going up the hill to the house, we
saw flowers that she loved, and picked them
black eyed susans, sweet williams, daisies, columbine.
we gripped them in our plump warm hands.
by the time we made it, panting,
having stopped for toads and all the small things,
we presented them to her half-wilted.
“ragweed gives me allergies” she would say, plucking one of them out.
the rest would go in a vase of honor on the kitchen table
a small token of each others’ love.
going down the hill to the creek, we
see flowers that she loved, and pluck them
dandelions, sweet williams, violets, asters.
at the bottom trickles clear water
over mossy gray rocks
and we tip her ashes in.
they are white
like her hair
like her devotion
white like the sugar in her blood
like the angels she adored.
they swirl the water opaque
atop it we scatter the flowers
a painter’s palette of Missouri colors
blackberry, butter yellow, sap green, slate.
the sandy ashes sink.
it takes a full hour for them to wisp away
grain by grain into the gentle landscape.
we’re used to waiting for her.
no matter how we tried to rush,
she always did move slowly,
tasting her fine wine time.
What does it take
To write like Chopin
Seamlessly blending two voices
One steady, one light but sad
Complement, overlay one another
Right and left hands
High and low
Yin and yang
The integral beauty, and tragedy, and beauty in tragedy
Joy and laughter that it is to be human
It pains it pleases it pauses
It hits highs
It goes lows
Together, but separately highlighting each other
Negative space Emphasises
One voice holds, the other can be heard
Once the other is heard it becomes negative space
For as long as it repeats the same theme
All of the pathos
None of the drama.
Feel it hard
Say it light.
Makes for delicate work
Then it builds, builds,
To a crescendo
Like everything in life
It will die
But it makes a valiant last effort to survive.
Even the beautiful.
Especially the beautiful.
Frost on the window
Fractures the morning into
I met a boy who’d been in a car accident
Part of his face was missing
He had one good eye.
This eye was pure warm brown
Set in a warped visage.
He worked with animals.
He remembered me when I came into the shop.
A sweet kid.
Knocked around by life
His damage exposed to any cruel scrutiny.
But if he didn’t have those scars
I never would have remembered
That perfect, bottomless shade of chestnut
All his clear bright youth
Welling from within.
Whereas others diffuse their energy
Softly illuminating their many beauties
His beauty was focused, a point of hard light
Shining against a grim backdrop of battered sadness
In stunning contrast.
I missed a couple of posts because of Labor Day, or at least that was the plan, but then our Internet broke. So I missed a couple of posts because the Internet broke. That’s a better excuse.
day by day
pieces of me
what once was white
now is yellow
the jagged edges
again I look
can be deceiving
I was clipping my toenails and I thought, wouldn’t it be funny to write a poem about something as dumb as clipping your toenails? And then I thought, it would be even funnier if it was actually good… let’s give it a shot. This was the melodramatic result.