Over a Weekend

I wrote on a Saturday, 

about my father and the world 
I imagined 
from the narrow–
from the unknown.
Our world is changing.
I look at houses filled with life
and everywhere we turned,
another window…
I couldn’t shut them fast enough
and all my worries swept out the bottom and then the top
of the barn door. 
Two pieces, thunder.
This wasn’t my life.
This wasn’t even my dream.
This was the next day,
combing through Portland 
and
the one thing
I can’t digress to,
plot out or forwardly speak to,
is the one thing I desperately need to–
The subtle invasion
back 
 on Holgate.

“Higher Forces at Work”

My father
–the one with my DNA–
wrote.
Grew up in Youngstown and
had an interest in antiques.
Loved a family once,
with two little girls,
a beautiful wife that looks like
Shelly Long from Cheers.
He went where everybody
knew his name,
stocking fruit and wine
around the little haunts of Ohio
and once vibrant stores on
Market Street.
To me he represented mystery, brought stifled laughter
to my lips
with ever playful stories about his dreams.

Shelly Long doesn’t like hearing about my dreams,
and I just connected this to
Tom.

Opening the box again.
Suddenly so very ready
for poetry manuscript
“Once Upon a Rainbow.”
I had completely forgotten that there were other things
in the fed-ex box aside from the bound copies that went out
to all those who actually knew him.

Opened the box and the air in
the room was different.
Thin, having been sucked back in time with me holding
a first draft of
“Higher Forces at Work.”
This, with yellowing surfaces
and turned up corners,
held me still,
barely clothed and searching to
get out words before I fell
out of the moment and lost
them forever.
Just like he did when his heart
exploded,
all the pitter pattering becoming
drums from rock-and-roll songs
as the last parts of his stories
were gone. I didn’t tell him
the end of my stories—
Didn’t relate to the last images
of his dreams
and fell below the radar
of awareness, once again.

IMG_4454

A Song with many Flaws

Living inside my uterus
Is a song with many flaws
The pulse issues uneven
Blood fills and pools
Metaphors,
The meat of the pain,
I can’t tip-toe around
The silence they represent.

Coming to play for the party
Is a band that will never return.
The city too loud–
the notes drown
They still come to me with little
electronic possibilities
And I find their music perfect
Down to the last note.
My uterus survives
The drowning of the vocals
She swells at the few words
That make it through the smoke
laughter, clambering high heels and clinking glasses. You
Two worlds colliding
offer the choice
Between east and west.