Porchview...

silly, stupid,

Stumbling lovers –

hanging off of

one another,

walking up a ramp

… two smiling,

… … semi-standing,

… … … heft-beguiling

“Kids!! Could you please

stop clinging so much—is

your posture so tenuous?

D'you need crutches?”

“Old man! If we split up,” they chuckle,

“we could walk upright forever.

But we only seem to float

when we're tied up together.”

Empathy (sonnet)

Being away from you is like the space

Between my breaths. At first, It feels alright,

full of oxygen, fueled for a long-far flight;

But then that draw from my heart keeping pace

Leaves my diaphragm hard-pressed to rest in place;

So down it pulls, and against the suck I fight;

Lungs spasm, pulsing; red lines climb the white

Of my eyes, now on a purple-dark face.

Still, I have wind enough to laugh like

I own a secret well – some endless breeze.

And you'll think I possess some callous might,

Impervious to your pain, while I gape and wheeze.

“Oh, cruel God!,” you'll cry, “my tears to tongue!”

But I've drunk them not; I've breathed them in my lungs.

Being away...

It's not an easy truth to let in:

we can't see anything beyond the horizon;

can't know the color, shape, direction

of things that we can't put our eyes on.

Even the slowest, stillest things –

Like the tree I grew up under,

that caterpillars overtook, that fell

silk-wrapped, that cracked like thunder;

Even the purest, surest things –

Like the child who was meant to grow,

Who climbed that tree (like he should have) and fell

With its wood, going white under leaves with holes;

Even the strongest, longest things –

Like the breath that a girl blew in to revive him,

That sat in his lungs while he merged with

The earth. All I saw: my old yard and some crying.

The Unemployed Counselor...

{Image to come}

“This is my husband. He doesn't want to be here—”

“But he is, and that's good. Talk to me.”

“I don't think we need help, is all—”

“And that's fair. So can you say what help means?”

“Oh, you know, when young doctors who don't know—”

“Harold!” 

“—who don't know our situation, 

are humming and nodding, 'I see, I see.' 

Having us play games from psych magazines, 

when they've never been close, or ten years, in this space between.”

“I can promise you, Harold, I'm not here to fix or

to call your love broken, or to then claim it's healed.”

“Oh doctor, don't—really, you don't have to please him.”

“You're right: that's your place; that's 

your work—mine's to see.” 

 

“To see what?”

“Do you love him? Does he

love you—meaning treasure you, miss you;

what he's had and can have—

hard enough to make rust break away?”

“I remember what we had.”

“Do you, now? How was that, at its best?”

“It was hot.”

“Harold, please! Doctor, I—”

“You don't like him to remember? To long, and desire and dream? 

Isn't that why you came?” 
 

“No! Of course, yes, but–but first we have problems.  

Problems; something needs to be done. 

And don't you want to hear them—

these problems? As our counselor?”

“Solutions wear problems.

Tell me dreams, not what robs them.

And I'll see—Harold,

hot like the sun?”

Morning glory...

No one noticed

The vine – for its flower,

powder-blue & paper-thin,

Waving to us all in the wind.

Only took an hour

For its tendrils to become

Such a nest, we had to pull off
Thick runners. We left the rest—

Not that we were tired, just

Too late: the sun had turned dusty,

And dinners cool, on our plates.

*

So the vine is still creeping,

Unassuming (this, it's power).

And we hope that it won't kill

The Norfolk Pine it's

Netting now, beneath

A pretty flower.

Intersection...

“Good morning!” “Goodbye!”

He goes out; We come in.

One man's salvation is

another man's sin.

She and I make chocolate beet cake.

“He'll grimace,” we grin.

One man's salvation …

“Praise Jesus!” he jump-claps,

with child-like elation.

“If I ask what he meant, will

his levity cave in?

Like the dome on our vegetable-egg-grain creation?”

her tongue by my tongue

… is another man's sin.

His back hurts from gaming,

playing war-craft again. And
he asks us guilt-softly –

for he hates agitation,

“Could you turn down that volume? I'm tucking myself in.”

“So sorry,” as base-notes

crawl through the foundation,

so we whisper and try

to be quiet slipping in.

One man's salvation is ...

“Good morning! Is that cake, yogurt, banana, and raisins?

What a dreamy-good breakfast.

Praise God!” he begins.

His smile hallows me in

my decadent damnation.

And I feel more-than-full

… just another man's sin.

I hum; he leaves skipping.

Our wall's firm, but thin:

to each his own heaven,

sidelong.

We are kin.