Sweet Boy

 

pacing at 2am
with soft footfalls
trying not to awaken him
there would be enough to do later
no real solid thought
to try to capture
just a jumbled mass of feelings
panic was briefest
denial came next
healthy dose of fear running throughout
could I do this
was this really happening to me
looking down at the huge, distended shape of my belly
and the little one’s feet and fists knocking on my womb
I was so excited I did not know what to do except pace
for over an hour
until I showered
and that helped calm my nerves
until he woke up
and comically lost his ever-present cool
as I appeared serene
was he as scared as I
as we drove to the hospital
in the middle of the night
when the lights all seemed bright
and the countryside so different
we walked long corridors and spent 20 hours in a blur of activity
until later that summer night
as exhaustion was close
our sweet, sweet boy
was welcomed into the world
and joy overtook everything

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Ol’ Blues Man

 

He spoke to me only through the music we shared
The pain was evident in his eyes
The weariness was etched with every line on his face
His fingers strummed and sifted through my memories

I couldn’t let him down
We couldn’t let the stony silence win
So I started to sing
I felt my voice take over the room even softly they could feel it in the back
While he opened his eyes for the first time and saw me and we moved together through the blues
We traveled through some craggy slopes
All that need to be said was sung
And the guitar wailed on

Between verses were only muffled curses
But there was joy in the harmony
There was harmony in the words
The words that only came in a song
And the song was all we shared.

a word from e e cummings

 

here’s to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap
and to your (in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain

and here’s to silent certainly mountains;and to
a disappearing poet of always,snow
and to morning;and to morning’s beautiful friend
twilight (and a first dream called ocean) and

let must or if be damned with whomever’s afraid
down with ought with because with every brain
which thinks it thinks,nor dares to feel (but up
with joy;and up with laughing and drunkenness)

here’s to one undiscoverable guess
of whose mad skill each world of blood is made
(whose fatal songs are moving in the moon)