Saudade

I had to stop explaining you:
as dear to me as food and air,
but never one and only.
(That sort of thing won’t do, you know.)
So I learned to say less,
and finally nothing at all.

But we’ve long moved past that place,
and no maps lead back to youth.
Let people draw their conclusions.

So if I were to pay respects,
would I speak the truth,
or stiffly force a smile
and offer a convenient cover:
He was just a friend.

Rather I should say instead
you were the indulgence
of a hard-edged age.
But then they would
howl their judgments,
quite certain of their certainties.

And so I’ll mark the hour alone,
lest the absurdity break my mind
and split my heart:
dark car,
flowers,
empty shell
in a box trimmed in silver.

In my thoughts I'll pick up a card
from the rear of the church
and pretend to read it
while trying not to scream.

It’s only words.
And a bell.
Tolling a reminder
that time passes
and so have you.

M.A. falleció 6/2/16

Hydra

It’s a slippery sinuous thing
sneaking into wormholes,
creeping into consciousness,
lurking in the background of dreams,

Like a radio.
Always playing.
One room over.

Where do the rampant questions end
and tedious rounds of remembrance
turn to forgetting?

The only menace lies in the meaning we ascribe.

Close your eyes and take a breath
as the long gray road ahead unwinds.
The heart unravels but all the world remains.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.

Piecemeal

It’s all temporary, you know.
Do not indulge.
Don’t care too much.
Every hanging on
must soon let go.

Hold yourself aloof
apart
above
the entanglements that would bind you,
drag you under,
leave you drowning.

Breathless

I started whole
but they keep taking pieces:
a pinch of flesh,
(a pound of mind)
What will be left at the end?

Graviora manet.
So in the meantime, let us dance.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.

Decuma

I have rehearsed the disaster
a thousand times
so I will not have to think
and cannot fail.

Ask the right questions.
Say the right things.
Shoulder a puzzling burden
and pretend to understand,
while deeper meaning eludes me.

Shattered.

Outward calm
but nerves stretched tight.
Bend, don’t break.
Accept your fate.
Chin up and carry on.

After years of why
and holding my breath,
now I see the outlines
of what’s to come.

I’ve lived my life in fog.

I swallow the lump in my throat
and prepare for Decuma's storm.


This was written for Three Word Wednesday.

Safe

I am in a safe place,
my safe zone,
a place where good sense happens,
unblemished by the foolishness
around me.

Consumed by practicalities,
I erect my earthly castle
(no lopsided structure)
of fitted joints,
and steel and stone,
and logic.

I know I build my shelter
on gently shifting sand,
but the stakes go deep
into the ground.
Strong.

So do not think me cold
when I don't join you
at quicksand's edge.
That is where the danger lies.

I'm safer here on higher ground
where there is always much to plan
and always much to do.

Heaven has no use for tears
and I have not the time.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.

Jigsaw

I think the words
but they don’t go together,
and if the words don’t fit
how can they be true?
A senseless babble,
gibberish,
a buzzing in the brain
as I write with trembling hands.

Stay focused.

There are no solutions here,
only mismatched pieces
of the puzzle of you.
Too many things are missing:
mismatched
misplaced
mistakes were made
and the pieces I’ve been offered
don’t look the same.

I’m told the final piece
must go here now,
but my questions could fill oceans.
Instead I stuff them in teacups,
smile politely
and say it’s all okay.

The answers, when they come,
will engender further questions
(more missing pieces than I can count)
and ahead of me is a long road
with many years to wonder.


This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2.

Pebbles

Small pebbles
leave no epic wake
but their ripples crash like tidal waves
on the shores of those most near,
momentous and monstrous
but small enough to hide in a teacup
(with room to spare).

What do we do
with the pouts and sighs,
the manipulative tears,
when the halo of sudden canonization
distracts from all faults
and turns petty accomplishments
into greatness?

We seek grand explanations
hidden in darkness
to soothe our tortured souls.
But the truth, when it comes
is prosaic
banal
a needless snuffing of a candle
for the most ridiculous of reasons.

And so a favored child
turns to blind end, footnote
a name on a chart
in someone’s tallying of distant kin.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2.