Monday, August 17, 2015

If I Could

I had seen the bliss and been in its glory, knew it well.

There! The blur that comes so sweet, intoxicating. I would close my eyes and grin, as I do now thinking on it.

Oh warm and kind love, reaching out for me, surely there would be none to compare. None ever as good.

And then there were three.

And if I could be blessed, washed complete in love ever and again, I was and I was and I was.

Tuesday, August 4, 2015

It's Time

We mark twenty years together tomorrow, but really, it has been so much longer.

We were together in the dreams of our childhoods, I know. 

You were the smile in my wist on nights when the torn heart of a teen girl will make her wonder if it'll ever happen. Indeed, it will. 

In fact, I have loved you in all my days, even before I knew you, and still I long to give you more and more and more. I have wanted you for all your faults as much as for the dazzle of your smile or the ripple of your arm around me when we dance, flawlessly now, as old married couples do, and while I'm alive in every moment with you I am, too, dreaming, dreaming as I'd never dared to dream, knowing I can't wake because here I am, in, and with the man of, my dreams and all that could be true for me and more is made right when I am with you. I couldn't ever, wouldn't want to stand away from you any longer than I had to and even then I'd be finding my way to you because together is where we belong. I am no more in faith without my self than I am without you. And in case you should wonder, I know I am the same for you and the poetry I write here is shabby beside the work you spend to provide for my comfort, the worry you wear for my relief; this is the truth in every day. I know it. I always do.
It's why I smile when I remember us twenty years ago, swaying and singing softly to one another. Truly, the world you show me shines and shimmers, splendid, and I could imagine no greater ride than on this magic carpet, with you.


Tuesday, July 14, 2015

I Was Stupid on Facebook

I totally blew it on Facebook today. A friend posted a mildly provocative comment about a government program he's clearly not a fan of and I clucked to myself, despite reading a little bias into it, 'He's probably right about that.'

But then I read the comments.

Ugh.

The comments.

By the time I got to the bottom of the thread at 6:45AM, coffee-less and addled with age, I was clear out of my noggin. So I posted a ridiculous rant-comment, not particularly lucid, and I entirely mangled what the original post had been about. I blended comments and post and attributed all badly, then assaulted the intelligence and integrity of my friend: 'Super-Classy? Party of one? Right this way.'

When he, rightly, responded that I was nuts, I re-read my remarks (still coffee-less, BTW - huge mistake), and the comments, and the post, and realized he was right.

Good Lord, did I feel like a banana-head!

And I wondered, 'Why did you get so worked up over something so unimportant?' I left that unanswered and apologized. Twice. Still felt dissatisfied.

Then it occurred to me. I wasn't mad at him or his post or his friend's goofy comment. I was pent-up mad at all the posts and all the goofy comments.

Obama is a Communist!
Obama is a Saint!
The Pope is a Saint!
The Pope is a Communist!
Kittens are SOOOOO cute!

I read so much stuff now on social media sites for work, for liesure, for no good reason at all. And unlike conversation, I can't react right away, say what I think, clear the air between me and someone who may be saying something I think is mean or frustrating. I walk around all the time with these stored answers to these un-questions and un-conversations that are left un-finished. The Pope is a metal-head??

I'm hardly a FB newbie. I know you're not supposed to read the comments. I know if you do you're just supposed to blow past them and scroll to the next cat diary video. I know these things, but somehow I'm still stocking indignance and rant over things that matter nowhere to no one, not even to the people who casually post these things in places where none but a few on the planet ever take even fleeting notice.

So I totally lost it with someone I actually like and think is a cool guy, mostly because I'm nuts. But also, because this new age of communication is making me nuts.

I'm not sure what else to do with that information except to know it and to share it with the public so that if I ever comment on someone's FB post with a three page dissertation on all things liberal-hippie there'll be some context.

So there you have it. I was stupid on Facebook. Poster beware. And look out for the Pope, too. I heard he's a Communist.





Sunday, July 5, 2015

No Word

It was a peculiar sort of pink.

The sort that's grey and pale and blue, reflecting a sun that's dozing on the job.

Not quite twilight.

Too alive to be dusk.

A wisp in the air.

And the water.

The water was glass. Agloss.

There was a freshness in the air, waiting for me.

Like the moment just before
a new kiss, pressing forward, eyes closed.

I was enchanted by this night and its smell of hickory and summertime and I would remember it forever, never quite finidng the word to capture its magic.

Better there was no word to say this was among the last of the days we would all be together, so sweet, so young. We were all growing up too fast.

And now, as then, I am in my favorites floating on the water, beneath the stars and sparkles, remembering that night.




Saturday, June 27, 2015

Outdated Americanism and The New American

The kind of Americanism that wastes itself on bigotry and war is on its way out. You can hear the last of it in the mewls of the Trumps and pharisees. Good riddance.

The kind of Americanism that obstucts a President because he is black, not because he is idealogue, is also fading fast. I say a prompt good-bye to that, and shut the door firmly behind it.

Americanism and -  for my sense, religion - that seeks to separate instead of unite, to burn instead of to heal, can go suck it, too. I'm done with that.

The old American is gone. This middling child is aging too. And so a new American steps forward. And what will he do?

He can't be the risk-taker his forefather was - that chance was already taken in his name, so he wouldn't have to. Ironically, the country is no longer comprised of the very people some label global discards, so there's been a bit of mission drift. Do we still primarily seek to take in the tired, the hungry, the poor? It seems in many instances we are not.

We are now the fat and comfortable.

But we are also the environmentally interested, the urban farmer, the cyclist. We are a half-shade of brown, we've tasted curry and we like it, our music thumps. We care if we are cheated, yes, but we are also wary of war. We prepare with irony. We feast on an engaged faith.

The new American knows that the money comes and goes, not always at her own will, and she doesn't care. Really. She finds disinterest in my bedroom habits, cares not to judge me, won't allow it as she knows what is just.

It is a slow turn, to be sure. Still, the new American finds that we grow not just for our own bloom, but for others'. He is willing to share.

The New American is a different kind of smart. He reclaims the simpler ways using the tools of the day, always seeking the better solution. In that manner, he is like his father, in all his best.

This American, borne of the children of jumpers and poors, can write it new. He will, he will. I know he will.

Give us your tired, your hungry, your poor. And together, what can we do?

Sunday, June 21, 2015

Not Exactly Perfect

The kids love to tell and re-tell the stories of their father coming up to their bedroom to do the night-time story and tuck-in. He'd climb the stairs slowly, creaking along the tired floors, step into their room, and turn off the lights. Then he'd begin even the most innocent story in a husky voice, 'Once upon a time,' building, building, the room quiet save for the sound of his voice rasping against the evening air. Softly and then more and more, up and up, until he was roaring "I WISH THAT I HAD DUCK FEET!", lights flickering, feet stomping, a din! Much to the glee and giggle (and not sleepiness) of the completely un-tucked audience.

Of course, I'd be wailing from downstairs, "That is NOT proper tuck-in storytelling," which would only elicit more giggles and the good, loud belly laugh of the culprit. I'm positive the kids' poor sleep habits come from that business. I'm also positive that's not true, but that's not what I tell them.

My kids are the ones with the stories now - this happened in school and that happened in band and this class is so hard. I think our children talk to us so much because their dad created this place, this home for us where all the stories, even the scary ones, could be funny and laughed over.

He made it safe to be yourself here, to be a little weird or silly, to tell fart jokes. That last one is probably not my favorite, but I recognize its value...

What I mean to say by all that is that he's not exactly perfect, but he's wonderful and warm and strong and good, good, good. I couldn't have picked a better man to be a dad to my children and they couldn't be luckier to have him.

Tuesday, May 26, 2015

No One Else Would Do

She is the keeper.

Steady on her feet, practical.

          In every family there's one person who keeps everyone together.

And it's never the one who thinks she's the one. That one's the alpha. Sometimes there are two of those in a group, and they spend most of their time keeping one another busy with their alpha-ness. It's not them.

It's not the softie, the sentimental one either. That one's too drawn in one direction or another, depending on who needs the nurture in the moment. (Usually, one of the alphas.)

The artsy one? Nope. The nerd? No, not him. They're good in the group and serve their distinctive purposes, but they don't hold everyone together.

It's the other one. The one who intentionally flies just under the radar.

          And she knows it long before anyone else has a clue.

If she seems vulnerable, and she may at times, that frailty is fleeting and hardly the truth of her. She is strong and sincere because she knows herself, always has.

She demonstrate softness only when she's interested in showing it to you and most often not for herself, but to give you some sense of purpose. She is kind that way.

When you confide in her she is even-handed, matter-of-fact, and fair. If you are wrong she will tell you. If someone wrongs you, she will tell them too, first and without flinch. There is a force there better not to be reckoned with.

She intimates infrequently, as little as possible. Her messes are her own and she is satisfied in that.

A finer sister or friend you will not find. She is smart, as talented and lovely as all or more, a quick wit, a good sport, and all without flourish. No need. Let the others have the noise.

When the time comes and they have tired of stray and pomp, hers is the embrace that will bring comfort. It always does.

Now as she grows into the yearning years of her own dares and travels there may be times when all seem far and least connected. Then and again, the center is real and all will find their way home to her.

Because the keeper is she and she knows it. And good that it should be, as no one else would do.