursuing
the one I love.
Their lights are brighter than mine.
Their souls are purer than mine.
Can they change water into wine?
Blue Madonna
The painting hung from a corner of the wall,
Unassuming,
simple.
He stopped in the gallery,
and held his Madonna's hand.
As they gazed at the pensive face
of Christ's Mother,
he thought only of her.
He was struck by the coincidence.
His Madonna wore the same gaze,
as she stared at the painting with soulful eyes.
Did she see?
He sensed a sadness in her,
and he felt a tugging irony
at the comparison.
He knew that she was thinking
of another love.
He wondered whether his new love
would allow her to be
his Blue Madonna.
Would he worship her
with the reverence of a believer?
Living
He was alive.
He felt the breeze in his face
when he walked to his car.
He heard the hum of the engine
when he turned the key to the ignition.
As it came to life,
he felt the rumble of the metal gears
and touched the steering column gently.
He eased into the street,
brick pavers under the wheels
and headed towards his destination.
Schoolchildren rushed across his path
and he waved to the street crossing guard
blowing a kiss to her
just as regularly as the sun rose.
He was thankful for another sunrise.
He was thankful for another day.
He was secure in the knowledge
that the moment was his
to do with as he wished
without fear
or favor.
When the workday ended
he asked himself the question
that had haunted him
for a long while.
Why did he get another day?
Why did he get to see the sun?
Why did he get to live and breathe?
Why did he get to ask the questions?
Why did he get to wonder why
she didn’t?
Trophies And Other Shiny Things
He used to give tours of the house,
guiding his guests
along the hallways
and into the rooms
filled with trophies and awards.
The ribbons, and medals were neatly arranged
in shadow boxes
made from wood and metal
that shone in the morning light
coming through the windows.
In the halls were photographs
of his conquests
and his ceremonies.
They were filled with more trophies
and awards,
testimonies to his career
and his past glory.
He loved bragging about his past
while he spent his present
reminding everyone of what he had been.
These days,
others give the tours;
but, they do it in a graveyard,
telling all who will listen,
about the great man buried here
who once was famous
and great
and who collected medals and trophies.
The medals and trophies
are sitting in dusty boxes
in pawn shops and the bedrooms of his fans
who live their lives in his shadow
and measure their happiness
by his accomplishments.
Telephone
After I talk to you,
I wonder what your face looks like
when you hang up the telephone.
Do you smile?
Sometimes I think
that love is connected
by a phone cord,
fragile as a wire,
Able to be ended
with a snip of scissors
anywhere along the path of words
that carry the message of lovers.
What if my words are detoured
along the way?
What if gremlins
lay in wait
for them,
torturing their meaning
into a twisted representation
of what my heart wants to say?
Will you know what I feel
when I send my words,
by weird science,
on a subatomic journey
through a dizzy, frenzied mass
of electrons?
A poem,
though obscure,
sends words
by pony express;
slow, but dependable,
they ride to you
unsullied by the new century.
Let them speak to you
of love
and loving.
Let them make you safe and secure
in the knowledge of my caring
Let them bathe you in my light
Let them tell you of my love.
Waiting Room.
He didn’t like hospitals.
Imposing buildings filled with humans
who cared.
They were surrounded by suffering;
but, they didn’t know anything.
The buildings were strong and tall.
What did they hide inside?
He got up from the sterile chair.
He walked on the carpeted floors.
He looked for more comfortable furniture.
He wasn’t calmed by the soothing music.
The waiting room felt like a furniture store
trying vainly to look like a home.
The nurses and doctors looked like aliens.
He was in a landscape populated by green gowns
and white masks.
The metal jewelry hung from their necks.
Every now and then someone screamed like a sailor
trying to keep calm
in a storm.
He heard the disembodied voices coming from loudspeakers
gave instructions to strangers
whose lives hung in the balance.
He told himself that this elaborate show
was a necessary preparation
for the inevitable.
He tried to remember his mantra
that we all die.
Instead, he only remembered
that he was in a hospital
and he didn’t know
whether she would ever come out again.
Impatient Lover
He raced toward the end of his life
Always in a hurry
as if his life depended on it.
He was always running,
blinders on,
pupils focused
out of breath
looking for something.
What was it he was looking for?
The bushes and trees rushed past
as his car raced towards
the next exit.
The pavement was a wavy haze
that ran under him
and moved away in the sun.
Was he afraid of what was behind?
Did he want what lay ahead?
Did he wish for a lazy afternoon in the sun?
As he raced in the road
He realized that he didn’t see the roses.
He didn’t see the other flowers
along the way.
The blurred outlines suggested beauty
but remained in the peripheral vision
of a driver’s gaze
that was occupied with other things.
She extended her hand
and he reached for it
Tugging
Pulling
She warned him
against his frenzied course.
Stop and see
she said
Wait for me
she said
I will be here
if you stay with me.
He stopped to listen.
Just as suddenly
the roses and the flowers
came into focus
and the beauty of the world
became apparent
His breathing slowed
and
as he turned
She looked at him
and smiled.
He was blind
and now
He could see.
