He was a genius waiting in the wings
Watching her grab other souls for a dance
He laughed with her as she played with their hearts
But his own cracked when she took her stilettos to tango with the statue
The granite was really clay and it became hers to mold
Somehow the simian moved with her, guiding her in a heathen tempo
He wanted to be the one to smite the Greek and step out of the quagmire and into her arms
But he was only a superman when he was alone
He couldn’t keep her from sharks and weasels and wolves and even the more dangerous sheep
Those who would teach her things he would try to erase
So she would meld her mind with others
Which was OK
As long as eventually she stopped dancing with clowns and fawners
And remembered there were good silent film heroes waiting in the wings
She would get tired and he would be the genius smart enough to read her
They would fit like a hand sliding into a glove
And they would share enough moments to make it count.
dared and won
he was new and slick and young and stupid
I was old and rusty and jaded and smart
disaster loomed like a raincloud over a chalky hopscotch game
we dared to buck any odds against chemistry and charisma
but I can’t lie
there was a sweetness too
that couldn’t be helped
couldn’t be fought
devotion won the day
if not the war
so we plodded along with our messy frolic
both happy to be stupid and risky and sated and rich
like betting board-game money except this was real
and we had dared and won
flutter by time
thoughts fluttering
scattered like falling leaves
only I can’t seem to rake them up
and put them in neat piles
gasping, grasping
trying to form letters into words, into phrases
coming up with gibberish and lunacy
which may be OK since that describes my Monday
Tuesday has no excuse for taking more than it gives
while it is not thrilling like Thursday
so close to the freedom of Friday
I don’t want to focus on time as it stands or as it passes
except the lines being drawn on my face
tell more of my story than I’d intended
fall has always been scattered
while spring seems quieter
but then there is that pesky problem
of time again
if we just feast on senses and not schedules
will our bodies take control
despite what our cumbersome brains tell us
and will we become animals reveling in anarchy
or can we listen to our bodies
feel nature as we encounter it
and not question why but how and perhaps find more enjoyment
living like children
with simple faith and open hands and brutal honesty
not bemoaning every event and how it might ruin us but expecting joy and surprise
am I really that scattered or am I more in tune
with the child I once was and refuse to forget to be
I see time but am not captive by it
and am constantly questioning and rarely surprised
if I stop and acknowledge seasons changing
time being printed on my face
will I be forced to grow up or can I remain a child
because I would like to stay open and joyful
The nice people over at HIP Literary Magazine published my poem, “Tell Me Our Story.” Check it out, along with other interesting stuff. Really.
http://hipliterarymagazine.wordpress.com/2013/10/06/tell-me-our-story-by-the-word-rummager-poetry/
tea, toast, and headaches
wrenching pounding in my neck
lights searing behind my eyes
my head must weigh twenty pounds
not counting the mane of hair
that twists and curls
right into my brain
which pulses and sends signals
of the most confusing content
I see walls bending
air moving
and the sky is a green hue
I taste granules of metal in water
and can hear plants growing
but I can’t seem to move my hand
so I look at it
– the left hand-
noting colors like on Munch’s bridge
mostly my hand is a light caramel beige
with bluish greenish undertones
with some pink and white and brown
and streaks of grayish yellow
but it still won’t move
so I note the way the skin hugs the curve of the bone
and how it all stretches and bends
when grasping something
when necessary
turning my head proves too much effort
pivoting brings on nausea
and I’m reminded I need to eat
any medicine that could possibly help
needs a food cushion
so I don’t throw up
but there’s not a damn thing I can think of
that doesn’t make me quake with dread
except
maybe toast would be ok
with a little butter to soften the crusty bread
and a little jam
so I don’t have to face yellow butter
and oh lord, yes, tea!
by all means a hot mug full
tea
brings so much comfort
just holding it
feeling it travel as I swallow
toast and tea bring me hope
that maybe this headache
will be fleeting
The Word Rummager 