A Blueness I Could Eat Forever

blend

  the sun's tears

  to make a sweet and thick

  stickiness.

  Cooled by evening breezes

  and softened by the moon's tears,

  the stickiness becomes

  the sweet smoothness

  that bees have come to expect.

  Patiently, the poppies wait

  for the remaining darkness

  to drain from the sky.

  As the first streaks of sunlight

  warm the air,

  the sweetness flows again

  for yet another

  early morning feast.

  MY PATH

  Glistening spots appear on a nearby rock,

  first one, then several and then many more,

  until the rock is a shiny dark stain.

  Just as quickly, the daylight

  is enveloped by a darkness,

  carried on a cold wind,

  which whips around

  the rocky slope,

  rushes up a depression

  and blows over its edges,

  crowds against rocks

  and bits of green

  and buffets and abrades everything

  with a fine,

  stinging dust.

  As loud clapping, crackling and rumbling

  and bright flashes of light

  approach ever closer,

  I roll into the depression

  and jostle

  and drop over

  and around the slick rocks,

  all the way down the slope.

  As I drop down onto the valley floor,

  steaming hot waters

  from a hot spring join my path.

  Together, we tumble over the rounded stones,

  twist and turn and move slowly

  across the valley floor,

  following the path of least resistance.

  We are a meandering stream.

  A COLLECTOR OF SHOES

  When my father passed many years ago,

  my mother kept his tennis shoes,

  new, white and shiny

  with flaring laces,

  next to the couch

  and under the dark reddish-brown

  coffee table.

  She always kept the table free of dust,

  magazines, odds and ends

  and polished with a deep luster,

  shiny, flat and smooth like polished stone.

  My mother would often look at my father's shoes,

  as if at any moment he would walk back

  into the living room

  to slip them on.

  Sometimes, my mother would get excited

  about something on the television

  and then she would turn in her chair,

  crane her neck

  and call down the hallway

  to tell my father about it.

  Maybe mid-sentence, she would pause;

  she would remember

  that he wasn't there.

  Her head and shoulders

  would droop,

  her enthusiasm would drain

  from her face,

  and she would become pale

  and quiet,

  sometimes teary-eyed.

  Now, I have also become

  a collector of shoes.

  On a back shelf,

  smooth, dark and shiny,

  there are my father's tennis shoes,

  my mother's walking shoes

  and my girlfriend's slippers.

  Sometimes, when I think of

  my late late father, mother

  or girlfriend,

  pain stabs my heart,

  and I choke.

  And, yes, sometimes,

  I become teary-eyed, too.

  READING POETRY

  "What are you doing?" she asks.

  I reply, "I am sitting in the late evening sun,

  watching bees work the lavender,

  listening to the birds sing

  and reading poetry."

  Sunlight is streaking across my yard.

  Spikes of lavender are swaying in the light breeze

  as bees jockey for position.

  Birds are singing out their borders and straining their necks,

  listening for faint replies.

  Tiny flying insects,

  each not much larger than a pinhead,

  are dancing in the dwindling sunlight.

  When the darkness finally swallows the sun,

  the bees will be secured in their hive,

  the birds will be crammed in their roost,

  but the flying insects will still be here,

  stirred by their passions

  to seek out everything

  in my yard.

  Except for my fire pit's flame tonguing the darkness,

  crackling and spitting,

  it will be very nearly quiet.

  Of course, something is always stirring:

  possums, raccoons and the like.

  I am never really alone.

  And, of course, there are the heavens

  and the stars.

  Always,

  there are the stars.

  "So, I guess you are happy?" she says.

  "Well, I would be happier sharing the moment with you,"

  I reply.

  "I will be over in 15 minutes."

  "Okay," I say.

  We hang up, and I go back

  to reading poetry.

  BETWEEN TWO HEARTS

  People of all ages, persuasions,

  cultures and vocations,

  some single and others coupled,

  silently walk along and study,

  as if in a place of reverence,

  padlocks of all sizes, shapes and colors.

  The padlocks are inscribed

  with names of lovers

  who declared their love

  here for all to see.

  A man lovingly smiles

  at a woman as she attaches

  a padlock to this place,

  which symbolizes the connection

  between two hearts.

  She runs back to him,

  and they embrace.

  I wonder where they met,

  where they will go

  and what will happen to them.

  Hopefully, their love will last a lifetime,

  allowing them to grow old together

  with more than a few wonderful memories

  to share along the way.

  Endless stories like this

  are forever locked

  on this Parisian bridge,

  Pont des Arts,

  for all to see and share

  this wonderful miracle

  we call love.

  WHEN SHE COULDN'T GET UP

  When my mother couldn't get out of bed,

  when her legs suddenly stopped working,

  I called strangers to carry her away.

  Other strangers cut her head open

  and took out part of her brain.

  As I waited, I can't ever remember feeling

  more helpless and overwhelmed.

  When I visited her after surgery,

  it was if I was visiting an open coffin.

  She was altered,

  and our relationship

  was irrevocably altered as well.

  We both lost control and independence

  over our lives: vocations, personal connections,

  even our perceptions of reality.

  My Mother now needed me

  more than ever before,

  and my orbit around her tightened.

  Her life had become my life,

  just as my life had became her life

  so many years ago when I breached

  this world.

  I DREAM MY POEMS

  I dream my poems

  and write my dreams.

  We can only write our own dreams,

  not the dreams of others,

  for our dr
eams speak from our hearts.

  For those who do not dream poems,

  how can they know what dreams

  their hearts want to write?

  HUMANITY

  For the first few months after my mother died,

  there was this big hole in my life.

  I had taken care of her for eleven years.

  Odd little things would remind me of her,

  and I would cry for no particular reason.

  Whenever I ran across other elderly women,

  I would go out of my way to offer my assistance.

  The elderly women didn't remind me of my mother.

  They simply reminded me of my humanity,

  which I had rediscovered while caring

  for my mother.

  A FEW MINUTES

  "What did you say?" the masseuse asks.

  I mumble, "Oh, nothing. My mind was far away."

  "I'll give you a few minutes to get dressed,"

  she says.

  As I turn my head,

  the sheets faintly smell

  of lavender.

  Clutching the white linen,

  soft and warm to the touch,

  I raise my upper body

  and swing my legs around

  and sit on the edge of the massage table,

  with my feet dangling just above the floor.

  The room smells

  with a faint floral scent

  of aloe lotion.

  Except for the hum of a tiny blade,

  straining to slice and push air,

  the room is wonderfully quiet

  with a moist heat.

  The setting sun,

  peering through the last leaves

  of autumn

  and naked fingers and arms

  of trees,

  casts a reddish and golden

  dappled light,

  which dances as the trees

  sway in the wind.

  I can barely hear

  the din outside on the street.

  Of course, it is never completely quiet.

  There is always something making noise,

  which drifts on the wind,

  floats down the street,

  circles the drains and blows over curbs

  and crowds against buildings

  and windowsills.

  And, of course, there is the dust,

  now suspended in the dancing light,

  but when the sun finally sets

  and darkness falls,

  the dust will still be there,

  stirred

  and pushed

  by the tiny blade,

  to blanket everything

  with a quiet acceptance.

  There is a knock on the door.

  The masseuse leans against the door and asks,

  "Are you dressed?"

  I reply, "Just a few more minutes."

  LOVE STORY

  A few minutes ago, I felt as if I was back in Paris,

  sitting in a park.

  It is funny how our mind sometimes wanders

  back to times past.

  When each of my parents was dying,

  floating in a sea of pain medication,

  their minds drifted back to their early twenties

  when they were newly in love.

  They both talked as if they were lost,

  and they had to find each other.

  In one corner of my house,

  I display some things that my parents cherished:

  my mother's china

  and my father's fishing gear.

  I don't know if there is an afterlife,

  but if their ghosts visit me someday,

  then their cherished things will be waiting for them.

  I also display photographs of my late parents,

  not when they were old,

  but when they were a newlywed couple,

  young, happy, smiling

  and full of hope

  and love.

  ROBBED

  Placing his snout on the edge of my bed,

  Boomer pricks up his ears and widens his smiling eyes

  when I turn my head towards him.

  I smile at Boomer.

  "I guess you