I am your shoelaces
For your run
The towel for your sweat
The seat you recline against
As you catch your breath
I am the salt in your stew
The butter in which you scramble your eggs
The apples that flavor your yogurt
I am the wish
On the flame of your candles
When they sing
“Happy Birthday”
Blow me, baby
I am yours
Everything you need
I provide
Now tell me
Why
You’re not happy
GRAY CLOUDS HOVER
Gray clouds hover
The chimes outdoors toll
Water splashes out of the birdbaths
The winter winds swirl fallen leaves
Folklore says if the leaves
Make a circle there will be
A death at that home
I do not worry
I have me to keep
Me warm
February is the shortest
month
I AM THE OCEAN
(for Fifty Women Over Fifty)
I am the ocean…it is not the moon that calls me to the shore…it is I who awaken the moon…and call him down…and rest in his light…that I may dream
I am the sand…I hold the ocean in my arms…I gently rock this planet…smoothing the rough places…leveling the high…raising the lowly…always…singing a love song
I am glass…you can see through me…I’m easily hurt…any little pebble can cause a scratch though it takes diamond to cut…I can stand against the storm…laugh at lightning…let the rain sheet down…Why don’t you stay here with me…safe and warm
I am more than your past
I am not cotton…to be picked and picked and picked until some crazy boll weevil destroys me…I am not peanuts grown underground…harvested raw…made into many things…nor am I taffy…to be pulled and pulled and pulled…made acceptable by artificial sweetener
I am my own me
If you stand in back…stopping the light…I become a mirror…I reflect who you wish you were…and think you ought to be…I show you who you are not
If you open me I become a window…I bring a fresh breeze…to caress you…to calm the fears
I am a cloud…I float above all else…I bring shade from the sun…I cool your coffee…I make shapes to form your stories
I am your future
When the waters embrace me…when the moon glows down…you clearly see me shining…I Am A Jewel…I shine
I am
Priceless…Incomparable…Undeniable…Wonderful
Me
Forever and Always Dreaming
Of you
I CLEAN
I clean…No…that’s not true. I throw things away. My favorite things to throw away are in my refrigerator. Old, or even just plain ole ugly-looking food, cooked or raw, or anything that no longer appeals to me, Must Go. It’s a rule. I just died to have that piece of Brie. In the middle of the night I put on my garden shoes and sloughed my way to the store. Found the Brie. Brought it home. 1—forgot to leave it out 2—it didn’t ripen 3—now it must be microwaved 4—it will taste as I suppose shit does 5—it must be thrown out.
If there is not enough food, I turn to clothes. The T-shirts that have the least little mark on them. Mother used to say I was just like my father. If I have it on I will polish my shoes, dry the silver, wipe the spot. Then when the T-shirt cannot be cleaned I can throw it away. Sox are a favorite also. There is always something wrong…a pillie here…a bit of elastic showing there. Even favorite pink argyles have been sent on to sox heaven. And there are always blouses that you simply must ask yourself: why in the devil did I buy that? The answer is simple: when you get blue you can throw it away. I know, I know, you are asking but what about your cosmetics and pharmaceuticals? I am compulsive so I keep my cosmetics up to date: I have about a three-month supply of hand soap, shower gel, face and body lotion. But my pharmaceuticals? Well, yes, that painkiller did expire a bit ago but you can never know when a pain will hit and hey! Vicks smells the same in or out of date. And I’ve never seen a bottle of peroxide or alcohol that didn’t work no matter how long they’ve been hanging around!
So if those solutions still find me on the down side I pull out my big guns!!! My garden! I attack those weeds with so much vigor that all I can do after an hour or so is come in the house and open that really wonderful bottle of wine I’ve been saving for when I fall in love again. I’m not in love but drinking a vintage red makes me wish I were. And that definitely lifts my spirits.
SO ENCHANTED WITH YOU
I like
Boiled turnips
Boiled potatoes
Boiled rutabagas
with butter
and sea salt
But not every day
I like
Fried Virginia flounder
Fried sand dabs
Fried smelts
But usually only on Friday nights
I want
Drop biscuits
Miniature Parker House rolls
Extra thin white bread
When I uncharacteristically
make a sandwich
I like
Garlic straight off the vinev
Anchovies anytime
And good red wines
’cause I’m too old
to drink cheap
I like to pound and grill my veal
I rub my beef
In a special chili mixture
I really don’t eat
anyone else’s ground meat
In other words:
I’m Normal
So this is the question:
Why am I so enchanted
with you
HOW TO SAVE THE WORLD IN 100 WORDS
(for O, The Oprah Magazine)
For me—it is the realization that I cannot save the world.
The world is neither time nor money.
For me—it is that thing in front of me:
The man in prison for a horrible crime
who has become my brother
My neighbor’s sons who talk football to me
over the back fence
The yellow jackets who have made their home by my deck
All the things I say I don’t have time to do but really
don’t have time to don’t do
For me—it is the joy of being alive
For me—it is the living
I clock this in at 99 words. I wonder what I missed.
FREE HUEY
(for Essence magazine)
First there was the dream…though Huey wouldn’t call it that…Huey would say “A Ten Point Program”…“Power to the People”…But the people must dream…if they are to use Power effectively…and to dream you must rest…and to rest you must be safe…So Huey called Bobby called Little Bobby…Calling All Men…All Strong Black Men…All Men who are weary of arrest…weary of disrespect…weary of dreams deferred…Called them all to Sacramento…in Black leather jackets and Black tams…with stern Black faces…and shiny Black guns.
But the government did not ask Who…are these Dreamers…The government cringed…before the mirror of its own conceit…and goose-stepped up its lies…Neither lies nor bullets could bring this Panther down…Huey said “Let there be Women…Equal in the struggle.”
And good work was done…breakfast programs…schools…voter registrations…hospitals…a mayor elected…a governor confirmed…the arts and literature extolled…a newspaper with all the truth you need to grow not all the news they want you to know…And the fear of the government could not be contained.
“Panthers”…the government then declared…“are now extinct”…as they photographed Huey on the ground…a bullet now firmly lodged in his back…
“A drug deal”…the government said…“gone bad”…another gre
at government proclamation…right up there with: the slaves are happy…the single bullet theory…the people will welcome us with open arms.
This righteous…visionary warrior…who…too…had seen the mountaintop
And heard the hosannas…FREE HUEY…stepped onto a passing cloud…ascending to his rightful place…forever…in our hearts.
MY BEER
I wish I liked beer
I see the ads with the happy
People golden drops swimming
Down to quench
That thirst
They are always so ecstatic
I see the bride and groom
At the reception
Toasting each other
With green glass bottles
The guys at the end
Of golfing:
Plaid pants
Spiked spectator shoes
Clear bottles of dark yellow brew
With tiny dead worms
Floating to the top
The women with the tennis
Gear under the table
All having icy glasses
With foaming heads
Laughing laughing laughing
They are always so giggled
I even understand the process:
Grain hops and all that secret ingredient
Stuff with glacial water high from snow-
Capped mountains
Beer I am told is one
Of the foodstuffs of life
It is a metaphor an image
A synonym for contentment
There is, after all, no equivalent
For bourbon scotch rum or wine
If I could learn to like beer
I could change my life
I’d have somewhere
To put my tears
When we fight
THEY THINK
They think I sleep
Too much
They are worried
I am depressed
Or simply drained
Of energy
And do not know how
To get it back
They cannot see
What I see
That you come
To me
And cuddle near
Telling me stories
And jokes
Kissing my forehead
Making me safe
And laugh
If I don’t sleep
I am awake
Alone rambling in a clean
Well-ordered
house
WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME
Why don’t you
Love me
I am good with dogs
And children
Old people like me
’Cause I listen
To their stories
I dress real sharp
My hair looks good
Too
I exercise
Whenever I can
I smile every time
I see you
And say something
Terribly witty
And clever
I just don’t understand
I say Jambo
When I answer my phone
And Ciao
When I hang up
I really really really
Don’t know
What more
I can do
FIRST CHAIR
They say I’m too jazzy
For First Chair
I bring something different
And maybe something nice
But the orchestra is Baroque
And I am Gospel
It is Beethoven
And I’m Rhythm and Blues
It’s piano
And I’m honking sax
My problem is:
I make my own muffins
Ice cream
And music
Not always the best
But all ways my best
I look good
And I dress well
I definitely have
Stage presence
I want to play
I want to play
I want to play
FRIENDS AND LOVERS
Friends and Lovers
are different
things
Friends:
go shopping for shoes
with you
add extra garlic
to that new tomato sauce recipe
giggle over that silly thing
that happened back in high school
Lovers:
cause your heart to stop
beating
put cotton and dumb things to say
in your mouth
take you to paradise
and back again
and again
and again
LOVE (AND THE MEANING OF LOVE)
I wanted to
But you couldn’t
I hoped
But you wouldn’t
I understood
Why we shouldn’t
So you declined
And we didn’t
But it would
Have been fun
If we would’ve
FLIGHT DELAY
I uncharacteristically ate
A slice of sausage pizza
And characteristically drank
A regular Pepsi
I characteristically thought
Of you
And uncharacteristically said
To myself
Nobody loves me
I characteristically chastised
Myself
By uncharacteristically sneering
So what
Everybody can’t love you
Anyway
But I characteristically wanted
You
To uncharacteristically be
Here
In this all too familiar airport
During
A characteristic
Flight Delay
TRAVELERS
I have had good luggage
Beautiful Italian leather
Strong brass handles
Black
And I have seen
How many folk carry
My old brand
I’ve gone cheaper
A loud yellow
So that it can be easily seen
A semi-hard case keeping
The insides safe
And dry
Sort of like calling you
At the end of the day
Practical but still
A brush-off as you
Need to prepare for your evening
Engagements
I understand
I just wish I didn’t
Travel so much
Then I could carry
A good bag
TRASH PANS
A trash pan holds little trash…
the grit that falls that’s not big enough for garbage…
but horrible underfoot nonetheless…
not smelly but annoying…
needing to be swept away…
so that the floor is easier walked upon…
with bare feet…
so that in the middle of the night the grit…
doesn’t work its way up my pajama leg…
so that I don’t turn over…
and scratch…
and realize…
you are not home yet…
I need to keep a trash pan near my bed…
so that when the lies come…
I can sweep them up and take them to the toilet…
no sense in letting them stay around…
to hurt my feelings…
bodies tell untruths with shrugs…
smiles…
and tongue…
maybe there should be a little bitty trash pan…
for your little untruthful heart
LETTING THE AIR OUT
(of my tires)
This is not a
country song
I am not
a dixie chick
There is
no creek rising
There is no moon
weeping blood
No hound dog baying
No little old man
at first light
up to catch a speckled trout
I don’t have
a pickup truck
I don’t do
roadkill
My hair isn’t “big”
There’s no breast implant
I don’t talk
through my nose
or have an American flag
tattoo
This is more pitiful
than Polly
wanting a cracker
Or eggs that won’t sunny-side up
Sadder than grits
that won’t boil
Or chicken wings
that stick to the skillet
This is me
Letting the air out of my tires
Not loosening the lug nuts
Not taking my spinners off
Certainly not being so rude
Bicycles: Love Poems Page 3