rogers

I read somewhere
that today is cardigan day
in honor of Mr. Rogers.
This is not a poem,
really,
but I adore Mr. Rogers –
with his cardigans and his sneakers
puppets and fish,
his opera and jazz,
his kindness,
and his radical message
of love of neighbor,
even neighbors with different
colors, nationalities, abilities.
That soft-spoken,
ungainly man
is my hero

and today I will wear a cardigan.

*Note: Image from Smithsonian Magazine

The creature inside me growls
it wants to escape

I open my mouth to let it out
but instead it curls around my belly
and settles in.
It does not want
to leave me,
but is insistent
in its want of something

In the end I try to drown it,
but after all night at the bar
turns out
the damn thing
can swim

 

Difficulties of Speaking to the Dead…

Between you and me
is an ellipsis
that spans this life
but can’t quite reach the next

All the things I said
that you didn’t hear
and all the things
I didn’t say
but meant to
and now I never can,
for your ears
are filled with earth
and worms
and bugs
and all manner of bacteria
claiming you,
taking you back

And the space grows
between those three dots
past, present, future
time and worlds
and thoughts
and unsaid
words
fill the space

And yet
it feels so empty

Check out Poets United for more poems in keeping with the season of All Hallows Even and Day of the Dead.

 

National Poetry Day

I thought all the national poetry business was in April, but I now understand national poetry day is today.  And I read it online, so it must be true (insert ironic glance).  Anyway, with that in mind I decided to post one.  So far it’s untitled.

Have you heard the song
the planets sing to one another?

Or felt the yearning
of seed for Earth
and Earth for seed?

Do you know the secret language
whispered between the roots
of the trees?

Does the moon call to you;
does she pull your heart with her
even as she turns her face?

Then
be still,
and pay attention!

Sister as Device

My invisible sister
shares coffee with me;
we watch for the sun to come up
together.
On some mornings
we walk to the pond
to look for egrets.

My invisible sister
fixes my hair before dinner.
She brushes it 100 times
and twists it in a perfect chignon.
I thank her with a quick hug
and we walk to the kitchen.
I make salad, tearing the tender leaves
while my invisible sister
pours wine, something white and light.

We talk about when we were children:
long afternoons at Grandma’s,
walking home from Girl Scouts,
skating at Mill Pond Park.
But we never talk about the day
at the old woolen mill
next to the waterfall;
that is a day I try to forget
every waking moment of my life.

My invisible sister
pours another glass of wine for us
and I keep on forgetting.

 

I’ve never had a sister,  but always wanted one.  That’s where this one started.