Sometimes we expose our softness
reveling in sensations
joyful, light, full of promise
and we get beaten to shit
hammered and cut and ruined
So we create a shell like an animal
doing everything to hold something
tender inside
while bruised like unwanted fruit
we become hard to all outside
letting peripheral hurts be deflected
If we’re lucky, something soft remains
letting in light and love
laughing in the face of anguish
pissing in the stream of tears
We write hard and talk hard
and maybe even live hard
but inside
we retain the softness
the precious that we entered with
we may take with us always
Acclaim
They had their roles to play
with no understudies they were pressed to perform
no matter the circumstances
The dancer with a sore toe
The singer gargling warm saline
The writer with a broken pencil
All had to carry on
finding new ways
to perform without conforming
to express without regressing
to satisfy without feeling sated
When the lights dimmed
critics would come out of their slouch
and pick and mangle and scoff
since they were unable to do more
The roles would be filled again
by new artists the next day
and those with acclaim as well as not
would all be forgotten just the same
pay attention
let me in
please don’t say no
I hear that word enough
no, you’re too this or too that
for once just let it be enough
I know there’s too much
buried down deep
it’s just been tapped
and holy shit, somebody
should pay attention
to the scrawl that’s emerging
I suspect it will be of interest
to those who like connecting dots
and solving puzzles
I’m not quite sure about the outcome
the puzzle’s picture is still vague to me
the journey will be a bit lonely
but never dull
so let me in
be the one who says yes
elegance of old
when I saw her last, she was walking a bit slower
her gait still jaunty yet slightly bent
she moved with familiarity of her body
the memory of how she moved in youth
pivoting, twisting, stretching
all in quiet grace
fluid
but now she was forced to hesitate a bit
wait for her body to catch up with her mind
still sharp and bending
adventuresome
her eyes were a bit cloudy
not with tears of remembrance
but with aging melancholy
peaceful
she saw things now in a softer focus
knew what mattered
in a way she never dreamed or thought through
when she talked, it was a slower process
for her prose to come through
and when she sang
it wasn’t the cool higher tones of spring
but the warm dulcet tones of autumn
still beautiful in its season of color
wise
her time with her instrument was limited
for her grip was not as strong
but she could still sketch truth
better than anyone I have known
imaginative
she still insisted upon baking her bread
and growing her garden
until she could create no longer
for though these things seemed to me fleeting
she knew that’s what I’d remember most
tangible
she looked askance at her photographs
that filled the wall behind the sofa
some yellowed and torn, some dusty, some worn
and felt no sadness for those that were gone
but a new calm at the idea of seeing them again
anticipation
Make it Count
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.
The Word Rummager 