blend
the sun's tears
to make a sweet and thick
stickiness.
Cooled by evening breezes
and softened by the moon's tears,
the stickiness becomes
the sweet smoothness
that bees have come to expect.
Patiently, the poppies wait
for the remaining darkness
to drain from the sky.
As the first streaks of sunlight
warm the air,
the sweetness flows again
for yet another
early morning feast.
MY PATH
Glistening spots appear on a nearby rock,
first one, then several and then many more,
until the rock is a shiny dark stain.
Just as quickly, the daylight
is enveloped by a darkness,
carried on a cold wind,
which whips around
the rocky slope,
rushes up a depression
and blows over its edges,
crowds against rocks
and bits of green
and buffets and abrades everything
with a fine,
stinging dust.
As loud clapping, crackling and rumbling
and bright flashes of light
approach ever closer,
I roll into the depression
and jostle
and drop over
and around the slick rocks,
all the way down the slope.
As I drop down onto the valley floor,
steaming hot waters
from a hot spring join my path.
Together, we tumble over the rounded stones,
twist and turn and move slowly
across the valley floor,
following the path of least resistance.
We are a meandering stream.
A COLLECTOR OF SHOES
When my father passed many years ago,
my mother kept his tennis shoes,
new, white and shiny
with flaring laces,
next to the couch
and under the dark reddish-brown
coffee table.
She always kept the table free of dust,
magazines, odds and ends
and polished with a deep luster,
shiny, flat and smooth like polished stone.
My mother would often look at my father's shoes,
as if at any moment he would walk back
into the living room
to slip them on.
Sometimes, my mother would get excited
about something on the television
and then she would turn in her chair,
crane her neck
and call down the hallway
to tell my father about it.
Maybe mid-sentence, she would pause;
she would remember
that he wasn't there.
Her head and shoulders
would droop,
her enthusiasm would drain
from her face,
and she would become pale
and quiet,
sometimes teary-eyed.
Now, I have also become
a collector of shoes.
On a back shelf,
smooth, dark and shiny,
there are my father's tennis shoes,
my mother's walking shoes
and my girlfriend's slippers.
Sometimes, when I think of
my late late father, mother
or girlfriend,
pain stabs my heart,
and I choke.
And, yes, sometimes,
I become teary-eyed, too.
READING POETRY
"What are you doing?" she asks.
I reply, "I am sitting in the late evening sun,
watching bees work the lavender,
listening to the birds sing
and reading poetry."
Sunlight is streaking across my yard.
Spikes of lavender are swaying in the light breeze
as bees jockey for position.
Birds are singing out their borders and straining their necks,
listening for faint replies.
Tiny flying insects,
each not much larger than a pinhead,
are dancing in the dwindling sunlight.
When the darkness finally swallows the sun,
the bees will be secured in their hive,
the birds will be crammed in their roost,
but the flying insects will still be here,
stirred by their passions
to seek out everything
in my yard.
Except for my fire pit's flame tonguing the darkness,
crackling and spitting,
it will be very nearly quiet.
Of course, something is always stirring:
possums, raccoons and the like.
I am never really alone.
And, of course, there are the heavens
and the stars.
Always,
there are the stars.
"So, I guess you are happy?" she says.
"Well, I would be happier sharing the moment with you,"
I reply.
"I will be over in 15 minutes."
"Okay," I say.
We hang up, and I go back
to reading poetry.
BETWEEN TWO HEARTS
People of all ages, persuasions,
cultures and vocations,
some single and others coupled,
silently walk along and study,
as if in a place of reverence,
padlocks of all sizes, shapes and colors.
The padlocks are inscribed
with names of lovers
who declared their love
here for all to see.
A man lovingly smiles
at a woman as she attaches
a padlock to this place,
which symbolizes the connection
between two hearts.
She runs back to him,
and they embrace.
I wonder where they met,
where they will go
and what will happen to them.
Hopefully, their love will last a lifetime,
allowing them to grow old together
with more than a few wonderful memories
to share along the way.
Endless stories like this
are forever locked
on this Parisian bridge,
Pont des Arts,
for all to see and share
this wonderful miracle
we call love.
WHEN SHE COULDN'T GET UP
When my mother couldn't get out of bed,
when her legs suddenly stopped working,
I called strangers to carry her away.
Other strangers cut her head open
and took out part of her brain.
As I waited, I can't ever remember feeling
more helpless and overwhelmed.
When I visited her after surgery,
it was if I was visiting an open coffin.
She was altered,
and our relationship
was irrevocably altered as well.
We both lost control and independence
over our lives: vocations, personal connections,
even our perceptions of reality.
My Mother now needed me
more than ever before,
and my orbit around her tightened.
Her life had become my life,
just as my life had became her life
so many years ago when I breached
this world.
I DREAM MY POEMS
I dream my poems
and write my dreams.
We can only write our own dreams,
not the dreams of others,
for our dr
eams speak from our hearts.
For those who do not dream poems,
how can they know what dreams
their hearts want to write?
HUMANITY
For the first few months after my mother died,
there was this big hole in my life.
I had taken care of her for eleven years.
Odd little things would remind me of her,
and I would cry for no particular reason.
Whenever I ran across other elderly women,
I would go out of my way to offer my assistance.
The elderly women didn't remind me of my mother.
They simply reminded me of my humanity,
which I had rediscovered while caring
for my mother.
A FEW MINUTES
"What did you say?" the masseuse asks.
I mumble, "Oh, nothing. My mind was far away."
"I'll give you a few minutes to get dressed,"
she says.
As I turn my head,
the sheets faintly smell
of lavender.
Clutching the white linen,
soft and warm to the touch,
I raise my upper body
and swing my legs around
and sit on the edge of the massage table,
with my feet dangling just above the floor.
The room smells
with a faint floral scent
of aloe lotion.
Except for the hum of a tiny blade,
straining to slice and push air,
the room is wonderfully quiet
with a moist heat.
The setting sun,
peering through the last leaves
of autumn
and naked fingers and arms
of trees,
casts a reddish and golden
dappled light,
which dances as the trees
sway in the wind.
I can barely hear
the din outside on the street.
Of course, it is never completely quiet.
There is always something making noise,
which drifts on the wind,
floats down the street,
circles the drains and blows over curbs
and crowds against buildings
and windowsills.
And, of course, there is the dust,
now suspended in the dancing light,
but when the sun finally sets
and darkness falls,
the dust will still be there,
stirred
and pushed
by the tiny blade,
to blanket everything
with a quiet acceptance.
There is a knock on the door.
The masseuse leans against the door and asks,
"Are you dressed?"
I reply, "Just a few more minutes."
LOVE STORY
A few minutes ago, I felt as if I was back in Paris,
sitting in a park.
It is funny how our mind sometimes wanders
back to times past.
When each of my parents was dying,
floating in a sea of pain medication,
their minds drifted back to their early twenties
when they were newly in love.
They both talked as if they were lost,
and they had to find each other.
In one corner of my house,
I display some things that my parents cherished:
my mother's china
and my father's fishing gear.
I don't know if there is an afterlife,
but if their ghosts visit me someday,
then their cherished things will be waiting for them.
I also display photographs of my late parents,
not when they were old,
but when they were a newlywed couple,
young, happy, smiling
and full of hope
and love.
ROBBED
Placing his snout on the edge of my bed,
Boomer pricks up his ears and widens his smiling eyes
when I turn my head towards him.
I smile at Boomer.
"I guess you
A Blueness I Could Eat Forever Page 3
