Category: Poems (Page 7 of 7)

Some days I dream about how we could
Move to London, find a flat or part
Of a house on a close close to an ancient wood
Or anywhere near a park. We’d explore art
Galleries and eat cake in the crypt
At St. Martin and tool around the town on bikes,
Cross the river and see a play with a script
That I wrote. We’d travel north and take long hikes
Along sea cliffs.Then we’d build a fire
And drink hot chocolate and whisky. Back in town
We’d go to work and school, sing in a choir,
And drink pints in the pub, the Something and Crown.
We’ll go to the market for bread and leeks and flowers
And have soup for supper and talk and laugh for hours.

I started writing a poem about dreaming
During a pandemic and immediately I felt
Like such an asshole because people are screaming
These days on the inside and out at the hands dealt
To them. I can breathe. There’s heat on. My cup
Has coffee in it. What other jackpots lie
Ignored around this palace? Something’s up
With our jacked American brains– that thousands die
Today, and folks are yelling about any-
Thing besides getting people safe and healed.
Our numb souls shout, ” Screw the many!
Let my alienable M.O. be revealed!”
Kyrie eleison–this hating fight time.
Christe eleison–this awaiting light time.

Compassion comes from Latin: “suffer with,
Together.” This is why I’ve often failed
To enter wounded space–believed the myth
That feeling pain would trap me locked and jailed
Inside the cell of hurt in which I see
My neighbor. What if I go in there only
To be dissolved in all that wailing? A key
Must be available to tidily
Unlatch this door, and then the captive stands
And walks outside. But no–the key’s for me
To turn the bolt and join with open hands.
We sit behind these bars and sing a psalm,
And captured here we ring the air with calm.

Today I planned to finish grading things
and made a list of other tasks that now
escape my memory, but in the slings
and narrows of my busy mind, the how
of these accomplishments made war with chores
that cried out from the kitchen sink and mocked
me in the form of toys and books in floors
and empty battery compartments locked
away until I find the right screwdriver.
Melissa asked me what was wrong, and not
long after she inquired, I spouted five or
eleven things I'm hoping she forgot. 
I'm learning to communicate my brain.
I'm finding saying words makes things more plain. 

We went to spot some Christmas lights tonight
just after second-night black olive pizza
and re-do lemon birthday cake that might
have had vanilla ice cream. Nothing beats a
repast of simple carbs with easy clean-
up. Well, some simple carbs and wine. And cheese. 
We loaded up the jammied boys between
the winter coats and mittens left to freeze
in our back seat; Melissa DJ'd as 
we listened to our two-year-old sing rum-
pa-pum and J-I-N-G-L-E jazz.
Our two-year-old reminds me of the days
when colored lights would sing my heart ablaze.