Sunday, September 16, 2012

#30 last poem

Thank you for reading these and to those who participated in the 30 day challenge.

For Sam

air to my fire
horse to my tiger
right to my left
reason to rhyme
balm
solace
salve

words fall from our fingers
tears fall from our eyes
our feet are already
almost the same size
there was one year my baby pictures
could have been yours

it's hard to write a poem for you
my true
love
because there's no tension no sorrow no pain



9 comments:

  1. I wish I could let my True Love know what he is.

    ReplyDelete
  2. For Penny

    To see her eyes
    saucers the color of pale, faded blue jeans,
    you think you could jump into them head first,
    and never reach the bottom
    of the sunlit lake water pools.
    To see her eyes
    you will yearn to be six again.
    Instantly you miss your pink my little pony
    your Malibu Barbie
    Most of all you miss your eyes.
    the baby fawn eyes that do not yet know pain
    nor fear
    Innocence is a word used to justify
    the end it will eventually meet.
    The tragic loss is eased by the amnesia
    Her eyes do not recall innocence,
    She has no need for such things
    To see her eyes.
    Long dormant crevices of your heart awaken.
    She is unknowingly the antidote for the amnesia,
    she is what you believed was lost
    a full heart, uncompromised
    is always accompanied by overflowing eyes.
    The kind that take everything and nothing
    You realize suddenly: there is no difference between her eyes
    and your own.
    that fear is not a word in her small vocabulary
    that you can feel yourself forgetting misplacing the word, too
    it is hard to fathom the space that is freed
    in fear's absence
    Space as vast as the Pacific
    Joy no longer needs a name
    & play comes as easy as breath now.
    You look at her and smile
    realizing her full, open eyes
    are simply reflecting her perfect heart.
    She asks for lunch, chocolate pancakes
    giggling her approval when you mention-
    lunch just isn't lunch
    without chocolate pancakes.
    Your newly recovered 6 year old self
    think chocolate pancakes sound perfect.
    Her eyes, impossibly, grow larger as she laughs
    her nose and cheeks are sprinkled with freckles
    They remind you of something
    you cannot quite place
    She gets buckled into her pink car seat
    Out of habit,
    you adjust the car's rear view mirror
    Your reflection, at first, startles you
    then you smile
    your own spattering of freckles have returned, emerging once again
    to steal a look at their long lost companion-- your giant lake pool eyes.
    So full they seem to be fixing to flood
    what you couldn't place just minutes before comes pouring back
    The place is perfect.
    You remember what was lost
    You know the freckles will stick
    and her eyes, your eyes
    will remain.
    Such eyes can never drown
    pools so deep and vast that fear itself
    can't set up camp
    estranged forever
    To see her eyes.

    ReplyDelete
  3. wow each and every word of the poem is so much touchy indeed....very well crafted poem of love I must say.

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  4. Three

    They say memory is three
    quarters smell
    so for every remembered touch
    for each ringing note, fallen silent
    three scents must be attached.

    All these photos must have changed things.
    All these images must have taken
    up the space where my nose would have stored
    yesterday. Maybe it's only my brain
    that forgets, maybe everyone else's works

    that way. I had pneumonia at 19
    and couldn't smell anything for a year
    I didn't know if it had gone on holiday
    or moved to another country
    without so much as a Dear John letter

    until, like a scratch-and-sniff postcard
    walking past a street person on Telegraph Avenue
    the acrid stench of ammonia startled me, for weeks
    I stuck my nose into roses and bougainvillea
    but got only thorns for my trouble.

    Suddenly, acrid eucalyptus from the wildfire
    fresh cut onions, frying
    fresh baked bread
    coffee
    smell had returned.

    I hope he had fun on vacation
    and sauteed mushroom butter, rolled in rose petals,
    cranked peppercorns, stomped grapes at harvest
    all with his eyes closed
    and his ears shut.

    Maybe it's not memory
    but imagination, and that's why there's no scent.
    But were I to lose my senses again
    please don't take fairness, or balance, or curiosity
    and definitely not imagination

    so even if I forget what love smells like
    I can fill up the rest
    with my eyes closed
    and I'll still remember
    you

    ReplyDelete
  5. "it's hard to write a poem for you
    ...
    because there's no tension no sorrow no pain"

    Exactly. And as long as artists make true art dependent on sorrow and pain, rather than finding the sunshine within, they will perpetuate the suicide fetish of the tortured artist. We can do better than that.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. You first. Please link to an active website, journal, blog, or other site that showcases YOUR "sunshine art". Presumably you've had commercial and critical success with it, as had FLB?

      Delete
  6. Francesca- have you ever read Mark Strand? His poetry is amazing...also I wrote "For Penny" but didn't know how to post it from my profile. Thank you for all the amazing poems. Any updates on your new book and your signing schedule?

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  7. Your the reason I stay Alive!

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  8. Did you see this :

    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KOOdxnv4Ik8&feature=related

    (The Tempest)?

    If so, what did you think?

    ReplyDelete