Sunday, April 2nd, 2006

Examination

Absence prevails:

A lack of air

To shape the breath

Into proper voice;

A lack of will

To tame the flux

Of the mind

And coax

Its many wanderings,

Its branching trails,

To single out

A path that might lead

Nowhere.

Absence prevails:

A lack of vision

To define a form

Against the backdrop

Of our ebbing days;

A lack of energy

To light the fragile bulb

Bravely metering

Our light and shadow

To the world,

A movie spilling

From the same

Great haunted forge

That sends our

Songs and silence

Groping blind ahead.

Absence will prevail:

When the slip of mind

That longs to burn

And shout out something--

Anything--

No longer cares

That someone takes the plot

As something more:

More than breeze

Or trick of light;

Something that denies,

With passion,

That absence ever wins

Or is ever even known.

Monday, April 3rd

Rain With Benefits

It is raining,

As if it always has:

A seamless steady drum

Without a drop of urgency.

So deep a patter

That you can drown,

Lulled away to sleep

In the middle of the day.

If you forgive

The high-tinny drip

From the gutters,

And the low grumble

Ta-ta-te-tapping

Backbeat on

The windward window

By the bed.

And as if the day

Wasn't wet enough,

The sound of water

In the walls

Tells me that my love

Is under the shower.

Despite the slop,

The muzzling of the day,

I'm smiling

As he comes into the room

In just a towel,

As if from streaking

Through the rain

Halfheartedly,

The towel soaked

And no help at all

But for modesty.

And I can't help

But broaden my smile at that,

The crooked edge now gone

As he stops,

Pauses on the landscape

Of some deep internal thought,

And sets the wrap aside

Before spotting me,

Still grinning madly,

Foolishly,

And glad of it,

All the rest of the day.

Tuesday, April 4th

There I Will Shine

Speak to me lightly

As light is heard,

Silent only to the ears,

And make of me a song

And I will sing to you

Beneath the shiver

Of your skin,

Always.

And when you are alone

I will listen too

For the sound of your return,

An echo sweet and strong

Upon your lips

And in your breath,

Heaving sigh to sigh:

A kiss whispered

Across the darkness

And answered

As quickly

As light dares to fly.

Touch me lightly

As light touches everything,

Say, in a museum.

Make of me art, then,

And watch me from afar.

Give me color

And then give me the days

To fade beneath your wash,

A sketch, all pastels,

Made gentle,

Tender and warm,

And safe to place

Upon your mantle,

Or better above your bed

Where the light

My maker tried so hard

To capture

Can be seen

For the first time

Truly as it was meant:

For you.

Wednesday, April 5th

Cloud Study

I suggest studying clouds

From a painter's perspective:

Their shape, their shade,

Forgetting their taxonomy

Or reducing them to

Some blurry resemblance

To some terrestrial thing.

Go where they congregate,

Spanning the field of view

So fully you must turn

To take one in,

More likely failing

As they stretch their legs

Over the curve of the world,

Larger than an earth-bound being

Can hope to follow

With their eyes.

Watch them long enough

To grow dizzy at their walk.

See them dance, merge, and melt,

One moment warning war,

The next effuse with light,

Though for all their flux,

The difference too slight

To blame on anything but

The gravity of

Your own leaning gaze.

Thursday, April 6th

Last Rights and Wrongs

There's a last time for everything.

Last visit to the patio,

Where I make a place for him to be outside.

Last hamburger.

Just a little piece I know he won't eat,

But he wants it anyway,

And he takes it for the cheese.

Last exploration.

Just the patio, but still,

Wild and strange to such a scaredy-cat.

Last affection,

As he rubs against me

And I pet him through a purr

I haven't heard in far too long.

The last of those then, too.

And that's suddenly terrible.

He scrubs at my shoes for a while,

His last.

He stands and reaches up to bat at me,

And I can't bare to pick him up

And make a last of that.

I take my plates inside

And he cries until I'm back,

So afraid of being all alone,

And my company seems

The last thing I have to give

That makes a difference in

What last little time is left.

This last night,

This last visit before the very last morning,

And I pick him up

For the very last time

But I cannot cradle him,

I cannot bare to, and yes, I cry,

Knowing full well

They are not the last of my tears.

On April 5th at 9:30 a.m., Ben (photo) was gently and peacefully euthanized, ending his term of suffering with abdominal cancer. Harry and Steve miss him dearly, but are grateful to family, friends, and Dr. Barr and his veterinary staff for all their help.

Friday, April 5th

Always a Valley

Should have started earlier,

Before the heavy edge of experience

Cut away the romance of ignorance

And left a void demanding poignancy

And other things I cannot fill.

Should have mapped the way

Before the forks along this branching path

Were pared away by choice

Into such a perfect serpentine

With such imperfect poison at its end.

Should have seen it coming,

Before it turned downhill

And every option turned to spill away,

Innumerable rivers all converged

So quickly at the bottom of the bowl.

Should have looked ahead

Before I'd reached the cusp,

Though I can't recall when any path

Led to higher ground or offered more

Than just one valley as a choice.

Should have given in

Before railing at the slow descent

And searching out the easy way--

Back when running down and through

May have swung me up and out.

Yes, I should have started earlier.

And now I shouldn't wait to climb.

Saturday, April 8th

Shoreline Diner

So much for words--

The beat of thirty voices

Flowing like a pulse,

A wave, a current, a punch,

A cradle or cocoon,

Chest growing hot and tight,

Burning, heaping,

Building, stoking,

Too hot too hot too hot,

Spoiling for some oxygen

Instead of this lip-wet hammer

Flashing toothy consonants,

Concussing every thought,

Pounding rolling breakers,

Every ear a shoal

Resisting the selfish sound.

And once in a while

The troughs align

And the room shakes

With a silence

That isn't listening, but

The pseudo silence

Of the comma:

Dozen of diatribes

Catching a breath

As quick as they can

Before closing the door

With another wave,

The whole room

Full of a gab as deep

As it is shallow,

And none of it sinking it;

No one nodding yes, go on,

But glassy and pale

As any riptide dipper,

Only recently emptied

Of their own wet words.